I don't know how to eat in public any more. The newly adopted Covid etiquette goes against much of what has been considered good dining decorum. And the health advice is the most important to follow.
ining etiquette has always been intended to help make other people more comfortable. When restrictions eased enough to allow me to crackle a knife through an expertly glazed pork belly with friends, it brought new challenges.
No matter how we tried to avoid it, Covid came to dinner with us. It was as if I were having two conversations - one normalish discussion with my co-diners, and another with myself. I was assessing risk and where to reduce it. If I want to pour myself a glass of water, should I pour water for my fellow diners? Does that then make me the water-pourer-in-chief? Should I be watching for signs of thirst in my fellow diners to fill up their glasses? Or should we have requested individual sealed water bottles?
So occupied with the right thing to do, at times I struggled to talk. I've never before had a problem making conversation with anyone.
I was glad not to welcome two foreign spoons into my melting chocolate bomb (get your own dessert, please!). But the savoir-faire I've worked on achieving through watching period dramas and reading Debrett's guides evaporated. I could barely string together a sentence with my oldest friends, despite having serious news to discuss. New baby bumps, engagement rings, dramatic haircuts, postponed weddings, just like any other group of 30-year-olds. Maybe that's the problem - my age. If we were younger, we would have drunk until we stopped caring. But even after a few cocktails, the responsible adult won out.
Not that we could have avoided the bathroom graphics, the yellow health information signage. Constantly shifting assessments flag risks everywhere. I have never before been suspicious of salt and pepper holders. For decades, these gastro pawns sat unassumingly waiting for some bland mashed potato or funeral soup to be seasoned. Could it be this mill before me, harbouring the deadly disease? This year S and P herald not salt and pepper but Swabbing and PPE. Superspreader salt and pepper.
Restaurant owners and staff have worked very hard to make dining out safe, which is comforting. The traditional table setting has changed, cutlery sealed hermetically for new diners. Out jangles a teaspoon, dessert spoon, fork and knife. The fish and steak knives are waiting in the kitchen like soccer super subs. What hope for nutcrackers? Or out-of-town cousins the cucumber server, grape shears, butter picks, cheese scoop or chocolate muddlers? I do not doubt the hygiene standards of hostellerie owners, but where would such outliers fit?
The experience was not a refined one any more, either. The economy of an early-bird menu was replaced with à-la-carte gluttony. No one mentioned points or sins or calories. We had a lot to squeeze into each sitting. A three-course meal. An espresso Martini. A pint of Guinness. Usually, I would go for a Chablis to pair with my shellfish starter. But we could drink wine at home, reminded my friend. Just like Mr Creosote, the glutton from Monty Python's Meaning Of Life, we ordered as much as the waitress could carry. Instead I went for a sickly sweet cocktail and a hearty Guinness with garlic prawns.
One person's faux pas is another diner's best manners. One friend sent us searching for sanitiser as she sought to pass out the menus and serve us all condiments - as if she were a stressed-out mother lobbing out ketchup beside fish fingers. When we quizzed her on it, she almost cried. She had read that one person serving was the least risky way of dining together. She didn't know if it was advice for dining out or at home, but it just made sense for her. She cared enough to try her best - which is another part of it for no one wants to have poor table manners or lack the basics.
During summer, when I could still actually talk in public, I splashed hand sanitiser over my fish and chips in Doheny and Nesbitt's pub. We were trying to have dinner out and a drinking session concurrently. We all laughed; there was no harm done. I had merely poisoned my own chips. Not like I had committed a dangerous transgression like sneezing over their chicken wings.
Despite all the dining neuroses, I thoroughly enjoyed the opportunity to dine indoors. A return to 'takeaway only' means gobbling a soggy BLT from a cardboard box. But one thing fills me with hope as full restrictions come back into force. When I spoon out a beef stew at my kitchen table, that Covid chatter stops. Mr Corona is not welcome here. My three-year-old sings a Frozen-Good King Wenceslas mash-up. The baby chomps into his carrots. The husband asks how the book sales are going. I notice the minerality of the Bordeaux. Dining is normal. I have not forgotten how to eat.
"avoid it" - Google News
January 03, 2021 at 09:30AM
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No matter how we tried to avoid it, Covid joined us for dinner - Independent.ie
"avoid it" - Google News
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