Dinner ladies
THE urban dinner party, even one artlessly described as 'kitchen supper', is a very tricky affair. As hostess, you have to convince your guests that you just rustled it up between a Pilates class and work, while assuring your husband that entertaining At Home is a tremendous effort. Which is why the Hamilton soiree — which included drinks at Claridge's and a dinner party in Battersea on the same night — has left me feeling so thoughtful.
As Mrs Hamilton has said, on the night in question, 5 May, it would have taken a helicopter to get the pair from Battersea to the scene of the alleged assault on Miss Nadine Sloane-Whatsit in Ilford, ten miles away. 'It would have been three courses plus cheese,' Christine has protested, as a way of underlining the excellence of the table (and the lateness of going-home time) chez Hamilton.
Three courses plus cheese. This is the part I can't stop going over. Let's assume that the Hamiltons left Claridge's in a taxi and were home by 8-ish. By the time mine host was pouring drinks for his guests at around 8.30. his wife had laid the table, placed the starters at each convert, popped the main course in the oven, prepared the vegetables and salad, warmed the serving-dishes, whipped up a salad dressing and a pudding, and arranged the cheeseboard. Now. I grant you that the couple shopped in Waitrose and Marks & Spencer in the afternoon, both emporia where any number of exotic ready-made dishes may be bought. And apparently Christine served a labour-saving cold starter — her famous jellied Bloody Marys. And yet. . and yet. Mrs Hamilton does not strike one as a woman who passes off M&S salmon en crotite as her own.
All over Britain women must join me in idly wondering how Mrs H. could achieve in half an hour a feat that can take most of us the best part of a week. I felt I had cracked the dinner party when I got it down to two days. Day one was spent combing cookbooks for simple recipes (i.e. those which did not involve making my own stock. say, or buying live female crabs from 'my fishmonger"), doing hours of shopping. and making the pudding. Day two was spent spring-cleaning the house, cooking, placing my one swanky invitation on the mantelpiece, washing all the smeared glasses by hand. cooking, and then putting three children to bed before emerging fragrantly to welcome my guests to my gracious home.
Mrs Hamilton, I am impressed. You are now in the perfect position to join the legion of foodies who have got very rich by telling us that entertaining is not merely fun, but it takes no time at all.
Step forward, wet-lipped Mockney in Hawaiian shirt, Mr James Oliver, for conning us that shopping for wet fish is the most fun you can have with your clothes on, that cooking is all about 'lovely jubbly herbs', whacking it in the oven, and, worst of all, encouraging men to think ifs sexy to be a chef. Step forward, next, Mr Nigel Slater, for a catalogue of offences including books called Real Fast Food, Real Fast Puddings and (one for Christine here) the 30-Minute Cook. And also, I'm afraid, step forward all the celebrity cooks who make it all look so bloody easy — Gary, Rick, Antony ‘Wozza' Thompson, and so on.
The truth is, there are no short cuts when it comes to the dreaded dinner party, because I have tried them all. I have tried having it all catered from soup to nuts. Whichever way you cut it, it takes ages, costs a fortune, and makes you slump with exhaustion. But in these days of 'whacking' and cooking-is-the-newrock'n'roll, no one dares admit it. How I agree with Elizabeth David, who wrote: 'Good food is always a trouble and its preparation should be regarded as a labour of love." She spoke the truth.
But never mind. I can only think that Mrs Hamilton must be cleverly planning to add a cookery book (Christine Hamilton's Three Courses in 30 Minutes) to her portfolio career as radio host and afterdinner speaker. It would sell like hot cakes.
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