So last night I spent a pleasurable evening in the company of five men in Andreas’s new apartment. Crossing town on the metro carrying a bottle of champagne, a gift bag of books, my camera and the assemblage of a home-made coconut cake, I arrived at 7:45 pm, breathless and dishevelled. We were celebrating three things: the end of the year, Andreas’s new canary yellow couch, and our respective upcoming birthdays (we share the same birth date.)
Champagne and foie gras to start followed by a sit-down dinner that Andreas had meticulously prepared.
What a pleasure to talk travel, literature, politics and current affairs with a group of like-minded dinner companions. Two of the men were off to Venice over Christmas, two others to Rajasthan, India in January. As for literature, we pondered over who the French equivalent to Shakespeare might be. Molière? Personally, I think there is no equivalent.
And then came the coconut cake which, earlier in the day, I had slaved over in my kitchen. Unintentionally, the assemblage turned into a mild comedy act. Here are the two cakes with lemon curd sandwiched between them.
Brandishing a large spatula while five pairs of eyes looked on, I proceeded to frost the cake with the cream cheese icing. I felt like Martha Stewart.
Oh, dear. Something happened to the frosting. It wasn’t firm enough. This doesn’t happen in Martha Stewart’s world!
Men to the rescue. Clean-up crew!
Despite the appearance it was quite good, although I must say that large iced cakes are not part of the French cake répertoire. After all these years in France, my taste buds have changed and I found the cake to be overly-sweet and cloying. Unless I can find a light version, I don’t think I’ll make it again.
Taxi home and the Champs-Elysées, all lit up for the holidays, was jam-packed at 1 o’clock in the morning. Crowds everywhere. Happy Holidays. Bonnes Fêtes.
Juliet in Paris