source : the age
What’s this, then? A miniature Yorkshire pudding with roast beef and horseradish cream. Would I like one? Well, thanks for asking. I am just in the middle of a conversation with two people I don’t know about a book I haven’t read by an author I’ve never heard of, so your interruption is impeccably timed.
But no, of course, I don’t want one because who accepts a canape at a party? Ah, I spoke too soon; the woman to my left has decided to brave it. Good for her! Wait, would she like a napkin? Now that you’ve offered, she must take the napkin, but with the food in her left hand and a drink in her right, a high-stakes transfer is under way.
The sooner we ban canapés, the better off we’ll all be.
Credit: Michael Howard
The canape joins the drink in her right hand, leaving the left free to receive the napkin and clutch it awkwardly. Success! We all sigh in relief until she takes a bite, and horseradish cream spills down the front of her dress, which, frankly, is my cue to leave. “Just popping to the bar, everyone right for a drink?”
Ah, canapes, you bite-sized little burden. You elegantly served parcel-of-inelegance. You tasty missile pretending to be a tasty morsel. You … get my drift.
From weddings to gallery openings, milestone birthdays to corporate networking sessions, there’s not a fancy event that the stress of navigating canapes hasn’t ruined.
As a general rule, I avoid them at all costs for the reasons listed above and because I have a long-held belief that eating and standing up is embarrassing. Instead, I make a point of filling up beforehand so I can spend the rest of the evening saying the magic words: “I’m OK, thanks!”
In a fun twist, though, the word “canape” originates from the French word for “sofa,” a reference to how a topping sits on a piece of bread, much like a person on a couch.
The term was first used in a culinary sense in the 18th century when small, decorative finger foods became popular at aristocratic gatherings in France.
Ironically, a sofa would solve all my problems, yet canapes must be consumed while upright, preferably making small talk.
Welcome to the party, enjoy your tiny morsel of food.Credit: Bloomberg
The discomfort of standing isn’t the only problem – there is a social awkwardness that stems from being fed by a stranger. In a restaurant, you select the food, the waiter delivers it and the interaction is complete; the canape exchange requires a real-time decision.
For reasons not entirely clear, this becomes a reflection of your server’s performance. Take the canape and your lovely waiter, who has just nailed the pronunciation of “nduja”, is doing well. Wave them on, and you’re a monster.
Worse still is the realisation that the best ones are passing you by. Is there anything more humiliating (but necessary) than stalking the server, trying to catch their eye with a polite smile that says, “Pick me! I’d love an arancini ball?”
Days ago, I attended a literary event and, having broken my pre-snacking rule, I arrived ravenous. Everywhere I looked, guests were enjoying sliders, a snack that belongs on the Mount Rushmore of canapes (alongside arancini balls and duck pancakes with hoisin sauce).
Try as I might to determine which mystery door was home to the sliders, the only thing in my orbit was beetroot with creamy goat cheese and thyme dressing served, criminally, on a spoon.
That poses new questions, mainly: is there an obligation to eat it in one gulp so you can return the spoon to the tray? Is that hygienic? Should I keep the spoon? Where will I put it? My pocket is full of discarded skewers.
Canapés on spoons open up a whole new world of pain.
Even if I wanted to (which I didn’t), having a second spoonful of dismembered beetroot was not an option given that etiquette dictates one is OK, but two? No way.
And there’s the broader issue. Canapes are a style of food that imposes too many rules: do this, eat that, use napkin, return spoon.
Parties are supposed to be fun, a place to drink complimentary booze and complain about the music before leaving without saying goodbye to anyone and ordering an Uber home.
Only then, in your own loungeroom, can you truly enjoy a stress-free meal the way we all deserve: sitting comfortably on an actual sofa, talking to no one and eating small decorative finger foods (that is, chicken nuggets).
Find more of the author’s work here. Email him at thomas.mitchell@smh.com.au or follow him on Instagram at @thomasalexandermitchell and on Twitter @_thmitchell.
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