You would think at this stage of my life that I would be used to social humiliation on a large scale, but sometimes a situation is so awful that I am embarrassed to remember it, even years later. Besides, this was not my fault; it could have happened to anyone. You’ll see that it was totally the fault of our hostess for using a tablecloth that was way too large and for being pretentious enough to use cloth napkins. And who serves Thai food at a dinner party anyway?
A couple of friends were on a quick trip down from New York City. They had previous dinner plans with some other friends and those friends had been gracious enough to invite my partner and me to come along as well and we accepted with pleasure.
We arrived at 8 PM at a palatial house on a point lot on the Intracoastal. Our hostess got us drinks and escorted us into the dining room which was set for 12 . The table featured a lavish display of damask, china, crystal and silver that would not have been out of place at Versailles. “Thank God I wore my good cargo pants,” my partner whispered. “Who knew that shirts AND shoes would be required?” I whispered back. Our friends, like all good New Yorkers, were dressed in black Armani from head to toe and were trying desperately to pretend they did not know us.
As we found our seats at the table, I did not notice that the tablecloth was very, very long; so long that it actually rested on top of the seats of the chairs. But I did not notice; truth to tell I was too mystified by what was being served. As it turns out, our hostess and her husband had spent several years in Bangkok and loved cooking authentic, ultra-spicy Thai food. And let me tell you, this food was 5-alarm hot.
My partner did not notice; a born and bred New Jersey WASP, he cannot tolerate anything spicier than ketchup. He took one look at the entree, instantly declared himself a vegetarian, and happily gorged himself on the jasmine rice. Not so for me: The potent combination of chili pepper and curry had an immediate effect on me. I tried to be cool about it, casually wiping sweat off my forehead with an index finger and discreetly using my napkin to dab at my watering eyes. I glanced surreptitiously around the table and saw that no one else seemed to be in distress as the sweat ran in rivers down my forehead. When sweat started to drip off the end of my nose I began to use my napkin to wipe my face, and surreptitiously dab my running nose, putting it back on my lap after each use.
By this time I was in such discomfort that I never noticed my napkin had fallen to the floor. Blinded by my chili-induced sweat, my nose began to run like a faucet. What could I do? Feeling what I thought was the napkin in my lap, I lifted it up to discreetly dab my nose during one of those conversational lulls that sometimes occur at dinner parties, at which point my partner said, more loudly than he intended, “Please don’t blow your nose in the tablecloth,” as 10 pairs of eyes looked at me with horror.
The rest of the dinner passed in a blur; everyone was excruciatingly polite, and we left before dessert was served. Like I said, it was totally the fault of our hostess, and in the future even if she begs me to come to dinner, I won’t. That will teach her.