Simply having a wonderful time

I have sometimes found myself at long tables, which may make for a grand photograph, but renders table service untenable

Surely the most tedious entertainment dreamt up by the glitterati must be the formal sit-down dinner with your names neatly pre-placed, so you’re separated from your partner and left floundering amidst strangers you’re unlikely to meet again, but with whom you’re expected to engage. It might appear like the height of glamour with oodles of cutlery and waiters hastening forth with refreshments of wine and changes in the plating service, straight out of Downtown Abbey, but that picture doesn’t, alas, say it all. You’re offered a place on the long table not because you provide scintillating company but because your host expects you to have one essential quality — patience — during which a multi-course meal likely to last over two hours will be served. And no matter how much you’re tempted, given the dreary somnolence that’s part of its routine, you simply cannot feign an appointment and hasten your departure, which will be considered the height of bad manners. Since speeches too are post-prandial affairs, you’re expected to stay till coffee is served — which is good because you’ll need the caffeine to stay awake. 

Proficient hostesses have found that several smaller tables are usually better than one long table — such as the 100-seaters I have sometimes found myself at, which may make for a grand photograph, but renders table service untenable. By the time the starters arrive — cold and chewy, because plating takes time in the kitchen — the wine waiter can no longer be spotted, and your glass has been empty for something like 20 minutes. Getting your main course wrong is almost guaranteed, but never-ever make a scene because you’ll attract the assembly of the disapproving service staff, the other guests will glare at you, your unrequited course will be removed but do not count on its replacement because — guess what? — the chef prepared only 35 helpings of jerky chicken, and they’re all over.

God help too if you’re stuck between the club bore and the professional curmudgeon. Just last week, I found myself sandwiched between a manufacturer of soft toys on one side, an agriculturist on the other. Conversation, expectedly, was stilted. The toy manufacturer did furry toys that got dirty requiring specialised dry-cleaning, services so far unavailable in India. Great if I was a PE looking for a business opportunity, but I chose to pass on it. An opinionated lady sitting by his side and finding him dull as well, opted to speak over his head instead, but since the subject of her choosing was mostly complaints about food — too much spice, too little protein, too much diversity — while masticating loudly, I was forced to seek refuge in the agriculturist on my other side. My knowledge of manure processing techniques and soil rejuvenation improved by leaps and bounds, but to say I was overwhelmed might be an overstatement.

But occasionally things do get interesting — as happened a while ago when a gentleman with a grudge against the world was assigned a seat across from me where he simmered silently till, sufficiently satiated with a blend of wine and whisky, he exploded in rage. He hurled abuse, flung a glass, embarrassed his corporate host, amused the host’s detractors, and in the bargain provided amusement and scurrilous gossip for most. I admit to having a good time.