Fire and Ice

Table’s set. Sterling cutlery – Spanish Provincial. Delicately ornate dessert fork, horizontal over Wedgewood bone China plates, adorned in baby blue flowers. Baccarat claret glasses placed two inches behind Waterford water goblets. Egg-shell hued Damask linens dress the lustrous Chippendale table, revealing curved legs of rich Mahogany as Acanthus leaves swirl seductively upwards, begging for a peek.

There’s a precise formula where to place each guest. This is not my first soiree. Homely Mrs. Gerber must sit next to dashing Dr. Pinedale. They share a mutual interest in forestry. What to do with Miss Saucier? She’s Mr. Plotkin’s plus one. Called her his niece. I sincerely doubt it. Maybe she can manage grouchy Mrs. Torrid and her obsession with poltergeists. Married couples may not be seated next to each other. Over-familiarity stifles conversation.

No room for error or interpretation.

Guests arrive, offered elegant flutes of Veuve and canapes as they mingle. I’m on my third… I do so love my bubbles. Everyone moves languidly, enjoying artisanal crostini smeared in velvety herbed goat cheese, topped with salty smoked salmon crowned with a tiny nest of Beluga caviar – an edible canvas. I keep my eye on Miss Saucier in a barely-there number. How can she walk in those silver studded stilettos? Freshwater pearls in ice blue – the same ice blue of her eyes, shimmer at her throat, drawing one’s eye to exquisite sun-bronzed decolletage. Clusters of diamonds drip from delicate earlobes… Diamonds and pearls together? Doesn’t she know better? Pot-bellied Plotkin’s got more plot than I’d have thought possible. He keeps Saucy pressed to his side, any excuse for subtle groping. Viagra is work of the Devil.

After the allotted cocktail hour – one hour to be precise… I call guests to their seats. Plotkin sees where I’ve placed his plaything, frowning. He tucks the name card under his sleeve and swaps out cranky Mrs. Torrid. Now she’ll have to converse with the handsome, youthful, and newly ordained Reverend Cross. To be fair, that’s not a bad pair. Ohh to be a fly on the wall…

Rev. Cross offers a Blessing. Heads bowed, holding hands … or in some cases, naked upper thigh, the prayer is dispatched. Deitrich in crisp whites, serves the first course – chilled vichyssoise sprinkled with chive grass clippings and a dollop of crème fraiche. Smatterings of conversation swirl – a plague of pine beetles from the forestry end. Rev. Cross gets an earful on Torrid’s hauntings…. something about her deceased mother-in-law tossing heirloom candlesticks about the place. At the other end, two guests are missing. Probably powdering one other’s noses.

Waldorf salad… crisp celery, juicy red grapes, freshly shelled black walnuts and chopped Granny Smith apples on a bed of Boston bibb lettuce is followed by an indulgent suckling pig – a gastronomic masterpiece I must admit. Glistening golden skin, caramelized to perfection conceals succulent meat, delicately infused with smokiness, yielding effortlessly to the touch of a fork… a sublime waltz between crispy crust and tender meat, that lingers on the palate, a sensual whisper…

My guests dive in, unencumbered by civility or good manners. Lip smacking, finger licking, and laughter echo, crescendoing through the lavish diving room. Great grandfather Jacob stares down from the wall, a hint of a grin in his austere features.

Plotkin and Saucy return, faces flushed, silk necktie askew, Sincerely Red lipstick smeared.

They never even tasted the damn pig. Is it too much to ask to wait for the main fare before diving into dessert?

No intermezzo for those two.

Fire and Ice for the finale…

Crepes Suzette Deconstructed … a sensual serenade of flaming Grand Marnier-soaked crepes unrolled, exposing luscious mounds of French vanilla gelato, dripping with the aromatic essence of freshly grated orange zest and slivers of crystallized ginger.

Just one bite…

Flushed and rushed, Plotkin and Saucy flee the table, leaving coats and one silver studded stiletto behind. Saucy Cinderella, I laugh. Hope she doesn’t break old Plotkin’s heart… the randy bastard.

I glance to the other end of the table. My foresters are knee deep in scintillating conversation. Rosy cheeked Mrs. Gerber blots Dr. Pinedale’s chin with her linen napkin, manicured fingers brush his thigh and a sordid look in her eye. Oh my…

Mrs. Torrid and Rev. Cross? Where the Devil have those two gone?

Pass the Veuve.