Christmas party at the Thompson’s

Disclaimer:
While the following post is inspired by what occurred in my life, there is no direct connection with real events or persons in this writing. All names have been changed and I modified identifying features like occupations, appearances, features and location, in order to preserve anonymity. I have altered characters, events and timelines in order to preserve the privacy of the individuals who inspired my stories.
In any case, although I preserve the integrity of my stories and try to maintain narrative flow, any resemblance between characters, events or locations in this post and characters, events or locations in real life is purely coincidental.

One of the first event I catered in Tampa was for the peculiar Mr. and Mrs. Thompson. It was at a time when all seemed new and exciting, and when, freshly arrived from Provence, I felt like everything I experienced felt so grandiose and rich, so neat and beautiful, and so… wonderfully “American“.

Cooking for the Thompson’s left me with an impression of utter disbelief, for what happened at their house was like floating in a cloud of total absurdness, kind of like being in a Yankee version of a Monthy Python episode.

I met the Thompsons in their driveway. A massive house with a polished frontyard, in an upscale, sought-after neighborhood. I thought about my village in Provence and couldn’t help but compare size, architecture and obssession for manicured lawns. I liked it.

Mr. Thompson was already an elderly gentleman, with a wife much younger than he was. He seemed to be a little disconnected from reality, and relied on her to navigate through his life, and reaching a clear understanding of it.
Mrs. Thompson was exuberant and hyperactive. She showed me around and kept talking loudly about the party, the guests and what she expected, only stopping to show me art pieces gathered during repeated travels to France.

In the kitchen, I organized myself and started cooking. My servers arrived and set the table.

I understood the party was going to be interesting when Mr. Thompson came in the kitchen in a tuxedo. While fixing his bowtie, he said:

- “Chef Gui, please make sure that everybody refers to me as Mr. Thompson in front of the guests”.

- “Of course”, I replied.

- “Mr. Thompson”, I added.

While it made sense to me, being used to the French distinction between “tu” (casual “you”) and “vous” (formal “you”), I wondered why it was important to him to mention it so formally. But the first guests arrived a couple of minutes later and my mind wandered elsewhere.

After a few drinks and some passed hors d’oeuvres, the Thompsons gathered their guests by the huge Christmas tree in the high-ceiling, baroque looking hallway. Guests were standing around the tree, some on the stairway to the second floor, forming an ampitheatre audience for Mr. Thompson, who delivered a welcoming speech.

I got my second hint into absurdness when my servers came to get me in the kitchen.

- “Gui, come quick. Thompson wants to introduce you”.

I washed my hands quickly, fixed my apron and came to Mr. Thompson’s side.

- “My friends, please allow me to introduce Chef Gui, who’s from Provence, and will be cooking for us tonight”, he said.

I nodded with a faked humility.

- “We flew him from Provence for the evening”, added Thompson.

I looked at him with a smile, expecting a joking Mr. Thompson. But he remained serious. Dead serious. So serious, in fact, that I understood that he wasn’t kidding. I managed to quickly camouflage my surprise, swallowed my disbelief and pretended along with him.

The guests were about to sit down for dinner and I checked the table. The first thing I noticed was 2 bottles of 1982 Chateau Lafite, one of the best wine in the world, right on the table. That was usually against protocol, since our servers almost always serve the wine to the guests. Mrs. Thompson joined me back in the kitchen and quickly delivered the explanation.

- “Chef Gui, about the wine…”

-”Yes, Madame?”