There was a time when inviting people for Friday night dinner was a fairly innocuous process. The offer of hospitality, when accepted, would involve the guest showing up and the host dishing up.
These days, however, joyful as it is to gather friends, family, and more around the shabbat table, it can be fraught with challenges. Because even the most modern, inclusive, zeitgeisty host may blanche a little at the unexpected revelation of dietary requirements – say a vegetarian or even vegan, noch! – among the assembled group. After which follows a scramble to find alternatives to chopped liver, chicken soup and, of course, the big bird itself (or indeed any of the three meats you’d planned to serve),
But hey ho. Not a problem if you’ve been forewarned and all that. At least if you know your guests will get the vapours at the mere whiff of salt beef, you can be ready with the antidote of a miserable, shop-bought, veggie sausage.
However, what really can’t be anticipated – and yet, in my view, is far, far more challenging – is the guest who, unbeknown to you, has decided to “be good”.
They only want clear soup (“no lockshen or kneidels for me, Phyllis”), and visibly shrink when the roast potatoes are passed their way. One of my guests, on being asked to help herself to plattered scoops of liver and egg, just went for the garnish. Nibbling decorative flakes of lettuce while everyone else wolfed down their hors d’oeuvre.
Worst offenders of all – of all! – are those who simply ask for an empty plate when you bring out the dessert so they can snack from the fruit platter you made as a colourful accompaniment not the main event. For so self-absorbed are these dieters that they don’t consider how your arms must ache from hours spent whipping up egg whites for Evelyn Rose’s French chocolate cake (still the best recipe). Or the fact you’ve decided to do something clever with meringue and which you mastered only after three failed attempts and a lot of shouting.
Instead they politely demur. Or – another blood boiler alert – announce that they’ll just pick from their partner’s plate. (Where do they think they are? Kindergarten?)
I wouldn’t care but these calorie counters surely understand what’s involved in making dessert since, despite their own restrictive intake, they will happily dish it up when they’re hosting you for dinner. So surely when someone else has gone to the trouble of making dinner – an invitation willingly accepted – then for the sake of optics, propriety, and good bloody manners at least agree to a sliver of sticky toffee pudding or a spoonful of cherry crumble. A move hardly likely to cause a ballooning waistline. Yet will grant incalculable satisfaction to the hard-working host who has rustled up this corker of a banquet on top of all her other jobs.
The other issue with dessert refuseniks is that they pay little to heed with what you’re supposed to do with all damn leftovers? It’s not a problem if you’ve over-catered on the (three) meats and veg since it’s a perfect Sunday or Monday night dinner when you can’t be bothered cooking. But what the heck are you supposed to do with the fancy apple pudding and treacle tart. Serve to future guests when there are slices missing? And anyway, if you made ahead and pre-froze your dessert, it’s never going to taste as good if you freeze it all over again.
That’s why, in my mind, there’s only one solution to the otherwise intractable rudeness of weight watchers who happily seat their – please excuse the Americanism, but I’m really steamed up – boney asses at your Friday night table. And that is to inquire, on their acceptance of your kind invitation, as to whether they are on a diet. Just as you’d want to know if someone was gluten-free or had an allergy for strawberries so you should be told by your guests, ahead of time, if they are trying to shed a few pounds. Or have just joined Slimming World.
Of course it would be easier if said slimmer could volunteer the information when expressing their delight at the prospect of joining you for Friday night. But if they don’t, it’s down to you to find out. Because life is too short to plait a strudel or whisk up a chocolate mousse. Especially when all you get in return is an empty plate.
