My first (disaster of) a dinner party…..

When folks who cant cook well...host others....mayhem ensues...!

Living alone in a small town, I was often invited for sumptuous meals at people’s homes. Being poor at cooking, I used local catering services to return the hospitality. Life followed a smooth pattern until one day, a senior officer insisted that I cook a home meal for everyone. No amount of protests by me or my divulging what a hopeless cook I was would cause him to relent.” Ours is not to question why, ours is to do or die! ” I thought and took up his request. A date was chosen and invitations made.

 

Being the only other medical officer, apart from the commanding officer (CO), I could not get leave from my morning OPD duties for that date. Also, the CO did not at all seem to share my perspective that the situation fitted the ‘emergency leave’ category. I enlisted the help of two bais (lady helpers) for the cooking.  My Sahayak (male helper) was entrusted with sprucing up the house and carrying over drinks from the canteen.

 

On the day of the party, I returned from work in the afternoon to the aroma of cooking and assumed the menu would be mostly prepared. I thought of the special finishing touches I would give. I was in for a rude shock: only two dishes were done; one bai had not turned up at all and the other had to leave in a hurry as she was urgently needed at home. So there I was, with five hours left to go for a big party with poor culinary skills and no manpower! Various plan ‘B’s raced through my mind. A cancellation would seem I was evading my social duties. I wondered if I could ask one of the invitees to come and help cook (their own dinner) but then decided against it. Whereas this practise was acceptable on travel and living shows, in real life it would not go down well at all!

 

Desperate measures were needed. I explained my predicament to the Sahayak and told him that he had to venture far beyond his normal call of duty for that day. Sometime later, I was preparing the gravy and seasoning and the Sahayak, whose only relationship with food so far had been eating it, was cutting vegetables. I tried not to let it perturb me that the vegetable pieces, being so slowly and painstakingly cut by him, were of completely different shapes and sizes or that tiny bits of peel were still sticking to them. I reminded myself that at this juncture our sole aim was just getting food (of any sort) on the table. Anything else was a luxury. I strategically put large quantities of gravy over the vegetables to hide their unevenness.

 

Later in the afternoon, a dear friend, my CO’s daughter, called to check how I was doing. In the course of describing the reasonably grim situation, I discovered that I had not factored in dessert!  My wise friend had a brainwave which mitigated my feeling of despair. All we needed was a quick ride into town to pick up fruit and fresh cream -a timeless classic. She soon brought her moped to my house and I instructed my Sahayak to keep a benign over watch on the last dish, mutton curry, for the short while I would be away. The reluctant chef was petrified at the thought of being left alone in a kitchen with a simmering dish but I told him the situation just could not accommodate a breakdown on his part. I pointed out to him his robust innings with the vegetables. I told him the tough part was over, now only a delicate flick of his wrist was needed - to turn the burner knob from high to sim after the requisite whistles.  My counselling worked. Thankfully.

 

We quickly found the fruit and cream but on the way back, luck deserted us as my friend’s moped had a flat tyre. Providentially, a boy she knew lived nearby. I was greatly relieved to learn this. She told me however, that she found his attentions unwelcome and normally went to great lengths to avoid him. I pleaded with her to make the supreme sacrifice of being showered with unwanted attention for the sake of my dinner. Half an hour later, the boy, whose cup of joy had run over, was dealing with the puncture at an unhurried pace (he wanted his lady-love near him for the longest), my friend was fuming and I was fretting. The supreme irony was eating the tasty snacks served by his mother even as I worried about my own amateurish menu.

 

When we reached back home around 7.00 pm, the first few guests had already arrived. The Sahayak (who was in the loop over telephone) had told them I would be back very shortly and they were wondering about this most unusual welcome. I tried to slip in quietly, but unfortunately, the guests managed to glimpse my dishevelled clothes and the large packages in my hand. I smiled weakly at everyone, murmuring excuses, and they smiled back encouragingly. I changed faster than Superwoman and went to the rescue of the dishes and the chef. My heart sank completely at what I surveyed-the Sahayak had clean forgotten the whistle count and the mutton was in shreds! I thought the only way out was to give the dish an exotic name and pretend they made it like that in some less-visited country. My brain toyed with names such as ‘Rare fibril mutton venison ‘and ’gourmet stringy surprise ‘as I regarded the damaged dish.

 

During the course of the evening, I alternated between kitchen and drawing room while the guests chatted amiably. My friend helped me cut the fruit and blend in the cream. Finally, the time came for dinner to be put on the table. The women called their little children to eat first. One look at the dishes on the table and the adults quickly grasped the situation. The innocent children however, stared suspiciously at the slightly strange looking food and loudly asked what each dish was. Even after their mothers had somehow correctly identified the base vegetable, and told them the name, they were not easily convinced! They kept voicing their doubts loudly, despite stern gazes from their parents and my ears kept turning a deeper shade of red. The adults, in contrast, were kindness personified, going about their business of eating very silently, hiding their disappointment well. I noticed that all took very small portions of everything except the two dishes which the bai had cooked. Many asked for bread alongside, which thankfully, I had.

 

When the dessert came on, there was a palpable sigh of collective relief.  Everyone was still very hungry and there was nothing that could go wrong with fresh fruit and cream. All heaped their plates high. But they had not reckoned with my persistent streak of bad luck that day. The grapes were sour. The guests laboriously picked small fruit pieces off their plates trying to avoid the grapes, which was rather difficult given the creamy disguise each little fruit piece wore. Unfortunately for all (by Murphy’s Law of disasters - if he has one such) grapes just happened to be the signature fruit of the dish.

 

At last the guests left. I imagined hearing hunger rumblings in their stomachs as they said their goodbyes. In silence, I contemplated the day’s events and the used plates with uneaten grapes arranged along their perimeters. I consoled myself with the thought that the guests had certainly enjoyed each other’s company at least. Life went back to the usual pattern and for a long while no one tried to disturb the system by introducing novel concepts such as home �"cooked meals at young officer’s residences!

 

Author's Note

The lighter side of my personal life !