by Chris Smyth
‘They were probably tired.’ Stephen yawned expansively.
‘Shall we clear up? Maybe I should have done it on a Saturday. But I just thought it would be nice for people on a Friday . . .’
‘It was fine.’ Stephen was thinking about how little he wanted to clear the table. Rosie had begun gathering glasses.
‘And what about Matt? You got on all right, didn’t you?’
‘It was fine.’
Rosie gave him a concerned look. ‘Are you sure?’
Stephen grunted.
‘And was the food OK? I thought I might have put too much salt in the soup.’
‘It was fine.’
‘But the duck was definitely overcooked, wasn’t it? I knew I should have waited until after the soup to start it. Was it ruined?’
‘It was fine.’
‘The pudding was good, though – thank you for that – and people did seem to be enjoying themselves for a while, even Marcus. How do you think it went, overall?’
‘It was fine.’
Rosie took a handful of glasses through to the kitchen. Stephen reluctantly stood up and followed her, taking an empty coffee cup to show willing. Rosie piled up banks of dirty glasses and crockery above the rumbling dishwasher.
‘Do you think we should do these now?’
‘No.’
‘I think I will.’
‘Just put them in the dishwasher tomorrow.’
‘I think I’ll make a start. I want to get the worst of it out of the way.’
‘I’m going to bed.’ Stephen put his empty brandy glass by the others and left the kitchen.
From: Matthew Phillips
To: Dinner At Mine
Sent: 23.51
Subject: Dinner with Rosie and Stephen: Assessment
Comments:
Food:
Soup: Tasty, good combination of flavours, although slightly too cold.
Main Course: Excellent duck with highly imaginative sauce.
Side Dish: Adequate.
Salad: Not to my taste. Too many lentils.
Dessert: Extremely enjoyable; fruit soft, crumble very crisp.
Wine: Pinot noir, with nice balance of fruits.
Hosting:
– Effort: Excellent.
– Conversation: Satisfactory. Mostly enjoyable, although no particularly stimulating topics.
– Ambience: Mostly good. Pleasant home. Awkward lulls well covered.
Scores:
Soup: 7
Main: 9
Side: 6
Salad: 5
Dessert: 9
Wine: 7
Hosting: 7
Overall average: 7
Matthew Phillips
Barrister
New Green Chambers
Sent from my BlackBerry®
From: Charlotte Wells
To: Dinner At Mine
Sent: 00.12
Thanks for dinner, Rosie and Stephen. To be honst, you lose points for trying to set me up. And for keeping me wiating for my dinner for so long. That explns why I’m so drunk now. Fuck, the buttns on this screne are annying. Wine tho was very good. And there was lots of it.
To be fair, the food was p;retty tasty. I did like the soup. The duck was pretty good as welll. Dessert was ok, but a bit too heaby by that point.
I have to say iThe geusts were pretty boring. Is that your fault? You did invite them. And you actively encouraged them to talk. So that’s bad. Wait, Im home now.
Score: 6
Sent from my iPhone
From: Marcus Thompson
To: Dinner At Mine
Sent: 00.51
Subject: Dinner
The evening began promisingly, with excellent aperitif snacks which went well with the sherry. However, the good impression was rather marred when we were left on our own for long periods waiting for a dinner that was very late in starting.
When the meal finally began, I was disappointed that a good overall concept was slightly betrayed by the execution. The soup’s taste was mostly bacon saltiness and it was too cold.
Although the pomegranate was a good flavour, and well integrated into the dish, it was let down by overcooked duck. Okra was also not a suitable side dish as it has a similar bitterness; the pomegranate demanded a fresh taste to cut through it. The rice was over-boiled.
The lentil salad was enjoyable in small quantities, but too much beetroot is difficult to stomach. There was also far too much lemon juice in the dressing.
The crumble was not what was advertised, for which points must be deducted. It also did not fit the tone of the rest of the dinner. While it was sweet and not too cloying, overall this course was a disappointment.
The hosting was, on balance, good, although the faults identified earlier pull the final score down from seven to six.
Score: 6
Marcus
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From: Justin Davidson
To: Dinner At Mine
Sent: 14.32
Subject: Dinner last night
Sorry this is a bit late, we were so tired last night. And then this morning I had volunteering. I don’t really have much time to write, but I’m so busy with this Malawi project this afternoon that I’d better send something now. (Not that I’m complaining – it’s an excellent programme. I’ll tell everyone about it properly next time.) I think I remember that no one is reading this yet anyway, so I hope it won’t matter being a bit late.
Thanks very much for a lovely meal. I think we liked the soup best. It was fresh, tasty, and chilled just the right amount. The main course was very tasty too, and we do appreciate that you made a proper vegetarian dish rather than just leaving the meat out of what you were having. Tamarind is one of my favourite spices too.
If I had to make any criticism at all, I’d say the stew was maybe a bit dry. But that’s probably our fault, isn’t it? We were so late that it must have been cooking for half an hour longer than you wanted. I’m so sorry. It must have been really annoying, so we won’t mark you down for that at all.
