Absolutely Fabulous

It began innocently enough, a couple of nights ago. "Are you coming to my dinner?" said Alistair, I swear looking hopeful. "What dinner!" I exclaimed. No-one ever invites me to dinner. Ever. There must be a catch. It must be at a time he knows I can't come.

But no - it was for a Tuesday, that most unsociable of evenings, where your scribe takes a little break from his awesome responsibilities at the Bingo. Tuesday. I could go. "Count me in, Ali pal!" I said, manfully, and my name was duly added to the guest list. It was at Telford College, where Ali is studying catering, and the evening was to be part of his assessment.

Now, gentle reader, for those of you who don't know Edinburgh well, let me tell you that it is possibly the most class-ridden city in the world. At one end are the people who go to "private views", sip tepid New-World Chardonnay and endlessly and untiringly gossip the latest society scandals. Let's call them the McChatters.

Diametrically opposed are the Trainspotting underclass - that vast council estate sprawl who seek nothing more from life than their daily dose of alcohol, sex and temazepam. In Scotland a council housing estate is called a "scheme", and the people who live there have grown to be known as "schemies" or, more lately, "scheme-trash", in deference to the US equivalent "trailer-trash". Let's call them the McSchemies.

And, of course the vast majority are at neither one end nor the other of this social spread, but comfortably in between, and they are the McTweenies.

So Telford College is a portal. A "beam-me-up Scottie" whereby a hard-working Tweenie or even Schemie can drag him or herself into a passable imitation of a McChatter. Now please, please, dear reader, don't imagine for a moment that one is being judgmental. Far from it. One's own transition was similar, just in another time, and by another route.

"What," I hear you thinking, "has all this got to do with a restaurant dinner?" Well, bear with me a little longer, and all will be clear. For the most noticeable aspect of this evening was in fact the service. A conveyor belt of freshly-scrubbed young things waiting on our table, clearly not long out of school, and so keen, desperate almost, to please us. Magnificat has reached the age wherein the best which can be hoped for from the very young is a snarled "Fuck off, Grandad", so you can understand our delight.

Oh - there were hilarious slips. Not all of the shirts had seen an iron successfully, and, according to Scott, who notices these things, one waiter had a mobile phone in his pocket (Schemie/Tweenie, but NEVER McChatter), but these just added to the delight and authenticity.

Alastair, who like oneself defies classification, was wandering about suited and in charge. Well, almost in charge. I think I detected another suit who was possibly the uber-maitre, if you will excuse the mixed European, but that one kept well to the back, watching, marking and hopefully passing his young proteges.

The food was good in places, too. Especially the desserts, a fine mix of rice pudding ice-cream with sauteed cherries, each at exactly the right temperature, followed by almond and caramel torrones. A delightful end to an extremely entertaining evening.

I should mention my dinner companions. To my left was Sam, a model of polite behaviour on this occasion. Opposite magnificat were Scott and Stuart, with Emma for a hint of heterosexuality. Robin, who defies everything, started off on a "higher" table than ours, but quickly decamped when he sensed more fun was to be had chez moi. Fabulous.

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