Hôtel Majestic, Paris – Guest Reviewer Binkie Johnston

We are virtually at the end of the Tom's Food! season. We'll be away for a couple of weeks, then it'll be Review of the Year time. As we have no other reviews in the bag, it is indeed fortunate that I came on more diaries of my ancestor Binkie Johnston. I know some of you are suspicious about the provenance of these memoirs: I can promise that not one sentence of the following was written by me.

18 May 1922

I should begin by saying that I was in Paris quite by accident. My train from Calais had been delayed by what the conductor described as a matter of geese, and by the time one arrives hungry, stiff, and with the faint scent of poultry lingering in one’s carriage, one is prepared to accept any invitation that promises both warmth and nourishment. Thus it was that I found myself swept, like a stray leaf in a spring gale, into the luminous embrace of the Hôtel Majestic.

I must clarify: I was not invited in the strict sense. I had been introduced, some days prior, to Mrs Violet Schiff, a lady of great elegance and even greater resolve, who travels through society as if society were keen to be rearranged in her wake. Upon learning that a dinner was to be held after a ballet of some modern sort, she inclined her head in my direction and said, “Oh, you must come.” I interpreted this as an invitation. No doubt the card itself is still in the post.

Nevertheless, I presented myself at the Majestic at the appointed hour (or a little before, for fear of missing whatever it is one misses), and was spirited into a private salon filled with that curious combination of hush and chatter which occurs only when people of consequence occupy the same room. I recognised no one at first, but soon realised that, in the manner of Paris, everyone was either extremely important or very determined to look as if they were.

Champagne was thrust into my hand - a delicate coupe, which I distrust on principle, being too easily sloshed - and I was directed towards a cluster of canapés. These I approached with caution. I had already suffered one humiliation involving olives on the journey south, and did not wish to repeat the performance before witnesses. To my credit, I managed the anchovy canapé with aplomb; the gougère defeated me entirely, though I maintain it was structurally unsound.

The dinner itself began with the arrival of the consommé, so clear and golden that I could have combed my hair in it. This I considered a very good sign. There followed, in steady procession, dishes of ever-increasing magnificence. Filets de Sole Joinville - a name which suggests a minor French royal but transpired to be fish — arrived adorned with truffles and shrimp, none of which had the courtesy to remain where the chef had placed them. My American neighbour, a bright young woman with a voice like a cocktail shaker, advised me to eat around the black bits. Sage counsel, which I took.

The next course, Suprêmes de Volaille à la Reine, was a soothing affair of chicken, cream and mushrooms. I had just speared a particularly promising croustade when the mood in the room shifted, like a theatre when the curtain rises. Conversation faltered. A figure, pale as moonlit parchment, slipped into the empty seat at the head of the table. Marcel Proust, they whispered. The Proust. I attempted to look unimpressed, but found myself staring. One rarely dines in the presence of a major literary event.

If the chicken had been soothing, the lamb was triumphant. A grand saddle, rosy within, à l’Anglaise according to the menu, though it bore about as much resemblance to English lamb as a French diplomat does to a Yorkshire farmer. Stravinsky - yes, that Stravinsky - declared it “passable,” then immediately criticised the plating. Picasso drew a small caricature of the waiter on his menu card. Joyce arrived late, ate loudly, and left early. It was that kind of evening.

Salad followed, mercifully simple. I believe it was intended as a palate cleanser, though by this point my palate felt fully educated. Dessert was Glace Plombières - an ice-cream of positively Victorian firmness, studded with candied fruit. I adored it. My American companion announced it tasted “like a hatbox.” I took this to be a compliment in her dialect.

It would be remiss of me not to mention the atmosphere. The room glittered. There were lilies everywhere, shedding perfume and pollen in equal measure. Conversations began, flared, and died like fireworks. The famous, the curious, the wealthy, the dangerously bored — all gathered in that luminous chamber, each attempting to appear as if such brilliance were their natural habitat.

I drifted eventually onto a balcony, drawn by the promise of cool night air. Below me, Paris hummed - the unmistakable buzz of a city that does not so much sleep as sigh luxuriously through the hours of darkness. Behind me, I heard laughter, the clink of glassware, the rising murmur of yet another debate about modernism (everyone seemed for it, except those who weren’t).

Standing there, contemplating the extraordinary spectacle of the evening, I realised two things. First, that I had no idea how I had contrived to be present at such a gathering. Second, that, once I had recovered from the shock, I should very much like to find myself in similar circumstances again.

And so, dear reader, if ever you receive an ambiguous invitation in Paris - even one uttered in passing by a lady of influence - accept it. You may find yourself dining among geniuses, you may find yourself out of your depth, and you may find yourself defeated by a gougère. But you will, I promise, dine magnificently.