Carol’s Column

The night we saw the Pope and the peppermints tasted funny

“They’re stark, staring mad. Crazy. They need to have their heads read.”

That was what my husband said when he heard we’d been invited en famille to dine at Milner’s at the Sunnyside Park.

“I mean, two Lazars is reasonable, but who in their right mind would ask six Lazars to dinner? Do they realise that our family could make them insolvent in just two hours of solid eating?”

“It’s a new thing – a family dinner – and they wanted to try out the idea on some typical, all-South African families. That’s why we were asked.” I smiled proudly.

My husband shook his head disbelievingly, a dangerous habit, it causes loosening of the hair follicles they say. “And we qualify?” He shuddered.

“It’s a posh restaurant, isn’t it?” said our youngest, unmarried son. “Must I wear shoes?”

“Jamie, you’re to shower, brush your hair and wear takkies,” I muttered grimly. “You’re representing this family, we’re going to show a clean, well-dressed, united front.”

On Sunday night we arrived at Milners. I was indeed proud of my family, they glittered and sparkled for this auspicious occasion.

Toothpaste smiles, white fingernails. Even my spouse had changed from horn to goldrimmed spectacles.

White pillars, green clothes, cane chairs, brass and copper candelabra, fresh-cut flowers on the table – the ambience was elegantly restful.

“Jamie, put your skateboard back in the car, you’re not riding it in here,” I hissed. There is a time and place for everything in life.

“Ho, ho, this way,” said a jolly waiter as he showed us to our table.

“He’ll be ho, ho, ho-ing on the other side of his face by the time he’s finished with this lot,” muttered my husband.

I noticed we were surrounded by several other all-South African families.

“The idea of this dinner,” explained manager Eva Vouyoucalos, “is for one member of your party to be the host. The host will serve, carve and dispense with the bonhomie. We want you to dine in a typical, grand, old family tradition.”

I didn’t dare look at my husband. There are traditions and traditions. Could bangers and mash or baked beans on toast be described as a tradition?

She departed.

“Tonight we will NOT dine in our typical, traditional, family way,” I growled. “Tonight you will eat with knives and forks, shut your mouths while chewing, eat your spinach, brussel sprouts and cabbage with a smile.”

The waiter appeared with a decanter. “Sherry?” he asked graciously.

“Ralph, go easy on the sherry, you’re writing English tomorrow,” I whispered to my 15-year-old.

Just then my small daughter nudged me hard. “Look, Mummy, look. The Pope! It’s the Pope!” Her eyes were wide with admiration.

I turned to observe the head chef behind the servery with his huge cap.

“Er, no, Nicky, he’s not the Pope.”

“But he’s important too, isn’t he?” she asked.

“Oh, yes.”

The first course arrived. An exotic salad of palm hearts, artichoke hearts, shrimps and other wondrous things.

The kids demolished the bowl in four minutes flat.

“They were hungry, hey?” noted our waiter, looking like a grinning blue pointer shark.

The hors d’oeuvres arrived. Smoked salmon, pâté, truffles, Parma ham, all dressed up and raring to go.

Nicky pulled my head down. “Mummy, why are they serving dog food?”

“Dog food?”

She pointed at the pâté.

Try and explain to a nine-year-old the subtleties of a good pâté.

Worse, try and explain to a 12-year-old that truffles taste delicious even though they’re excavated by pigs.

“Huh, pig food’s is pig food,” he stated with the dogmatic logic of his years.

It was a gastronomic onslaught. We were savouring the excellence of a bisque when I heard an agonised cry. “There’s something wrong with these peppermints!”

“Jamie, for heaven’s sake take your fingers out of the butterballs.”

Then came a huge and massive leg of lamb, succulent and not too aggressively spiced with herbs. It had an impeccable pedigree. The innards were wonderfully pink, the outers, crisp and crunchy.

The older boys had eaten their way solidly through every morsel – but the sight of the lamb brought them to their feet.

“Please stop clapping,” I begged them. “Everyone’s looking – nobody claps a leg of lamb.”

“We gave Joan Brickhill a standing ovation the other night, why can’t we clap the lamb?”

Why indeed.

Dessert – a calorific chocolate mousse of tender texture and fine flavour found its way down our gullets.

“What a feast,” sighed my husband contentedly leaning back in his chair. “At R12,50 a head – it’s got to be the bargain of the year.”

Too late, his chair continued to tip causing him to land in our neighbouring all-South African family’s hors d’oeuvres.

It’s these little things in life that are sent to try you.

“Thank you for coming, have a Happy Christmas,” everyone smiled and waved (was it with relief?) as we left.

Later that night, as I cuddled up to my spouse under our summerweight, synthetic, allergy-free duvet with the worn edges through which the stuffing protruded, I whispered in his ear: “That was really great, wasn’t it, a true family occasion.”

He didn’t seem to hear.

I looked at him closely. No wonder, nestling in his left eardrum, was a smoked salmon and caviare hors d’oeuvre.

It was good enough to eat.

The snack, I mean.

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