THE GOOD LIFE Pamela VANDYKE PRICE
Recently I have become aware of a trend: adjacent columns are devoting space to food and drink. Now I do not mind this at all. Indeed, I would be absolutely delighted if all columns in all newspapers and magazines were entirely devoted to eating and drink- ing—as we have all of us got to do it, why grudge us maximum space?
But I am totally unable to be gastronomically political in this space, being one of those who confuse heads of states with test and football captains, and who recently ploughed into the first hundred pages of a most fascinating book about Salamis, believing myself to be learning about Cyprus, until 1 found a most peculiar reference to army rations and wine and realised that it wasn't where I ate snails and had a particular type of cheese, but another Salamis altogether, and in fact that the book was about the Peloponnesian War—not, essentially, a gastronomic exercise.
I do think, though, that those who have to engage in political activities should be gastronomically alert. After all, what are politics and economics really about? Getting people enough to eat and drink of the things they want and somewhere in which to eat and drink them ! And when I read in A White. House Diary that Mrs Johnson arranged for the butler to have ready cold turkey and ham, in case the President, con- ferring late, should need sandwiches, and when I heard that those negotiating with union leaders 'sent out' (sic) for sandwiches,
decided I must speak out.
This, to me, is utterly imprudent. If you're really working, then of course food, drink, heartbreak, the weather and even having to go to the loo take umpteenth place and you simply get on with the job until nature of one kind or another simply insists. But if you're going to bash someone—figuratively or actually—or at least convince them that you have some sort of sense on your side, then to me it is bonkers not to have a very sustaining sort of meal before you start (as before a battle) and also to make definite arrangements to break up the meeting to eat, and to eat sensibly, after a certain time. Peo- ple don't get anywhere by being allowed to get tenser and tenser, being hungry makes them as bad as the most tiresome of those they represent, and as food and drink are necessary to civilised life 'and the most calm- ing and civilised form of dope that we have, why not partake? I'm almost tempted to establish myself as a sort of head parlourmaid-cum-butler-cum-nanny on an international scale, and to invade conference rooms with my loaded trolleys and firm assertions: 'No, Mr Kosygin, not one more "niel"until you've sampled this nice bortsch'. 'Monsieur le ministre, remember what the specialist said about your foie—and I recom- mend a little straight vermouth instead of spirits, Mr President, as the chef feels they spoil the delicate flavour of the soup.' Or even 'Just a small glass of champagne, Brother—isn't it interesting that people who make wine never seem to go on strike?'
The sort of food I'd provide—no 'sending out' for the sort of sandwich that well may, be composed of sliced bread (which should not be eaten by anyone with any respect for their taste buds, and certainly not by leaders of men who usually have to watch their carbohydrate intake anyway) my sort of con- ference table refreshment would revive without exalting, sustain without exciting. It would only be moderately fattening (alas. all food is that to some extent) and it wouldn't make people want to go to sleep afterwards.
Definitely a hot starter, even if one had to take this in vacuum packed. I'd opt for a creamy vegetable soup, such as the cream of tomato and potato, the recipe for which is on page 167 of Elizabeth David's French Provincial Cooking4I was about to make this the other day when I found I hadn't any leeks or even parsley, and with onions, a little lemon and a very small spoonful of brandy 1 nevertheless achieved something which colleagues and I used at a productive working lunch.) Then, a joint, either of ham or beef, with perhaps a meat pie; if you have a good pork butcher, then definitely a pie, and if you are within range of Robert Jackson or Justin de Blank, the pies of Pork Farm Products are succulent and inex- pensive. As international nanny. I'd provide some hard cheese for the possible vegetarian, also a lettuce• salad, with the ingredients for dressing it, so that power could demonstrate techniques unto power--`Do you use sugar, Herr Minister?"Nein, Signor, just a little cold milk with seasonings—but I do like onions. There would be wholemeal bread and rusks for people who like to tussle with
anything they chump and champ and crunch (so I might even have cold cutlets or poultry joints) and an orange salad to end with.
To drink? Lots of mineral water, still and fizzy, as the tap water of many capitals is vile. Certainly beer, and a good red or white wine of low price, so that no one need feel sinful about quaffing it, followed by freshly-made coffee (one could bring on one's Cona). How much nicer and more effective they would all be than after a 'sent in' sandwich and something tepid out of any old licensed premises!
But we can all enjoy the orange salad anyway : for each person, you need one and a half oranges; from which you remove all the peel and the pith. Then slice them across, horizontally, not too thinly, arrange in a flat dish and sprinkle with cinnamon powder, fairly generously. Add either a little liqueur; I first had this made with Izarra, the Basque liqueur, which is slightly herby, but one could use Cointreau, or simply a little bran- dy, with one dish made with gingerbeer for the total abstainers. Chill for about an hour before serving.
Entente guaranteed cordiale.
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