Sharing Platters
The first time I encountered a sharing platter was in the Spanish Pyrenees, in a lovely house, in 1975. I’d gone to visit my great chum Georgina von Etzdorf, her family had a house in a tiny hamlet just outside Puigcerda on the French border. I’d hitch hiked all the way from Chester, it only took a couple of days. I was 21 years old, wide eyed and just excited to be out of England.
As my final lift pulled into Puigcerda, it slowly dawned on me that I had made the journey without packing much, I was only there for the weekend, but had also managed to forget the address and telephone number of the house. To be honest, I didn’t think I needed it as there was a painting hanging on Georgina’s wall in London, painted by her, of a view across the Cerdanya from their house. I’d seen it many times. I imagined that all I had to do was find a high vantage point in the town, look across the Pyrenees and the painted vista would magically appear.
It didn’t. Fortunately, there are not many roads to choose from up in the mountains, in fact there was one. Going East took me directly into France, so as I knew the house was in Spain, I headed off West, walking, looking, hoping. After an hour, signs to a clearly impressive golf club appeared. I knew Georgina’s dad played golf so just assumed he would be a member. Naivety has guided me most of my life.
He was, and they had his telephone number and so 15 minutes later Georgina and her brother Alex arrived to ferry me back to the house. I met her mum, who I’d met a number of times, utterly divine, warm, funny and totally welcoming. And I met her dad, for the first time, Baron Rudiger von Etzdorf, terrifying. He wasn’t terrifying, I was terrified. I’m a working class boy from the North of England, I didn’t get out much, I’d just been introduced to European aristocracy.
They had invited a bunch of friends over for dinner that evening. Totally informal, very Spanish, very southern European. Not one of them spoke any English. French, yes. Spanish, definitely. Italian, why not. Fortunately, Georgina’s mum was sat by my side and as she proffered up a very pretty platter said, ‘may I help you to an artichoke’. I had never seen an artichoke in my life and hadn’t the first idea what to do with it. I call it an intellectual starter these days. Not much eating, plenty of conversation, my Spanish improved.
I like that phrase, ‘may I help you’, it’s comforting, inclusive, generous and encouraging all at once. What it refers to, passing and breaking bread, sharing sustenance, sharing the delight of food and drink and company. That gesture speaks all languages, which for an idiot abroad, was very welcoming.
It’s a great way to bring people together, strangers and friends, so it’s an obvious one if you’re planning a large gathering, particularly a wedding, where generally 50% of the guests have never met the other 50%. Progressive Social Cooking from the Bread and Flowers team, guiding the way through a potential social minefield to a harmonious conclusion.