My Dinner with Anodyne

ANTIPATHY, n. The sentiment inspired by one's friend's friend.
- The Devil's Dictionary, Ambrose Bierce

HE WHO MEANLY ADMIRES MEAN THINGS IS A SNOB.
- The Book of Snobs, William Makepeace Thackeray


We were invited to dine last night at a friend of my husband's. John was, allegedly, a mate in school of Ken's and he and his wife Nicola moved to Glasgow eight months ago. We bumped into them on the street when they had first arrived. I was delighted to see that Ken would have some contact with someone from "home" in Glasgow and the West End, no less. We'd invited them over for a supper party before Christmas and we had great fun. We were six people sharing an enormous piece of salmon I had baked that day, among other things, and my dear friend Mari and a dear friend of hers was in town to visit so we were a nice little group.

Ken claims he doesn't remember John from school. I believe him too. Ken's somewhat of a loner and usually doesn't spare a thought for people who've known him for years - not that Ken's abrasive or anything, quite the opposite but he's fairly reluctant to socialise with anyone, especially men and especially men from his old alma mater and neighbourhood.

I thought it strange at first but now I remember how it was growing up. I never kept in touch with the kids at my schools - either public or private. The kids from my public school were mean, nasty, racist little buggers who taunted me because I "didn't wear the right clothes" and was not Italian (such was life in RDP - I quickly got out of there and into the Plateau as fast as my Doc-clad boots could get me to there!). The kids at the private school were, at the very least mostly civilised, so I greatly enjoyed going to the school but they were far from friendly. Most of the girls were coddled, pampered little Westmount girls so far-removed from reality that I had little time for them after I finished school.

So Ken and I are misfits and neither one of us got along with any group of people.

But I digress.

This schoolmate of John's may have thought that they had to return the favour (why? I like givinh out dinner parties!) and invited us along for a sup.

Strictly speaking, the couple are off booze. Nicola is eight months pregnant and John's off it for medication so instead of bringing wine, I decided a bouquet of roses would be a nice contribution. When we got there however we were plied with booze every minute. Ken was driving and in the end we had to take a taxi home but I see why the booze would have helped.

They are the most insufferably snobbish couple I have met in awhile - and that includes Ken's closest mate Fergal and his wife Laura, also from same background and area of Dublin - and the evening was an exercise in restraint on my part. Ten years and ten pints ago I would have blasted them for their views but I'm no longer a swinging single girl in the Plateau but one half of a marital unit and also, I'm just not bothered about arguing anymore. I'll choose my battles wisely and reseve my energy for battles which make a difference in my life.

Anyway, these two were either nervous about having people over or just terribly rude: John kept making remarks about the Spanish fishermen putting the Irish fishermen out of business because of how the Spanish allegedly deplete stocks of fish near coastal waters. It was on the tip of my tongue to say that the real crime here is how the Irish prepare and serve their fish and that the gallegan trawlermen were doing us all a favour in ensuring that the cod and turbot don't end up as frozen fish sticks at Sainsburys.

Nicola is a doctor and being an insider has pretty strong views about the NHS. In Ireland, you have to pay to see the doctor - a system similar to the US. As a Canadian I deplore this: you end up with poorer people not being able to afford decent medical treatment or even attention because they didn't have insurance. Call it badly-run, call it slow, but Medicare in Canada at least has been there for us: when both of my sister's retina detached she was rushed to a clinic and the surgeon saved her eyesight. Whenever I was rushed to emergency to a hospital I was always treated fairly well, quickly and efficiently and the clinics in my neighborhood and ta my university were very good: all publicly-funded. I can't even imagine, as a student, of parents who were on the poorer side of working-class, having to pay for services and here was Nicola, bleating on about how people should have to pay a fee for every appointment made in the hospital because two of her patients skipped their appointments.

I suspect that neither one of them ever had to worry about money, both are from well off families and both earn filthy amounts of cash. Nicola refuses to shop at certain supermarkets because of the possibility of seeing her patients in the aisles: the way she talks about them you'd think they were insects instead of people.

They were also intensely curious about what we were going to do about the house in Sandymount. D4 houses are worth a fortune. Although at this point I tuned out to what they were saying, Ken caught a few notes of jealousy in their comments. I trust Ken to filter out the barbs and missives in Dublinspeak. I'm usually oblivious to them and so blissfully unaware.

There was no music playing in the flat so no welcome background noise of dinner jazz. Conversation was really forced after awhile and I got the sense that although these two like to pretend that they are well-travelled and well-educated people, in actual fact they were screaming bores who secretly preferred being on a posh resort in Switzerland than a modest flat next to a train station in the West End of Glasgow: they'll fit right in here.

Three and a half hours later we got the hell outta Dodge.

By the way, the supper, though formally served on plates with clever little cartoons on them, was abysmal. Word to the wise: if you are invited to dinner and are served a sumptuous meal don't feel that you have to reciprocate if you cook like an amateur Nigella. It was all about style, but no substance - like the dinner conversation.

As they say in my dad's village muita parra, poca uva (lots of vine but no grape).