Dinner for ...ummm... ten

Last Monday, I was tired. Dog tired. It’s not necessarily a bad tiredness, but tired I was. It was a long weekend – longer than usual because on Sunday night, we were full house. Those of you who follow me know, by now, that I “disappear” from the @steemit platforms on a Thursday afternoon, and then pop in from my kitchen via @Steepshot or @eSteem until Monday. On a Friday I cook my fare for the market that pops up McGregor next to the church in McGregor every Saturday. Then I cook for Sunday Suppers @ The Sandbag House. 

Why? Well, besides the enjoyment of cooking and feeding people, there is nowhere for visitors (or locals who don’t feel like cooking) to go for a meal on a Sunday evening. So, a year ago, after hearing this situation lamented ad nauseum, I developed this hair-brained notion of opening our home as a pop-up restaurant only on Sundays: for supper. 

The Husband rolled his eyes and very grumpily agreed. He can’t always see what I see, and sometimes he doesn’t get my explanations. That said, he not so unwillingly allows himself to be dragged along. He is essential to Sunday Suppers, especially when we do a roast: we have, for the last 18 or so years, always done our roasts on the Weber. He does the fire; I address the meat; he works out the cooking time and at the apportioned moment, I test the meat and declare whether or not it is ready. Not to mention lugging the furniture around as we have to re-arrange our living space to create an intimate dining space, as you will see. 

And so it was that Sunday. By the previous Wednesday afternoon, the day I usually put out the menu – in a closed WhatsApp group – we were almost full house. The first booking made two Saturdays prior, and by WhatsApp at 8.15 am, was a pair of egg-eating vegans. That exchange is another story for another time, but their dietary proclivity did dictate the menu to a greater rather than lesser extent.  More of that, too, in the same future post. 

The second booking was diners as they their first Sunday supper, the previous week; the third, was Party-of-Four* (also via WhatsApp). 

Then the landline rang. “The Sandbag House”, I answer. 

“Can I make a reservation?” over a very crackly line. “Umm, hello, what?” This is also our home number, and I’m sometimes a little preoccupied stupid, so that kind of question is startling. 

“For Sunday Supper – for one”, she says. 

“Oh, yes, of course! Would you mind joining someone – she is a regular at Sunday Supper and is also a lone diner.”   She assented.   

So that meant that we were up to ten. Then, The Husband gets home for lunch. Ms Pony asks if she can book for two, please?   

As it’s only the two of us and as we are somewhat spatially challenged in The Sandbag House – in the kitchen and the dining area (comprising our dining table and our lounge re-arranged to make space for another table), we have to stagger things.   

Our "enormous" kitchen, dining and sitting area.

We can comfortably accept up to ten – depending on the configuration of the parties, and the weather. In summer, at a stretch, we’ve done twelve.    With Ms Pony’s booking, that made twelve: over-subscribed! By Wednesday evening. Unheard of as I had not put out the menu to the village, which I do, via our Facebook groups and the village e-newsletter.    

So instead of the menu, this is what went out on Facebook:   

Then: the variety of dietary requirements were more than I’d ever had to cope with. Diners included dedicated carnivores, vegetarians, one of whom will eat nothing with eyes, including potatoes, and the pair of egg-eating vegans.    Because the evenings are shorter and cooler, twelve would most definitely be a challenge: the first sitting would have to be 6pm with the last, at 8pm.   We also know from experience that the bigger the group, the longer they linger over their meal. It’s not about the food; it’s about conversation, breaking bread and drinking wine. The pairs, couples and the singles usually want to come earlier, and we have learned that we cope better with the bigger groups, later. 

No brainer: Party-of-Four had to take the last slot. We simply wouldn’t cope otherwise.    Thursday, late afternoon, I get a WhatsApp message: 

“Hello. Mr Bigsmile here. Please can I book a table/seating for one, 8pm on Sunday 29th April?”    

Oh dear. I didn’t like to think of the poor man having no dinner. “If I get a cancellation, I’ll let you know.”    I didn’t really hold out much hope. 

Then I realised that I’d not had proper confirmation from Party-of-Four. Should I assume that they’re coming? Small kitchen, small numbers and a waiting list means that no-shows (which, touch wood, we’ve never had) are good for neither hungry people nor the cook who prefers not to waste good food.    So, having sent the menu to Party-of-Four and the 8pm time slot, I check in and the reply, “Fiona, so sorry I didn't get back to you sooner...We will not be joining you for dinner Sunday night. Apologies. 8pm is too late for us.”   

Phew! I breathed a little more easily:  we went from 12 to eight and I happily informed Mr Bigsmile that we had space for him. Delighted, he was, and we were back to nine.    

