The Mysteries of Georgetown, Part Two

When we extinguished the first candle after the first course—the hosts' preferences for which included tomato aspic garnished with a slice of hard-cooked egg or pate de campagne with a single crouton—one of the things the guests could see less of was how dirty things were at the ____________. We made a habit of bringing dishwashing soap and cleaning everything before we started preparing the meal; there was no range hood, and no housekeeper, and everything had that smeared, dusty quality. The icebox was often frozen shut; once, when a guest asked for more ice for his drink, the host handed us an icepick and said to chip away some of the frost. We began to think that we were working in Schloss Neuschwanstein for Mad Ludwig himself. We know what we thought; what did the guests think?

The second course was always a salad of mixed, undistinguished lettuces with exactly two slices of plum tomato, two long strips of carrot peel, and a sprinkling of capers. The vinaigrette of the house was a saline emulsion of the drained liquid from jars of artichoke hearts, olive oil, and more salt. We figured out that the salt in all the food was meant to keep the "special wine" flowing, and the host continued to press his "family's estate production" on the guests throughout the meal. At a certain level of society, Americans resist excess drinking, at least in public; in private they may be alcoholics (or worse), but have the sense—probably derived from guilt, more than reason—to compartmentalize their overindulgence.

Second course cleared, we extinguished Candle Number Two. The room got even darker. Entrees were often beef tenderloin or pork tenderloin en croute. We served steamed asparagus no matter the season or French carrots drizzled with a sauce made from melted butter and Dundee Brand Orange Marmalade. The night of Mr. Salinger's dinner we served pork. After pulling the entree from the oven, we sliced off a serving and cut in it doggie-bite-sized pieces, put it into the crystal bowls and placed them into the refrigerator to cool. After serving the humans, before refreshing the wine, we pulled the bowls from the refrigerator and walked them to the dining room and placed one on each side of Mr. Salinger's chair where the dogs were waiting.

Throughout the meal, the host directed—no, marshalled—the conversation; he often scheduled—yes, scheduled—toasts and responses, all excessively formal. Yet another candle was extinguished after the entree, then dessert was served. Nine times out of ten it was sabayon in crystal bowls topped with a single strawberry garnish. As we extinguished the final candle, the host announced that they would adjourn to the library for demitasse, "Sherry, and Cognac." In the darkness, the guests had to help each other up and out of the damp room with no light except those from the sideboard candles; it was like a scene from The Poseidon Adventure. In the relative brightness (and safety) of the library, we served coffee. If only the guests knew the sugar in the silver server was from collected sugar packets we'd had to empty; they came from places as far-flung as McDonald's and four-star restaurants...

(soon, the conclusion of "The Mysteries of Georgetown")