The cocktail party, continued.

A band was warming up on a platform in the corner and waitpeople were doing tours of the room with trays. It was a warm night and early guests had taken up positions out on the balcony. I wandered through the open doorway. There was a nice cool breeze. Out on the harbour, a brightly-lit ferry was backing away from a pier, loaded to the gills with a party. Music drifted across the water.

Four or five people were standing at the edge of the balcony and a large florid man with a brandy balloon in his hand was entertaining them with his loud voice. If you didn’t pick him as a retired judge by the too-rounded vowels and the extended delivery, you would by the red nose. He sounded like 3AW's breakfast announcer John Burns after a couple of bottles of red. But then John Burns always sounds like he's had a couple of bottles of red, even at six in the morning. The florid man was waving his brandy glass around in circles to emphasise whatever he was saying but didn't appear to be spilling any brandy except into his mouth. He was in good form.

A drinks waiter drifted by and offered me a tray of tall flutes filled with fizz. I took one and then a hand grabbed my shoulder. 'Heeeey!' It was Paul. It was his party, for his fiftieth birthday. Paul is the kind of friend you might only see a couple of times a year, but when you do, you just continue the conversation as if you had merely been interrupted. I met Paul at an advertising agency in the late 1980s. Nobody actually knew what he did, but he always had the coolest sound system on his desk and he was always dating the work experience student. Over the years his girlfriends have matured, just not at the same rate he has. He probably dates 28-year-olds now. They probably depress him.

A waitress and her tray wound around some guests and stopped in front of us. On the tray were some of those flat transparent rice paper things all stacked up against each other like today's unopened mail. They were glistening with the sheen of sesame oil and there was a little pile of miniature red chilies on the tray, just for effect. 'Thanks, I will,' I said, responding to the raised eyebrow and half smile that means would you like something to eat in roving waiter language. We helped ourselves and I took a chili and wrapped it in the pastry. Lemongrass, coriander, soy, prawn and hot chili all in one delicious crunch. The waitress smiled pleasantly and said she wished more people would eat the chilis. 'They just go to waste, otherwise,' she added conversationally, with a frown. 'Have another one!' she added. I did. Then she wandered off into the growing crowd. Why are the waitpeople at standup functions always friendlier than the ones in restaurants? I don't know. Maybe it's because the customers are friendlier as well. It's easier to complain when you're sitting down.

The trays came and went all night, and the food was delicious, even when I didn't know what it was. There were tiny marvels of crustacea and rice, little pastry thimbles with unusual fillings, miniature hot orbs of various proteins with exotic dipping sauces, vibrant shards of vegetables infused with the flavours of East and West, tiny toasty homey crunchy things with soft melty centres, and delicately crafted items that looked more like they had come from a laboratory than a kitchen. I would like to eat like this all the time, but I would never know what I had eaten and I would never know when to stop. I suppose if you time it right, you could just keep eating and never get full.

The fizz guy came by again and topped up my glass. Paul was shaking hands all around the room and the red-nosed judge was still out on the balcony making rhetorical circles with his brandy glass and he was still loud and he was only just starting to slur. He'd had plenty of practice.