French Press, Tintin Mug and Yellow Book

They say the party always ends up in the kitchen.  However, in my house the kitchen is where you go to talk about the company, which I admit can sometimes amount to the same thing but not entirely, if you see my point. 

In the present circumstances, you will recall it was Pam who had suddenly decided to play hostess so I had no choice but to follow her out of the sitting room where Walt 'n' Matilda, the famous Australian Canadian film stars and super-model couple were now ensconced on the sofa, busy pawing at our poor defenseless friend Didier.

Once safely on the other side of the swing door, I gazed in horror as Pam proceeded to prepare a tray with champagne flutes. 

"Bellinis," she said, as though I had been able to even summon words to frame the question.  "I'll pop the champagne, just tell me where you keep the apricot nectar."

"Absolutely not," I hissed in an urgent whisper.  "To begin with, that chilled bottle of Veuve Cliquot is strictly for medicinal use only, or in case of emergency, or for Didier if he gets thirsty."

"Relax," she advised. 

"Relax?"  I countered indignantly.  "I should think the last thing those amorous Aussies Canucks of the North out there need right now is to be relaxed.  I don't like to even imagine what they might be capable of if they do get any more relaxed.  No, if anything a pot of very strong coffee is in order."

She still seemed to hesitate over the bottle of bubbly.  Knowing her as I do,  I could tell she had a devious plan up her sleeve, so I had to think fast. 

"Pam, I simply cannot condone the serving of alcohol to minors and granted you are technically the only minor present, but I have to tell you I had a very dear friend who was less than vigilant on this point and now he can't live anywhere near a grade school or a playground, not to mention poor Roman P. who might not be in the situation he's in now if he'd paid a little more attention to age restrictions and -- thank you," I concluded as she released her hold on the champagne.

I was now suddenly struck by a new and grave possibility, which I hastened to put to her.  "Pam," I said in a low and admittedly conspiratorial tone.  "I realize you said that in your psychic vision bad men were after Didier, but I wonder if perhaps there was some ambiguity in the message transmission, and what you heard as "bed men" was really more like "bad thespians" or "Australian man and  wife"  -- if you see my point."

"No," Pam replied firmly. So firmly, in fact, that before I could fully process her response and consider an alternative phrasing for my question, the swing door swung and Didier had joined us.

"What?" he said, looking at us innocently.  And then, "What?"

"You're up to something, D-Diddy," Pam announced with such an insinuating tone I felt it necessary to object, on Didier's behalf if not in his defense.

"Really, Pam," I admonished.  "The young man very thoughtfully comes by, albeit unexpectedly, to introduce his friends to us and you want to accuse him of --"

"Relax," Didier interrupted.

"No," I shot back.  "There'll be no getting more relaxed around here, thank you very much --"

"But it is no big deal, see" Didier explained.  "They tell me their next film commence the shooting in Venice in a few weeks, and so of course maybe I think perhaps I tell them --"

"I KNEW IT," Pam cried with something along the lines of a little shout of triumphant laughter.  "You want me to get Daddy to invite your friends over, is that it?  Maybe have them stay with him?"

Didier shrugged, nodded, conceded in a mumble that, yeah, maybe perhaps that was indeed what he'd been thinking. 

As you might infer from this brief exchange, Pam's father, Count Alberto Uccello, had (so I have heard) a rather impressive palazzo in the celebrated Italian city in question, tastefully appointed and on one of the nicer canals.  It was not altogether unreasonable therefore to suppose that Didier's actor chums, discovering this connection and with plans to be in the neighborhood, might enjoy visiting the Count and his lovely home, provided Didier was able to arrange an appropriate introduction.

There was just one small matter I may have neglected to mention to you, which has to do with an unfortunate incident involving Didier and Pam's father and somewhat indirectly Pam herself which contributed to a bit of lingering ill-will between the two young people in my kitchen and even may have contributed to a previous (mercifully failed) attempt by the one (Pam) pushing the other (Didier) out the French windows in the sitting room. However as this had all taken place months ago, I confess I had hoped that all concerned had been able to leave that unpleasantness in the past where it quite rightly belonged.  Apparently not everyone present shared my view.  Some wounds heal faster than others. 

What, you might well ask, could possibly have happened that would result in re-igniting the heretofore smoldering resentment as now blazed into bright and noisy being?  I promise to tell you later.  In the meantime, however, in the narrow confines of my charming but modest galley kitchen Mt. Vesuvius erupted with an alarming POP.  Followed by a torrent of  French and Italian.  The French was Didier's, now soaked in champagne, and the Italian was Pam's as she continued to hold the champagne bottle like a bazooka, showering her victim with a stream of invectives colorful enough to make a Venetian gondolier blush.

My pleas for calm and order were completely ignored.