I was standing outside a pub recently, speaking to an English man as he became misty-eyed about the Falklands War. It’s not totally remarkable, I know, but I was surprised when it happened again that week: different man, same Belgrano-inflected, weepy nostalgia. Strange, no? You guys won, after all. I suspect the World Cup just dredged up some old feelings. Right, that’s enough politics for today.
But, speaking of diplomatic brouhahas, I was also at a party at an embassy that same week. I won’t tell you which – discretion, restraint, and all those other snooze-worthy Anglican virtues don’t come easily to Silver Spoon, but I have learned they are important. It’s only polite, and people need to trust you.
Anyway, I am offered a Guinness on arrival – from the tap – in this high-ceilinged, plaster-moulded ballroom somewhere on the edge of Belgravia, embassy land. There’s red and white wine. Standard. And Baileys? Far from me to be haughty and judgemental, but who’s drinking viscous cream liqueur in July? What’s next – Tex-Mex in Svalbard?
But that is not why I have gathered you here today. Nor is it to cause an international incident either – if it happens, it happens. No, no. It is summer, which means weddings (boooo) and parties (better), and both of these things mean one thing: canapés.
Yeehaw, canapé review! I am eating blue cheese on crackers, enough to kill a small horse, I reckon. There are cocktail sausages with mustard. One woman sweeps past with a platter of spring rolls at such a pace that I wonder if she is on the run. In the spirit of comity between nations, there is roast beef in tiny Yorkshire puddings too. What is there for me to say? It’s all great. I can tell that the salami was handled with precision and generosity. You’re not here for ortolan, but a cube of cheese on a stick can go a long way, you know.
And if the sound I hear is you rolling your eyes, then quit it. I know canapés get a bad reputation – it’s all a bit bourgeois, and who wants to eat standing up? Never enough for dinner, but too much to eat before dinner. There are logistical and time-keeping issues: “Oh no, it’s my turn to say something banal and I’m not even half way through chewing this mini quiche to death.” The food is repetitive, and the risk of spinach-in-the-teeth faux pas is dangerously high.
And to that I respond: shut up and lighten up. When else is dinner 15 tiny sausages? Don’t make a habit of it – meals should, for the most part, be consumed at a table with a knife and fork – but you are at a party, and it would be obstructive to whip out the pressed duck and white tablecloths. Congruence is one of the most important dimensions of eating – no Tex-Mex in Svalbard, etc. And I like to conduct international arbitration over tiny pieces of toast, merci.
To keep you all in the loop, the new “thing” in London is “vertical dining” – a literally minded coinage to describe the act of eating out while standing up, tapas and pintxos bar-style. The Spaniards do it, and aren’t the Spaniards cool? You can request private correspondence if you want my true feelings on that, but let’s not get distracted now. Tollington’s Fish Bar in Finsbury Park is a good example of the form, were you minded to try it.
But, newsflash, españoles. We’ve been doing it for years, thanks to the good people of France and the very invention of the canapé. The concept emerged in the late-19th century, and, like everything else, was then perfected by chef Auguste Escoffier (of the Ritz in Paris and the Savoy in London) in the early 20th. It escaped into the hands of the sans-culottes, and now even your correspondent can have a mini quiche at a summer party. And she will.
If anything, it may just help offset the effects of Guinness consumed in 30°C heat – auxiliary in the prevention of 4 per cent ABV-fuelled diplomatic incidents. Here I go, getting worthy about soft power again. But if I won’t defend the honour of the quiche, the blini, the cheese-on-stick, then who will?
[Further reading: The take over]