bout de papier, Vol. 31, No. 3 (2021), pp. 34–35
JOHN AND I WERE EXCITED about our posting to the Canadian High Commission in Ghana, where John would serve as the deputy. I was determined to help him shine at our official functions.
“Our first dinner party has to be perfect,” I insisted. Poring over issues of Gourmet magazine and touring local markets, I settled on a menu of squash soup with maple syrup and beurre noisette, wild rice risotto with sautéed gambas, and a Ghanaian chocolate and Saskatoon berry torte. I went over the wine list with our houseman, Stephen, explaining that the red wine was to be served in a pewter bottle holder.
The next challenge was finalizing the guest list. In those days, I viewed a dinner party as a kind of live tableau, with everything planned to the last minutiae. Sitting down with charts and bios, I would agonize over who sat next to whom, keeping in mind language skills, conversation topics and the evening’s strategic goals. There were to be three couples from different embassies: one American, one French and one Dutch. A Ghanaian lawyer named Miguel and a bachelor officer from the British High Commission would round out the numbers.
The day of the dinner finally dawned. Stephen and I carefully laid the table: a heavily starched white linen tablecloth with oversized napkins, silverware polished to a high gleam, hand-calligraphy name cards and an elaborate arrangement of pink torch ginger lilies.
The guests arrived all at once. The Dutch couple — fresh-faced, and friendly — made a great first impression. We also took an immediate shine to the Americans, an affable pair who both worked at their mission. I had met the Ghanaian lawyer before, playing bridge, and thought him great fun, well read and with a sardonic wit. The French couple were much older, and had a “been there, done that” air to them. However, his bulbous nose and round belly suggested a bon vivant, and his involvement in arts and culture bode well. His wife looked more challenging, her eyes flitting around the room as if she were casing the joint. The British diplomat listened more than he spoke, which was a good thing with that particular crowd.
Upon a signal from Stephen, we made our way to the dining room. As we sat, I secretly congratulated myself on the clever seating plan, watching contentedly as everyone launched into an animated discussion with their neighbour. The soup was served and enjoyed. A lively buzz hummed around the table, and I glowed with pleasure at the compliments sent my way. This evening is going to be a resounding success, I thought to myself.
It was just before the main course that everything fell apart.
The conversation had progressed to a discussion on Ghana’s history and the impact of British colonialism. During a rare lull, the mischievous Miguel, looking to spice up the debate, pronounced solemnly, “You know, when the French left colonial Guinea, they took everything, even the bidets from the airport.”
A momentary hush followed this pronouncement, and then a deep harrumph of disgust from the French diplomat’s wife reverberated around the room.
“I have nevah been so hinsulted hin my holle life,” she spat. “Ze French may have taken many tings, but they would NEVAH, NEVAH, take ze bidets!”
At this, Miguel looked thoughtful, then continued. “Actually, not only did they take the bidets, they even took the light switches. Unscrewed them right off the walls,” he nodded knowingly.
Just as the peeved Parisian was taking a lungful of air to fire a response, her husband, who had been looking down at his plate with a pained expression, decided to intervene. “Ma Cherie, mais ma Cherie, calme-toi,” he murmured softly.
This proved too much. Throwing down her napkin in disgust, his wife seethed, “And you, you hate ze Germans.” Before any of us could make sense of this, her spouse, with great sadness, responded, “But ze Germans, zey killed my brudder during ze war.” It didn’t escape me that Miguel’s absent wife was German.
John and I looked at each other across the table, unable to believe the debacle unfolding before us. The Dutch couple, with unsuppressed grins on their faces, kept looking back and forth between Miguel and the French wife-of, as if they were watching a particularly engrossing tennis match. The Americans ate their bread rolls with intense concentration. The Brit remained quiet.
At that moment, Stephen entered the dining room carrying the pewter bottle holder, walking slowly and cautiously. The pinot noir slopped over the sides in gleeful abandon, having been poured directly into the holder. Stephen was equal to the task, keeping his expression impassive as he shuffled to the table. With a valiant effort, he tried to pour the wine into each wineglass, but most of it spilled onto the tablecloth, staining it with large crimson blotches.
We then heard Esther, the cook, boom from the ——— kitchen. “Steeephen! De chop be getting cold!” Ze Fri Seizing the moment to escape, I rushed to the kitchen, where Esther gestured proudly at the 10 dinner May I plates at the ready. They looked fine until I noticed that the risotto didn’t appear to have any shrimp. I had paid a hefty price for those large crustaceans and considered them the piece de résistance of our meal. “Where are the gambas?”, I asked.
“Madame, you told me to chop dem.”
“Yes, that’s right, but it looks like you minced ze bic them since I can’t see them anywhere.”
Esther looked puzzled. “But Madame, Stephen and I chopped them.”
Confused, I forged on. “And why are you yelling at Stephen that the chop is getting cold? We’re not eating chops.”
It was then that I learned that “chop” meant “eat” or “food” in Ghana. It turned out that the staff had assumed I was offering them the shrimps as a treat and had happily “chopped” them up. To her credit, Esther had decided to save a few tiny morsels, which she had added to the risotto.
Dragging myself back to the dining room, and to a desultory conversation, I took a modicum of pleasure in noting that the risotto was tasty, although almost devoid of any shrimpy essence. Thoughts of an early escape from this infernal dinner flitted through my mind, until my attention was drawn to the Brit seated beside me, who was quiet no more. Rather, a storm of coughing and retching emanated from his shuddering body, and in quick time, he pushed his chair violently from the table, got up, and stumbled out of the house. I wondered briefly if, he too, was trying to escape, although his approach seemed a bit heavy-handed. Following him outside, I found our dignified Brit bent over double, victim to an acute case of projectile vomiting. Looking up, he asked weakly, “Was there any seafood in that meal? I’m violently allergic, but I didn’t see any on the plate, so I thought it was okay.” Before I could reply, he staggered to his car and sped away.
A half hour later, right after dessert, the remaining guests started to leave. The Dutch couple came up to John and me, and smiling happily, said, “Thank you SO much. That was one of the most interesting evenings we’ve ever spent!”
Epilogue
i WAS DEEPLY SADDENED TO LEARN that Hedwig Waltmans- Molier, the Dutch spouse, died last August in the Beirut explosion. I take comfort in many wonderful memories of our time together in Ghana.
Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 31, No. 3 (2021), pp. 34–35. Read the rest of this issue →
