My wife’s dining club consists of six passionate cooking ladies, husbands and concubines not invited. They regularly meet about every six weeks to feed themselves with usually exotic dishes, every event at a different dinner table. The number of members has been carefully considerated: In rotation two ladies prepare and serve the appetizer, two others “do” the main course and the remaining two members care for a dessert. I don’t know who is or are responsible for the selection of wine(s), nor can I assess its quality as it is constantly drunken. But the well balanced dishes taste awesome. Around midnight on such an evening I sometimes (at home) get the opportunity to taste the left over(s) of a dessert and the next day -most of these dining evenings I am lucky- a portion of the main course. Usually they boil, cook, fry or grill far too much.
This evening -the theme is “Mexican”- dinner will be served at a club member in a neighbouring village. My wife and her team-mate carefully prepared the starter and take off to the well-known address, leaving the car behind on an almost next door parking lot. As it is a beautiful summer evening they are going to dine outdoor on a roofed terrace. The second team -main course- is polishing it up on a few details before -awaiting the arrival of team three- a glass of wine is being poured.
The sound of breaking glass. “Oh”, the hostess of the evening explains, “a car crash! Those parking lots are far too narrow. It caused our car a broken tail light and two car mirrors!”
This conclusion, however, is a misunderstanding: Seconds later the missing team rings the doorbell. Devastated one of the dessert brewers (there is alcohol inside) says: “Whoever wants a dessert tonight has to go to the parking lot, next to our car. Don’t forget to bring a spoon along!”