People tend to get nervous when I come to dinner. They seem to think I am there to judge their food. They forget something very important: I am happy I didn’t have to cook. I didn’t have to come up with something to cook. I didn’t have to go to the market. I didn’t have to unload groceries. I don’t have to clean up. Not that I really mind any of these things, but it’s always nice to have someone cook for you. And it’s nice to not have to make a reservation and menu decisions in order for that to happen. For me part of the joy of being invited to someone’s house for dinner is this simple: I only have to decide what to wear. After that, it’s up to them.
My dashing husband and I went to a dinner party last night. New people, fresh faces, lively conversation. And grilled trout. Presented, mercifully without messy heads, on a large platter:
I was brought instantly back to Lac du Bois, the French camp I attended for many years as a kid. Where, truth be told, I also worked as a counselor for two summers. My time at French camp (and my love, love, love of it) is a fact about myself that I don’t usually trot out right away when I meet people. But that platter of trout… it brought me right back to the dining hall* at camp, where the kitchen served up vaguely French-like food. Baguettes, butter, jam, and hot chocolate for breakfast; a big lunch with a starter of pâté or shrimp, a main dish of stewed chicken or bœuf Bourguignonne, a green salad for which each table made their own dressing (3 parts oil, 1 part vinegar, plenty of dijon mustard, salt and pepper), dessert of chocolate mousse or apple tart; a lighter dinner of soup and more salad with perhaps some cheese and fruits afterward. It wasn’t gourmet fare, but the spirit was French. One day, though, the kitchen got ambitious and put in a little extra effort: Platters of trout – with the heads and tails still attached – were paraded out to the tables with great fanfare as the kitchen staff stood ready to receive our delighted thrill at the special treat.
They were met instead with shrieks of disgust. Fake barfing sounds filled the air. The crowd went wild with horror, which was odd since most of the kids there were from Minnesota and must have seen fish caught and gutted before. But it’s true, Minnesotan fishermen tend to leave the heads and tails outside.
Later that day we all got a lecture from the director on what can only be described as basic manners and the frailty of human feelings. She had to connect the dots a bit, breaking it down, if I remember correctly, to explaining that the kitchen staff were human and thus had feelings.
Did I shriek and feign disgust? Probably. But I also ate that trout. It was good. It wasn’t quite as moist and perfectly flaky as the one I downed last night, but it had the delicate texture and faintly earthy flavor that makes me crave fresh-water fish.
* The buildings at French camp were all named after cities, towns, and regions in France. The dining hall was, as you might guess, Paris. The beach was the Côte d’Azur. We learned Breton-style lace-making in arts and crafts. We had folkdancing. Camping trips were modelled on the French-Canadian furtrapping voyageurs. And every Bastille Day we “re-enacted” the French Revolution, drawing lots the night before to see who got to be “aristocrats.” I’m telling you, they were good times for a dork like me.
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