Yesterday was "Bastille Day" - French National Day. We were invited to the much anticipated French National Day reception - which I’d heard numerous stories regarding the plethora of cheese, champagne and general bonhomie. That, and the incredible rudeness of our.. Ahem.. host country.
So Bryan and I, looking very lovely if I do say so, Bryan in his smashing summer uniform and I looking appropriately stylish, perhaps even a little French, minus the armpit hair.. Took off to the relatively early reception at 6:30.
Now, for this particular story I will need to give you a brief physical description of the reception hall. Shaped like a square, with four squares cut out of every corner, and filled with water, leaving a cross shape in the middle. The door is at one end, and the stage immediately across the room. On the two remaining sides (and any other remaining free space) there were tables laden with red wine, champagne.. And loads of beef and pork pate. Which, if you will remember, are two forbidden foods for a number of religions here. ;-)
The hall filled up pretty quickly - it seems like everyone who is invited attends, which is evidence in itself that it’s a self propagating good time. So as the hall filled to capacity with hundreds of people, Bryan and I decided to wander over to the food, see what was good, maybe try a little pate. Only to be completely astonished by the people (without plates) simply winging (because there is no more appropriate a word for "throwing food to the back of ones craw in rapid precision succession..) food into their mouths while walking up and down the length of the banquet.
Now, this food was all labelled in French. So, with some things, I would be willing to forgive a few linguistic mistakes in your non-religious friendly food choices. Poisson? Fish. You’d never guess. But hey, you can tell by the smell. But c’mon people. Porc? Pork. And whether it’s with a c, or a k, Mr. Singh you should not be eating it by the half pound on a 3 ounce Ritz cracker. Beouf? Beef. Mrs. Aggarawal, it’s not mashed or whipped into something you couldn’t identify - these are fist sized hunks of veiny, beefy beef! For the sake of all that’s holy, put it down!
If the food was a veritable horror movie, the drinks were just a comedy. At one point I witnessed an Indian woman balancing two glasses (one champagne, the other red wine) in one hand, and a plate of food in the other, left to look forlornly around at who would feed her, or, alternately, who would catch her sticking her face in her plate. The poor bartenders couldn’t keep the glasses filled, people were simply guzzling, GUZZLING the wine and champagne.
Finally, a moment of respite. The French Ambassador took the stage to welcome us with the Indian National Anthem, then the French. Now, as in most countries, the National Anthem brings about some brief moments of silence. It wasn’t until "La Marseillaise" began the that Indians took it among themselves to being talking again! Good thing the French anthem is sung by some big busty woman with a good set of pipes, or bread was going to fly.
By this time, people were getting antsy. Refrains of "Where is the cheese? Where is the cheese?" could be heard echoing faintly across the hall. Truth is, they have to keep the French cheese covered (a relatively rare and poor quality product in this part of the world) or people simply won’t stay still for the speech. Appallingly, it was hard enough for the French Ambassador to get the crowd quiet enough for the minute of silence dedicated to London. It was horrible.
As his speech ended, they took away the white curtain backdrop to reveal - The cheese! A giant table filled with Camembert, Brie, Swiss, Emmental, Gruyere, Beaufort.... Every and any bacteria laden milk you could imagine. We could feel the crowd surge behind us as literally, people were pushing their way to the front. Somebody had already fallen into the water, and people had their heads down and were moving like this cheese was the last meal they’d ever get.
Last year apparently somebody was stuffing a wheel of brie in their pocket. I didn’t see anything as blatant as that this year - but Bryan and I hid behind a pillar, huddled over our pilfered plate of cheese, watching people contemplate walking through the water to get to the cheese. It was incredible. I was worried that somebody might mistake me for a brie rind, my skin is so pale. Heathens.
It was phenomenal. The food was amazing, the drink was spectacular.. But the people, the people are what made it worthwhile. An old lady snatched a piece of quiche right out from my fingers. My feet were covered in other peoples spilt champagne. I hope I’m here next year...I’m wearin’ the pants with the big pockets next time.
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