What else? I’m sure the wine was very nice, but I’m not much of an expert. You were excellent hosts, of course, very generous. So overall, 7. Is that a bit harsh? 7½ then. No, make it 8.
See you next time.
Justin
Dinner at Matt’s (with Charlotte)
Seven
‘Oh honey, hi!’
‘Yeah. Hi. Honey.’ Barbara gripped the phone tightly to her ear.
‘Aren’t you at your exhibition?’ Justin asked, sounding puzzled even over the crackle of the line.
‘Yes.’ Barbara waited.
‘Look, I’m sorry I’m not there yet. I am coming . . . It’s just this Malawi thing.’
‘Yeah.’
‘I need to get this chapter done tonight before it goes out to review. I think I’m nearly there.’
A gust of wind funnelled down the street, setting the buds on the spindly trees shaking. Barbara stepped back to take shelter in the café doorway.
‘I am coming,’ Justin repeated.
‘Sure.’
‘How’s it going?’
‘You know. Fine.’
‘That’s great!’
Barbara looked through the bright windows of the café. Three people drifted listlessly around the floor, peering at her pots. From outside, she could see a thin coating of dust over the pot nearest to the window. Would it have killed Mary to dust them? And some flowers, some flowers would have been good. But Mary might
not have watered them. Dead flowers would have been even worse.
‘Yeah,’ Barbara said, breathing out very heavily. ‘It’s going great.’
‘I’m really glad, Barbara!’ Justin said. ‘Are there lots of people there?’
‘Some. It was a slow start.’
There had been three tables occupied when Barbara arrived: an old guy reading a newspaper, two young mothers interested in nothing but their chocolate muffins, and two grad-student types. Barbara had thought the two students were staring at one of the vases, but when she moved over to the counter it became clear that they were staring at her.
‘Well, I’m sure it’s warming up,’ Justin said.
‘That’s probably the free wine.’
‘Ha!’ Justin laughed desperately. ‘Are those people there?’
‘Which ones?’ Barbara knew who he meant. She was annoyed he couldn’t remember their names.
‘The ones from the gallery . . .’
‘No.’
‘I’m sure they’re coming, though.’
‘Yeah,’ Barbara said, staring through the brilliant windows, knowing she couldn’t be seen. ‘Just like you are.’
‘Exactly!’ Justin replied quickly. ‘It’s still quite early, isn’t it, and they’re very busy people. I’m sure they’ll come.’
‘Maybe,’ Barbara said, not quite smiling to herself. ‘After all, right, they said they’d come, didn’t they? So why wouldn’t they come?’
‘Well, exactly,’ Justin said. He sounded relieved that she agreed.
Barbara couldn’t think how to reply. Through the window she could see the two textile artists who rented space in the same studio as her, drinking wine and ignoring the pots. They were laughing about something. Barbara thought it must be her, then told herself not to be so paranoid.
Linda, the German one, had brought a sample of her own work. Barbara could see the bag wedged protectively between her feet. She didn’t know whether to be insulted or flattered that Linda actually thought the gallerists were coming.
Barbara hadn’t invited many people – it was pretty stupid to have a ‘launch’ when the pots had been in here for a month. She had only agreed to it because Marcello, who liked to call himself Barbara’s agent, had said it was a good excuse to get Dieter Tunhelm there. She’d brought people to see the exhibition before, of course. Rosie had been in the first week, and said it was marvellous. Barbara guessed that was pretty nice of her. But because of that, Barbara had felt obligated to say yes when Rosie had suggested this dinner thing. Barbara had been a bit surprised when she’d asked. She didn’t even know Rosie very well – found her a little intense, actually. But she liked Sarah OK, and Justin had liked the idea of showing off his cooking.
‘Honey?’ Justin said down the indistinct line.
‘Yeah?’
‘I’d better get on with finishing this . . .’
‘Sure.’ Barbara resisted asking how long it would take.
‘I’ll try to come as soon as I can . . . You know I’d come now, but with this dinner tonight I won’t get it done later, and there’s the conference on Monday, so I’ve got to get it finished.’
‘Sure.’
‘I knew you’d understand. It will go on for a while yet, won’t it?’
Barbara looked back across the expanse of scuffed wooden floor inside the café. ‘Yeah, maybe.’
Barbara waited.
‘But look . . . um, if I don’t get it finished, shall I just see you at Matt’s?’
Barbara didn’t feel like protesting. ‘Sure,’ she said.
‘Thank you for understanding!’ Justin was suddenly enthusiastic. ‘I knew you would.’
Barbara didn’t feel angry. There was no point arguing anyway; you couldn’t win against starving children. And, actually, it would probably be easier if Justin didn’t show up. Justin did have a lot of great points. He was nice, sweet, kind. She had been so attracted by all that when she had first arrived in London, the unthreatening stability of him. It would be embarrassing, though, having his enthusiasm in that almost empty room. Barbara wasn’t sure if she would be more embarrassed by the café or by him.
‘We’ve got the whole weekend, haven’t we?’ Justin went on. ‘Sunday morning, you could give me a private tour.’
