017

The function room had been carefully laid out with the finest silver. Flowers had been specifically chosen and arranged by a person employed solely for that responsibility. Place name cards glinted with gold leaf gilt. Now it contained fifteen men, all aged 35 or 36, all in their own attempts at casual wear, which invariably meant straight, shiny trousers, shirt, tie and either a jacket or kashmir jumper depending on how much they were willing to let themselves go. They guffawed and greeted each other with loud cries and over-exuberant hugs; they clinked champagne glasses that each tried to secretly drink faster than the other.

Down in the kitchen, the sous-chef stirred the pot of soup that was the starter for the specially requested meal. She, and every one of the kitchen staff, was wearing a face mask, goggles and a pair of thick industrial-sized gloves lest any of it splash on to their skin. While trying not to look at the viscous, brown liquid, she scooped a portion out with a ladle and heard it splatter against the porcelain china bowl. She handed it to a waitress, who had turned a pale green. The waiting staff didn't have the luxury of protective face gear. One, who had just started her shift and walked in to the kitchen, had vomited on the floor. Whether to serve quickly and get it done, or serve slowly and avoid the risk of spillage, was all they could think about to distract themselves.

Upstairs, the men drank the soup in giant spoonfuls. Rivulets of thick, chunky, runny lumps dribbled out the side of their mouths as they shovelled the soup down. They laughed about the shit they'd had to eat at school. They ordered six bottles of expensive wine that one of them, the one who owned a vineyard in South Africa, assured them would be the perfect accompaniment. They scraped the last skid marks from around the bowl with fresh crusty bread and exchanged stories about the superficial banalities that made up 95% of their everyday working lives. One of them told a humorous anecdote about how he'd coped with the stress of firing 10,000 workers.

The bellows and cheers vibrated down through the floor into the kitchen. The sous-chef looked up, shrugged her shoulders and got on with preparing the main course. The best she could think of was to prepare it into some sort of jellied mousse. She tried to garnish it with some green sprigs, but it just didn't look right.

Speeches were made to the loud heckles and derisions of camaraderie. A kangaroo court was emerging whereby each man's life and yearly achievements were being heard and judged. Some were tacitly found wanting. The main course arrived on steaming plates and the man at the head of the table stood and raised his glass and muttered something in Latin. The others muttered a response and drank a toast. Then, instead of taking their knives and forks, they dived head first in to their mousse and sucked it down. A conversation broke out, over new wine, about the current social and economic problems. They agreed on the main points, half-heartedly debated the minor ones, and tried to decisively make their argument using the one classical quote they could remember from university. The general chorus was of anger towards the jealous, lazy and ignorant.

A fluffy soufflé was the obvious choice for dessert, and the sous-chef was surprised by how satisfying the finished result looked. With a squirt of orange purée around the side it looked good enough for her to eat. If she didn't know what had gone into it, of course. She wandered how it tasted to them upstairs. She wasn't going to taste it herself, so she'd gone by instinct when it came to seasoning and texture. But the plates were coming back empty, and that was good enough for her.

And the soufflé was accompanied by a vintage dessert wine. Debates had turned into arguments in some quarters, while others discussed their holiday plans. Some talked about the latest deals and thought about the possibilities the others presented. The same jokes and stories echoed. There was a sense of general remiss at how long it had been. They should meet more often, they said, as coats were slung over shoulders. Inside they each smirked at how much had been achieved, how different the world would be, as a result of these same friends meeting for dinner every now and then.