The Mysteries of Georgetown

"Welcome to the _______. Your name, please?" Though we expected the last guests—the evening's honoree and his wife—protocol still required us to ask. Standing with a pair of French poodles on the steps of a Washington, D.C., townhouse, they stared at us a moment, then gave their names. Taking their coats, we escorted them down the hall and into the main salon. The other guests, as directed—ordered, we might say—had arrived en masse at one minute past seven in the evening; some moments later, the hostess had descended from an upper floor. And the evening's host, Count _____, stood waiting in the crook of the baby Steinway grand to receive his guests of honor. As if posing for a full-length portrait, legs oddly crossed at his ankles, family-crested sword unsheathed at his side and bearing his weight, His Hochgeboren-ness offered a limp hand to the man and woman. And with that, a Dinner in Honor of Mr. Pierre Salinger began.

The point of this story both isn't the late Mr. Salinger. Not entirely. It's the host and hostess, and the manner and style of hospitality at that Georgetown address where, starting in the late Nineties, for about five or six years, we joined the on-call rotation as part of their ongoing, unfixed roster of staff. Of all of the gigs we've had, those at that home are among the most eccentric we've ever known. The inclusion of a pair of French poodles at a formal dinner was, in comparison, rather ordinary. Staged and tightly-controlled down to the minute, the occasions paid tribute to some prominent figure, and the array of personages and personalities who came up those townhouse steps never failed to intrigue us. When they were shown into that main salon, however, with its piano, its fireplace and its French Provincial furniture, their cushions protected by inexpensive teatowels, we wondered: did they, too, stop to consider why the room's impressive art was so formally displayed, complete with Plexiglass cases and identification cards detailing the pieces' provenance? Did they realize that, despite the fineness of the old-fashioned, cut-crystal Champagne cups, the linen napkin around the bottle in the silver bucket hid a product made by the cheapest bulk process? Perhaps, like us, they too were jaded. At a certain level of society, it's possible to see everything.

Then again, it's possible not to. (Which might have been for the best.) Downstairs, the cold, damp, half-basement dining room held eight seats at a rectangular gate leg table. In the corner, a large old wooden easel displayed the hostess's latest painting or sketch. The chairs didn't match, some Chippendale, others French Provincial, some with torn cushions, others with hand-worked needlepoint. Inexpensive bamboo blinds screened the door and windows. We set the table with Royal Doulton chargers, antique sterling, monogrammed napkins, and crystal wine glasses with negligible capacity. The lack of table linen wasn't strange, but the lighting scheme was: no electric fixture, just a single Gorham five-arm rondo candelabra in the center, and on a side table, a pair of single sticks with a foot-long pewter snuffer and a silver pitcher with plastic flowers. Like the chairs, the tapers were of varying colors, heights, and degrees of previous use. We lighted the candles at the beginning of the meal, and once the guests came downstairs and were seated, served the first course and poured the first round of wines. "These vines are from my vamily estate in Chermany," purred the host. The guests nodded, but did any of them know, as with our "Champagne" service, we'd poured Gallo Chablis and Hearty Burgundy into silver-topped decanters for just this purpose? They couldn't see very well through the dim candlelight in that chilly, nitrous room; could they see through their hosts' act? Were they meant to?

And did they know what a challenge seeing across the table would become, period? We cleared the first course, stacked the plates in the kitchen, and as instructed by the host, returned to ceremoniously snuff out one of the five candles. One course, one candle down. Four courses left, and only four candles...

(To be continued)