LONDON, U.K. -- We had a real Sunday dinner last night.
As real as you can get when friends who normally show up couldn’t make it. It’s not as if they had somewhere else to go.
BSD—Before Social Distancing—a casual invitation to drop in for dinner evolved into a regular Sunday occasion. BL—Before Lockdown—we would crowd into the kitchen, elbow to elbow, hovering over appetizers.
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Sometimes there would just be three of us. At other times, five or six, depending on who happened to be in town.
Mostly journalists. Why do we like our own company better? Because we’re funny, outspoken, distrustful, catty, intense, and always right. Did I mention obnoxious?
The circle remains unbroken.
The menu this Sunday was chosen after much consultation. Burrata and fresh-baked focaccia. Fried chicken—marinated in buttermilk for 24 hours. Served with a honey butter drizzle. Cauliflower mac and cheese. Blood orange, fennel and radicchio salad. Rhubarb custard squares, salted chocolate chunk shortbread.
The resident meal planner did her usual outstanding work of creating gourmet, in a world traumatized by rampant death and too much bad pizza.
There was only stipulation: it had to be able to travel. A moveable feast, in a very real, pandemic sense.
So, here’s how Sunday dinner worked.
When everything was cooked, two packages were organized for delivery. This was a trial run—dinner for four.
Edith arrived on her bike at 6:45 for pickup. Two bags were waiting for her on the steps. She left a bottle of wine. I waved from the upstairs window.
She then wheeled up to Margaret’s house, dropped off one bag at the front door, and headed home with the other.
Ovens were turned on. Candles lit. Wine poured in three different houses. Computers synced.
Dinner was served at 7:45.
When the surreal feels real, you know there’s a problem out there.
As for the conversation, it went something like this:
“Are we all ready?”
“Yeah, we’re ready.”
“Cheers.”
“Wait that’s my glass.”
“I had my hat on because I need to get a haircut.”
“This mac and cheese is amazing.”
“Well it’s kind of like you’re sitting across from each other.”
All very mundane and forgettable. The kind of table talk journalists excel at. And except for speaking into a screen and missing human contact, it filled a craving to feel normal.
We talked about TV shows and how everybody seems to be spending more money on food during the lockdown. Delivery costs more, but it’s safer.
Edith told us about a doctor friend who’s doing all of his patient consultation over the phone now.
“We’re sort of watching civilization change.”
We didn’t really talk about work. We didn’t gossip. We didn’t talk much about coronavirus.
There was no need to. It’s always there. In the air.
We talked about British asparagus and finding enough workers to pick the local greens and vegetables that are starting to come to market. It’s a huge problem.
We talked about Boris Johnson drinking Champagne to celebrate the birth of his son—on the day the number of British COVID-19 deaths rose to 26,000.
We talked about aggressive male cyclists, and not sleeping, and what living under confinement is doing to our heads.
The London Lockdown started exactly six weeks ago today.
And we talked about what’s for dinner next Sunday.