Then on Friday, the landline rings (as it does). It’s Farmer Judy who takes shifts in reception for a local establishment on high days and holidays. “Fiona, do you still have space for Sunday? A gentleman is just checking in and needs supper?”   Back to ten. All pairs and singles. We would still have to have two sittings, and crossed our fingers that by 8pm, we had a table for our late diners.   

On a Saturday, after the market, and with such a large number, I start the preparation. This Sunday's menu, because of the egg-eating vegans, had been carefully curated (don’t you just love this “new” word which really just means “carefully planned”?). No dairy in any of the courses, or something different for them. Not a fan of margarine, preferring the flavour of butter in cooking, not to mention that when added to roasted potatoes and/or vegetables, it helps with browning and crisping them, I had to actually, conteplate cooking without butter. Designing a menu with no dairy is even harder.    

The menu, was largely driven (yes, because that challenge occupied a large proportion of my awake and sleeping time since that first WhatsApp) by the egg-eating vegans and also by the previous week’s diners.    “What would you like? I think I’m doing beef.”    

“Perfect. Chocolate?”    

“Chocolate pots?” I suggest and seal the deal.     

The final menu:   

To start: Carrot & ginger soup 

Main: Rare roast beef fillet OR chickpea patty all served with roasted vegetables and a red wine sauce     

Recipes for the fillet and for the chickpea patty, about which the egg-eating vegans and “ordinary” vegetarians raved, to follow in due course.    And because I was worried about quantities, I decided I’d have some creamed spinach on stand-by, and which appears in the vegetarian main photographed above (clearly not presented to a non-dairy, egg-eating vegan).     

To end: Chocolate pots and for the egg-eating vegans, pears poached in chardonnay minus the mascarpone that usually accompanies them.  

When we have a large number, preparation starts on Saturday, part which was the spinage and the soup. It’s simple to make, but the longest part of the process is peeling the carrots: 1,5 kg (just over 3lb). It also benefits (like most soups) from being made a day ahead.    Spinach done and soup duly prepared, carrots soft, and waiting for the immersion blender, I was done for the day. We had a social engagement, so I turned off the stove. 

Or so I thought.    

When we returned home – a few hours later – through the glass door, I saw a blue glow on the stove. Oh dear. Not that that’s actually what I said…the language was much more colourful.   I unlocked the door and was accosted by the strong aroma of seriously caramalised charred incinerated onion and carrot, infused with ginger.  An aroma with which I went to sleep that Saturday night, and to which I woke intermittently until dawn.

Not much I could do, but it clearly didn’t bode well for Sunday because after cooling the pot, it was soaked overnight so that a 2cm layer of charred vegetable could be scraped off, and the process started from scratch. What a waste of time with so much to do!     

Somehow, we managed to pull it off.  No time to take photos of anything other than the preparation of the fillet (to follow…), because after cleaning the pot, and making more soup, it was preparing the Herbes de Provence chickpea patties and the potatoes, not to mention peeling a mound of butternut and making the chocolate pots. Then it was time to set the tables and rush into the shower.  

As expected, the first diners arrive early. Followed hot on their heels by the next pair, and the next. And the next.

Then, the folk who’s tables had been earmarked for Messrs Bigsmile and Nickoftime, were not leaving as we expected. Umm…it’s cold outside in the braai room, but we didn’t have a choice. They weren’t even acquaintances; we’d not had the chance to warn them that the might have to share a table. 

Very gracious they both were, and agreed that with their jackets and tucked into our little braai room, where the earliest of guests had dined (before the chill set in), they could cope.   

Settled with glasses of wine, we heard conversation begin and served the soup.    And then, mercifully, some of the other diners did actually depart and the cook invoked her executive status and summoned the pair of strays indoors.  She took her liberties even further, and suggested that if, they didn’t object, the staff might share their table and have their supper at the same time.   

So ended service, that Sunday, with The Husband and I breaking bread with two interesting young men, one of whom, Mr Bigsmile, is also a graduate of my alma mater albeit 20 years later. So the conversation flowed, and by the time we turned off the light, it was Monday.    

A couple of days ago, I received this message:    

Hi Fiona & The Husband. Many thanks for a fun eve on Sun eve👍🏻 Dinner delicious thanks. All the best for this weekend. Rgds - Mr Bigsmile   

No photographs of diners from that dinner for twelve, no, eight, actually ten, but here’s a selection of photos from the last few months, with guests from South Africa, Switzerland, Scotland and England, including she-who-eats-nothing-with-eyes, who is a regular!

At the end of May, we will have been doing Sunday Suppers for a year. Who would have thought?   

*names changed to “protect the innocent” involved 

Post Script:  If you are a non-dairy, egg-eating vegetarian who will eat nothing with eyes, I mean no disrispect.  If I did, I'd be most polite, and actually, I enjoy rising to the challenge of finding appropriate recipes, or adapting mine to create menus that, within the confines of my limitations and those of my kitchen, most of our diners find edible. 

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