Night Air · 10 September 2001
We held our first dinner party with neighbours on Saturday night, with requisite anxieties beforehand over required quantities of this and that and how many lamb chops and one salad or two. I got another crash course on vous and tu protocol, and on who should be offered drinks, and when.
Vero and Luc (elementary school directrice and hang-gliding instructor, respectively) arrived with their brood and a huge bowl of crème anglaise (dubbed for the moment crème canadienne), and I experienced my first flurry of rapid fire cheek-kissing, handshakes and presentations before all protocol evaporated and we went on to have a really rather good time. The kids anaesthetized in front of the TV, we talked politics and books, bitched out the European union, and told rude jokes requiring no translation.
The huge platter of marinated raw meat (soy sauce, mustard, rosemary) was ceremoniously paraded out to the yard, and Luc held the portable light while I turned chops on the grill and bullshitted in boozy franglais about the proper use of convection heat in coal preparation and Canadian Extreme Barbecuing, and he smiled indulgently and it was all male-bondy and shit.
Stacking dishes, afterward. Artie Shaw on the stereo. I am happy and in love.
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