The Dinner Party by Howard Fast Read Free Book Online

assistant secretary. Be duly impressed.”
    â€œI’m duly impressed.”
    They sat at the big kitchen table, each of them with a pencil and work pad. For Dolly, a proper dinner party had to be a theatrical production in its own right, planned as such down to every detail. And details change. “I couldn’t get the salmon,” Dolly said.
    â€œThat’s a shame.”
    â€œThey had a few steaks, but not enough and I didn’t like the look of it. I took sole instead.”
    â€œJust as good.”
    â€œWell, almost. I’ll run through the menu again, and you tell me where we have a problem—if we do. Start with a quenelle of sole.”
    â€œThen we’ll want a white butter sauce, won’t we?”
    â€œI’m not sure of it. But jot it down anyway,” Dolly said. “I think we have everything. There are two jars of the caviar and the shallots are still good. Wine, vinegar, butter—we have a recipe for it somewhere.”
    â€œI think so, yes.”
    â€œMain dish, lamb, flageolets—do we have two boxes of flageolets? If not, we’ll do wild rice. Very classy, but I dislike it.”
    Ellen went to the pantry and reported that there were ample flageolets.
    â€œAnd chopped spinach.”
    â€œWe have about five pounds of the fresh spinach, and I think there are eight boxes of the frozen stuff.”
    â€œFresh spinach. My mother knows.”
    â€œIndeed she does,” Ellen agreed.
    â€œNow on the salad, I want your opinion. I thought of endive and sliced, peeled tomatoes.”
    â€œEndive?”
    â€œOh? Come on, speak.”
    â€œI feel it’s in the same class as wild rice.”
    â€œRight. Pretentious and not great. No argument? Boston lettuce?”
    â€œArugula?” Ellen asked tentatively.
    â€œAbsolutely. But that wants a tart dressing.”
    â€œNo question about that,” Ellen agreed. They were always closer and easier when they worked. “Still lemon mousse for dessert?”
    â€œOh, absolutely. My father adores it.”
    â€œHe had it last time,” Ellen reminded her.
    â€œWith a lemon sauce. This time, raspberry sauce. Makes all the difference in the world.”
    â€œIt does, sure enough. I spent an hour yesterday squeezing them berries through the sieve. Miserable seeds.”
    â€œBut it’s done.”
    â€œAll done.”
    MacKenzie had come into the kitchen while they were discussing the menu, and he stood at the stainless-steel utility sink, scrubbing his hands. “Miss Dolly,” he said, “did you notice anything driving the station wagon?”
    â€œThe brakes pull to the right—just a bit.”
    â€œWell, I got it. They’ll pull straight now. When do you want me to go to the airport and pick up your folks?”
    â€œOh? No, I’ll need you here, Mac. I want the silver polished, and I want you to see whether you can get the stains out of the dining room rug. I also want to talk about the meat.”
    â€œMiss Dolly, I done that boned lamb maybe two dozen times. I know just how you want it.”
    â€œShe don’t want it grilled through like leather, and you done that too,” Ellen said.
    â€œI’ll send the kids to pick up Mom and Pop. Mac?”
    â€œYes, ma’am.” He was miffed. He stiffened, looking straight ahead of him.
    â€œYou’re my wine steward. You’re the only one I can turn to about wine. What do we have in the cellar that’s really good and goes with my menu?”
    That pleased him. The senator had no real interest in wine or liquor. Social drinking was obligatory in his position, as was an occasional cigar under certain circumstances; his pursuit of youth drove him onto the running track and into the pool, never toward a bottle, and while he pretended to some knowledge of wine, what he had mastered came from reading the labels MacKenzie selected. It was MacKenzie who maintained their small but