One year, a long time ago now, probably around 2012 or '13, I went to a Christmas Day lunch that was something out of a decor magazine, or maybe a foodie magazine.
It was a perfect day and long outdoor tables stretched out beneath the dappled shade of some gently swaying trees, and were covered in expensive Christmas-themed paper, with tapered candles, quality cutlery and delicate long-stemmed glassware. It was midday. Fairy lights twinkled from the trees like electric snow. Soft Christmas music drifted across the scene from some obscured speaker. Drinks came first, just to get the appetite going, and were served by a natural pool. ('By' meaning next to.) Occasional tables were scattered about the setting and bore platters of savouries that kept you from starving before the turkey came out.
There was only one small problem. Clouds were threatening. If it were to start raining, the entire scene, as big as a movie set, would have to be moved inside. The hosts kept coming in and out of the house and looking alternately at the clouds or the radar on their devices, as if one or the other were going to give a definitive answer on whether it would rain or not. This prevented them from progressing the actual lunch.
Time went by. Two o'clock came. The ceramic bowls on the occasional tables that had contained dips, including one of a deliciously tangy and garlicky skordalia*, had been wiped clean with artisanal crostini, no doubt baked by some 98-year-old grandmother in a rustic oven somewhere in Italy. The guests had also amused themselves by pulling gold-wrapped David Jones crackers ($39.99 for six, and you need about a hundred: that's - what - about $680?) to reveal one upper-class paper hat and one simpering dad-joke per cracker. Some raindrops fell.
The hosts came out again, pointed at the sky, and murmured, "The radar says it is not raining, but they are raindrops, aren't they?"
This time the guests, having eaten all the savouries, joined the discussion and stared at the sky and at the radar on their own devices, wondering why there should be raindrops when the radar said there shouldn't; and whether everyone should go inside - or not - and a kind of decision paralysis fell over the gathered crowd, except for the children, who were playing cricket.
The hosts were on the point of moving the whole shit-fight inside anyway when the raindrops suddenly stopped, so they went back in the house and re-commenced making the gravy or stirring some pot or other.
Lunch was served at four o'clock. Everyone was starving. A fine drizzle started falling about twenty minutes into the meal. It was too late to move. Dye started leaching from the upper-class paper hats onto foreheads. Very pale dye - no vulgar lurid colours at $39.99 a pack.
*SKORDALIA
If you don't like the flavour of potato, change it! This garlic-flavoured, smooth-textured substance works a treat as a dip with genuine Italian crostini if you are attending an upper-class Christmas party, or you can drag a few Saladas through it or just eat it by the spoonful if you're at a barbecue in Werribee. (Just watch out for home invaders in the latter case.)
Whip several boiled potatoes until smooth with up to eight pureed garlic cloves (or chop them finely), a few tablespoons each of olive oil and lemon juice and a dash of white vinegar. Add plenty of salt and cracked pepper. I always throw in some chopped parsley as it adds a bit of crunch and eye appeal. Proportions in this recipe are deliberately vague; in general terms the more garlic the better, and the texture has to be spoonable. Adjust fluids accordingly.
It was a perfect day and long outdoor tables stretched out beneath the dappled shade of some gently swaying trees, and were covered in expensive Christmas-themed paper, with tapered candles, quality cutlery and delicate long-stemmed glassware. It was midday. Fairy lights twinkled from the trees like electric snow. Soft Christmas music drifted across the scene from some obscured speaker. Drinks came first, just to get the appetite going, and were served by a natural pool. ('By' meaning next to.) Occasional tables were scattered about the setting and bore platters of savouries that kept you from starving before the turkey came out.
There was only one small problem. Clouds were threatening. If it were to start raining, the entire scene, as big as a movie set, would have to be moved inside. The hosts kept coming in and out of the house and looking alternately at the clouds or the radar on their devices, as if one or the other were going to give a definitive answer on whether it would rain or not. This prevented them from progressing the actual lunch.
Time went by. Two o'clock came. The ceramic bowls on the occasional tables that had contained dips, including one of a deliciously tangy and garlicky skordalia*, had been wiped clean with artisanal crostini, no doubt baked by some 98-year-old grandmother in a rustic oven somewhere in Italy. The guests had also amused themselves by pulling gold-wrapped David Jones crackers ($39.99 for six, and you need about a hundred: that's - what - about $680?) to reveal one upper-class paper hat and one simpering dad-joke per cracker. Some raindrops fell.
The hosts came out again, pointed at the sky, and murmured, "The radar says it is not raining, but they are raindrops, aren't they?"
This time the guests, having eaten all the savouries, joined the discussion and stared at the sky and at the radar on their own devices, wondering why there should be raindrops when the radar said there shouldn't; and whether everyone should go inside - or not - and a kind of decision paralysis fell over the gathered crowd, except for the children, who were playing cricket.
The hosts were on the point of moving the whole shit-fight inside anyway when the raindrops suddenly stopped, so they went back in the house and re-commenced making the gravy or stirring some pot or other.
Lunch was served at four o'clock. Everyone was starving. A fine drizzle started falling about twenty minutes into the meal. It was too late to move. Dye started leaching from the upper-class paper hats onto foreheads. Very pale dye - no vulgar lurid colours at $39.99 a pack.
*SKORDALIA
If you don't like the flavour of potato, change it! This garlic-flavoured, smooth-textured substance works a treat as a dip with genuine Italian crostini if you are attending an upper-class Christmas party, or you can drag a few Saladas through it or just eat it by the spoonful if you're at a barbecue in Werribee. (Just watch out for home invaders in the latter case.)
Whip several boiled potatoes until smooth with up to eight pureed garlic cloves (or chop them finely), a few tablespoons each of olive oil and lemon juice and a dash of white vinegar. Add plenty of salt and cracked pepper. I always throw in some chopped parsley as it adds a bit of crunch and eye appeal. Proportions in this recipe are deliberately vague; in general terms the more garlic the better, and the texture has to be spoonable. Adjust fluids accordingly.
Comments
Post a Comment