‘Okay. I’ll try.’
‘So, food is served from the left,’ said Clive, bending to place a small plate in front of her. He stepped around her and picked it up from the other side. ‘And cleared from the right.’
‘The idea was to prevent the servants crashing into each other,’ said Georgia. ‘And that’s why drinks are always served from the right.’
‘I’ll remember that for the pub,’ grinned Amy, but Georgia gave her a stern look.
‘Do you want to take this seriously?’
‘Sorry,’ she said, holding up a hand. ‘I’m just a bit nervous. And confused. I mean, I’ve been a waitress for a while now, and no one at the Forge ever told me there was a right way to serve.’
‘What do you know about wine glasses?’ asked Georgia, already moving on.
‘Without them, we’d be swigging out of the bottle like a hobo?’
Another stern look.
‘Okay, okay, I know the answer to this one,’ said Amy quickly, not wanting another reprimand. ‘Red wine goes in the big one. White wine in the smaller one, although if it was down to me, I’d take the big one every time and fill it up all the way.’
‘And don’t forget the biggest glass is for your water,’ said Georgia, pointing to the herd of glasses that Clive had arranged on the table.
‘You’re our advanced glassware class, Clive. What can you tell us?’ said Georgia with the hint of a smile.
Clive placed two glasses of champagne in front of Georgia and Amy, each receptacle a different shape. He explained that one was a flute, the other a saucer – the shape of the latter apparently modelled on Marie Antoinette’s right breast.
‘But which one is better for champagne?’ asked Amy,
‘Well, the saucer looks prettier,’ smiled Georgia. ‘But the flute has less surface area, so the champagne retains the bubbles longer. Personally I never like to leave it in the glass that long.’
Next she was introduced to a magnum glass, apparently reserved for particularly aromatic Burgundy and usually only filled halfway to allow the bouquet to collect inside the glass.
‘So how is a Burgundy different from other sorts of wine?’ she asked. It was the sort of question she’d never have asked Daniel even in the privacy of her own home, let alone at one of the smart dinner parties he occasionally took her to. But even after this short time she felt comfortable asking Georgia and Clive anything; the fact that she barely knew the pair of them somehow made it easier.
‘Burgundy is simply the region of France the wine comes from,’ explained Clive. ‘It’s a highly respected wine-growing area – you’ve probably heard of Chablis – and produces many of the top wines in the world. But it’s most famous for its reds – like this one. Full-bodied, smooth, aromatic . . .’ He poured a little of the wine and asked her what she could smell.
Tentatively Amy picked up the big glass and pushed her nose inside, inhaling. It was wonderful: sweet, fruity and rich, like a basket of freshly picked berries. She looked up at Clive, wondering what she should say.
‘Cherries,’ she said hesitantly, unsure whether this was the right answer.
‘Very good,’ he said, his eyes twinkling. ‘I can smell cherries, and chocolate too.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ grinned Amy, taking a long, delicious sip.
Clive walked away to get their starters, their little wine appreciation session over.
‘Wow – my folks at home aren’t going to recognise me when they bring out the cheap stuff and I stick my nose in it.’
‘Price isn’t always an indicator of quality. I’ve taken a great ten-pound bottle of wine to many dinner parties. Because it’s good and I like it and I want to share it with my friends. Have faith in what you like. Have courage in who you are and your opinions. It doesn’t matter if you can smell cherries or chocolate or chalk dust so long as you believe what you say and you are respectful of what other people believe.’
‘Even if it’s wrong?’
‘And how do you define wrong? Why should your opinion be any less valid than the next person just because they have more money in the bank or have studied at all the right places?’
Clive brought over three successively delicious courses, during which Georgia explained the intricacies of modern table manners. Apparently bread rolls were always broken, never cut with a knife; soup bowls were gently tipped away from you. Napkins were placed on laps, salt and pepper added after food had been tasted. Plates were never pushed to one side, elbows were kept off the table no matter how strange this might at first feel, although a light lean was allowed if there was no food present. Fidgeting was not elegant. Smiling apparently was.
‘Will you come?’ said Amy quietly.
‘Come where?’