Lunch Party
There are long lunches. Power lunches. Liquid lunches. And then there are ladies who come to lunch. The last is almost certainly the most pleasurable. And also the most scary. As anyone who has ever catered for her girlfriends will tell you, cooking is a competitive business. ‘Don’t go to any bother,’ they call to say, while you vacuum the rugs, polish the glasses and re-pot the window boxes. But of course you do. There is nothing like the fear of failing one’s contemporaries to get you manically cleaning.
This weekend I was a guest at a glorious memorial lunch for Sheila Clark, a woman known as one of the best cooks in Kent. As we sat under a marquee in her bucolic garden and ate exquisite Romney Marsh lamb, her family and friends recalled over 50 years of joyous entertaining, of her eff ortlessly turning out meals, often impromptu, for those who had chanced to ‘pop by’. From Richard, the owner of the local garage company, to Donald Sinden, a close neighbour, it was obvious that most of the village had been fed at her round dining table at one point or another. There was no doubt that she was going to be sorely missed, but the memories of her generosity as a hostess would be passed down through generations.
I suspect my own attempts at entertaining will have less of a long-lasting impact. Admittedly, I can fry or even roast, but what I cannot do is cook without any gas. I may have managed to buy a secondhand New World 1960s cooker, but I haven’t managed to get it plugged in. Which is something of a drawback when you have invited some ladies from The Lady for a seaside spread.
I am not sure what Katy, Fiona, Melonie and Lorna were expecting, but it wouldn’t have been unreasonable to expect a meal. In a panic, and not for the first time, I suggested we go to Alastair’s instead. Like Sheila, Alastair was born to cook. And he had gas. So we sat around his zinc-covered chef’s table in the back of Hendy Home Stores while he fed us crab paste on toast, tomato tarte Tatin, brown shrimp with celeriac roulade, whole plaice, caught that morning and grilled with the fi nest butter. Herrings, also fresh off the boat. By the time we got to his meringue topped with cream and local strawberries, the verdict was clear: my guests were happy to pay not to be fed by me. I suspect that might always be the case.
Next week: Chips are down.
This weekend I was a guest at a glorious memorial lunch for Sheila Clark, a woman known as one of the best cooks in Kent. As we sat under a marquee in her bucolic garden and ate exquisite Romney Marsh lamb, her family and friends recalled over 50 years of joyous entertaining, of her eff ortlessly turning out meals, often impromptu, for those who had chanced to ‘pop by’. From Richard, the owner of the local garage company, to Donald Sinden, a close neighbour, it was obvious that most of the village had been fed at her round dining table at one point or another. There was no doubt that she was going to be sorely missed, but the memories of her generosity as a hostess would be passed down through generations.
I suspect my own attempts at entertaining will have less of a long-lasting impact. Admittedly, I can fry or even roast, but what I cannot do is cook without any gas. I may have managed to buy a secondhand New World 1960s cooker, but I haven’t managed to get it plugged in. Which is something of a drawback when you have invited some ladies from The Lady for a seaside spread.
Next week: Chips are down.