It was midnight at Canberra’s Kingston Hotel. Our table was littered with half-masticated packets of beef jerky and three empty bottles of middling champagne. The Labor backbencher at the neighbouring table and his pilgrimage of selfie-hunting baby staffers had finally tired of one another.
An attempt to annex The Good Guardian Josh ( The Guardian employs numerous men called Josh, of varying amusement value) had failed. So it was just us ladies, refugees from a federal budget week women’s dinner gone horribly wrong. The author had a beef with the menu.
Credit: Instagram There are entire weeks of my life where the food trudges past in an uninspiring blur. At one charity (networking) gala or dinner lecture after another, the sweet, geeky kids waitering their way through university deposit a white meat or a red meat option alternately around the table. The most exciting part of the culinary experience is the moment when everyone at the table realises from the sequence which option they are about to receive.
A quiet desperation descends. Friends and couples exert emotional blackmail to obtain their preferred meals. Disappointed strangers tentatively ask others whether they might like to swap.
A couple of courses and some kind of dessert later, everyone’s managed to assemble a bellyful. It’s rarely a superlative meal but it is, generally at least, satiating. But not on this night.
In planning a dinner for a couple of hundred people, aimed in particular at women, to celebra.
