If you are ever confronted with a meal’s place setting that has more than four pieces of silverware—don’t panic! There are two brilliant pieces of advice to follow (that I didn’t invent but have followed successfully): 1) start from the outside and work your way inward, and 2) watch others to see which implement they are picking up.
I used the second for the first time ages ago, when I attended a luncheon to celebrate my winning a scholarship from the local community theatre. The high point was not the tableware but the cold soup (Vichyssoise?) that I barely choked down, and very politely declined the offered seconds.
Sitting next to my mother, I knew we were in the same boat. She had a simple upbringing, with never a foray into fine dining. Nights out included eating at the brand new North York (PA) McDonalds or Friday Lenten fish fry at the Knights of Columbus. For that luncheon we both looked to others for guidance.
Flash forward a few decades to a wedding reception thrown by my late wife’s cousin. She was a wealthy business owner, having successfully carried on after her father left it to her. So the wedding, at a not-too-posh-but-with-pretensions country club, featured a 12-piece band and an I-lost-count course meal.
And of course the array, the medley, the veritable panoply of silver. I followed the first rule, glancing around the table at my fellow diners to help clue them in. I was one of two people at the table who knew the second rule and sought to guide the others.
But it didn’t help them. They were confused by the shiny objects. And the food didn’t help; one, confronted by lobster ravioli, said with utter contempt: “Oh, this must be what rich people eat!”
I felt like replying, “And you could eat it and enjoy it too if you just jumped in and weren’t humiliated by the place settings.” Some of us learn; some never do.
