A dinner that turned into a masterclass in inebriation

A FRIEND had invited us to a wine growers’ dinner. Quail in aspic came first. Then there was sea bass. These were mere preliminaries, the chef’s limbering-up exercises before attacking the sirloin of Charolais beef en croute.

The white wine gave way to the pride of the local wine growers, a formidably heavy red, and the courses kept coming until, after the serving of souffles and champagne, it was time to rise up and dance.

The band was of the old school, clearly not interested in performing for people who simply like to hop up and down; they wanted to see proper dancing. There were waltzes and quicksteps and several numbers which might have been gavottes, but for me the highlight of the evening was the tango interlude.

I don’t think it is given to many of us to witness 50 or 60 couples in the advanced stages of inebriation attempting the swoops and turns and heelstamping flourishes of the true tango artist, a sight I shall never forget.

Elbows were cocked, heads flicked from side to side, desperate and off-balance charges were made with twinkling feet from one end of the room to the other, and potential collision and disaster was everywhere.

One diminutive man danced blind, his head sunk into the décolletage of his taller partner. A couple in bugle beads and frills lunged and dipped through the crowd with a dexterity unknown outside the tango palaces of Buenos Aires.

Miraculously, nobody was injured. When we left some time after one o’clock, the music was still playing and the dancers, stuffed with food and awash with wine, were still dancing. Not for the first time, we marvelled at the Provencal constitution.