‘Sure.’
‘OK, great. Well, you know where Matt’s is, don’t you? I gave you the address. Just in case . . .’
‘See you, Justin.’
‘Bye, honey. I love you . . .’
Barbara ended the call and stared out at the street for a while. She had met Justin when she had gone with a friend from Goldsmiths to an Amnesty event that Justin had organized. She’d been impressed by his zeal, his energetic earnestness, and she’d gone back the following week. Eventually she’d asked him out. He wasn’t like a lot of guys she knew in the States; it wasn’t all just a way of getting her into bed, even if that meant pretending to be interested in her work. Yeah, say what you like about Justin, at least he didn’t fake an interest in that.
A sharp rapping at the glass jerked Barbara out of her thoughts.
Linda, the German textile artist, was looking at her with a pained expression and gesturing for her to come inside. Barbara smiled weakly, looking past her, back into the café. She noticed that someone had put a stack of flyers for a student play into one of her pots. Outrage flared and quickly subsided. It seemed somehow appropriate.
Barbara took a step back and appraised her pots from the street. They suddenly looked far more like lumps of clay than works of art. Inert, lifeless, ill-formed. They were an embarrassment. Amateurish garbage. Was this really what she had spent five years doing?
Linda gave up on Barbara and went over to the bar for another plastic cup of Chilean red. Barbara decided this was a moment of clarity. She had lost her way as an artist. Something had to change. She spun round and walked away from the café. Her jacket was still inside, but she didn’t look back.
Eight
Rosie’s mind once again went over the matter of the yuzu juice. She was thinking about getting hold of some and making the salad again, just to see what the difference was. She was convinced now that the extra zing would have made all the difference, lifted the meal to another level. It definitely would have been worth extra points. Would it mean the difference between winning and losing, though?
The problem was that there was no way of knowing how well the others had scored her. The question had been hovering there all week. She was worried now that when she saw them later on, she wouldn’t be able to think of anything else. It was going to be torture.
‘Yes, yes!’ she said, to Stephen’s muffled shout.
Marcus would have been stingy with his score. She could tell that immediately. It perhaps wasn’t even so much to do with the food as a way of asserting his superiority, or making it more likely that he would win. She knew he fancied himself as a foodie, but God, he had been annoying, hadn’t he? Did he think she hadn’t noticed the notebook? Well, that would be repaid.
Was she being uncharitable? No. That was the point of the game, wasn’t it? To win. Was that why she had suggested it in the first place? The thought struck her. Was she just looking for a socially acceptable way to prove she was a better cook than her friends? No, surely it was just a way to have some nice evenings, and make a bit of a change from a normal dinner party?
And even if it wasn’t, what was so wrong with that? Everyone had agreed to the rules.
Rosie ran her hand through her hair.
And Matt? Well, he probably wanted to win without trying, didn’t he? Gliding along like a swan while everyone else was paddling furiously underwater. That wasn’t quite right, was it? But it would be just like Matt.
Take the menu for the night. Peruvian Ceviche. Well, that sounded great, didn’t it? Exotic, fresh, a hint of culinary danger with the raw fish. But, actually, you just needed to get some very nice fish and squeeze some lemon on it. Easy, really. It would be tasty, though, that was the thing. S
ame with the main course. Navajo Roast Lamb. Navajo! How unexpected and intriguing. The thing was, it was probably just roast lamb. With a few strange spices. All you had to do was buy the right things and set the timer on the oven. Was that cheating or was it just clever? That was the thing with Matt – it was so hard to tell.
Still, Rosie was confident. The vegetarians would swing it for her. Marcus would be mean with everyone and Rosie herself was unlikely to give Matt a better score than he had given her. So it would come down to Justin and Barbara. They had really enjoyed the last meal. And then there was Charlotte. Had she ever actually cooked anything? Rosie had never seen any evidence that her culinary skills went any further than adjusting the settings on the microwave. If she was making something tonight, it would be the NY Espresso Chocolate Cake. Very hard to get chocolate cake wrong, but maybe Charlotte could manage it.
‘Mmmmm!’ she said.
That was mean. There was no reason to think Charlotte was a bad cook, was there? True, Rosie had never eaten a meal prepared by her, but then most of their socializing had been done after work. She could actually be quite good.
Why hadn’t she mentioned Matt to Charlotte before last week? In her head, it had seemed much less of a set-up. Just because two people were single, it didn’t mean they couldn’t have dinner together, did it? With six other people there!
Yes, all right, it was the cooking together. That did look like a date. But there was nothing to be done about it. The rules were the rules. Both of them were adult enough to see that, surely?
Still, she should have asked them properly. Charlotte, particularly. She always got very defensive about the suggestion of set-ups, as if they were an insult to her pride, a sign that people thought she should be the object of pity. Rosie couldn’t see it. It was just a practical way of looking for a partner, wasn’t it?
Maybe she should have invited Mike and Tony. Things would have been much more relaxed. There wouldn’t have been the tension with Charlotte, and now Stephen was upset at suddenly discovering what had happened with her and Matt all those years ago.