After Sunday School we had to change into ‘rough’ clothes and carefully hang our Best Dress and Smart Shoes in our wardrobes and then Go And Play Outside Until I Call You For Lunch. Every Sunday except for the last Sunday of every month, when we had to stay in our Sunday Best, sitting quietly on the sofa in the lounge so that we didn’t get dirty, listening to the radio until it was time to get in the car and drive to the Maitland Hotel for lunch with my grandparents.

A liveried doorman opened the grand doors for us and we entered the plush foyer, went up the carpeted staircase and were met by the majordomo in the dining room and ushered to our table. Our chairs were held out for us and the stiff white napkins were removed from their serviette rings and placed on our laps and the waiters commenced the ceremony of serving the table d’ hote menu.

First came the soup, Cream Of Asparagus, and with it the admonishment from my grandmother to spoon away from yourself, and then the artfully arranged entre; how glad I was when it was Welsh Rarebit! Silver domes were removed from platters with a flourish to reveal the fish course and my grandfather would rise from his chair to come and debone my sole for me.

After this, ashtrays would be brought for the adults, who needed a rest before the main course. Our plates of roast beef or pork were put in front of us at exactly the same moment and we were offered potatoes and vegetables from silver dishes, each waiter had a white cloth draped over his arm and wore white gloves.

Dessert was almost too exciting for me to bear; a triple-decker trolley of the most beautiful concoctions imaginable. Merangue* nests of candied fruits, tiny apple crumbles, fluted glasses of trifle … I’d go into an agony of indecision until my mother selected something for me.

By the time the cheese course arrived; water biscuits heaped with stilton and a crystal thimble of Port for everyone, even us children, my eyes would be drooping and it would be all I could do to stay awake on the drive home. I’d be totally exhausted from sensory overload; the grandeur of the hotel and the opulence of the food.

I saw recently in an edition of Carte Blanche that the Maitland Hotel is now a crumbling den of iniquity, center of the country’s sex trade and a hub of drug activities.

How sad. How terribly sad.

* I was interested to find that my spellchecker rejected merangue; that is how I have always spelled it. I did a quick internet search and have discovered that it is actually meringue.

Pic: tablesettings, scanned from my scrap-book.

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19 Comments Add yours

  1. deepercolors says:

    Good grief. By the time you finish figuring out what goes with which, dinner would be over.
    I remember the first time I went to my uncle’s house for Christmas after he married his second wife. Even though they were in a small Texas town, she sat a formal dinner table, complete with linens, all kinds of extra forks, and even a finger bowl. I was 12 or so I think. and had no idea what to do with anything outside the salad fork. It was an interesting evening.

    1. theonlycin says:

      Guess she was just proud of being a new wife and showing off a bit?

    2. sonsothunder says:

      hahaha…you sound like I look DeeperColors///

  2. adeeyoyo says:

    What a pity that lifestyle has all but disappeared in this country… Thanks for the memories, Cin!

    1. theonlycin says:

      It’s sad, isn’t it?

  3. gospelwriter says:

    Sounds lovely… and how exciting it would be for a child – though nowadays, at least here in North America, they would be screaming for a hamburger or something.

    1. theonlycin says:

      Alas, you’re right 😦

  4. sonsothunder says:

    Aye lassie…so prim and proper.. whoot a memory you do have.. and one could ulmost imagine a psychological stopper… But woot a Princes have we now…
    God Bless you
    love you …

    1. theonlycin says:

      Thanks Paul, much love.

  5. buttercup600 says:

    Oh my, how I recall those days….you brought back wonderful memories that one tends not to remember often enough…we used to have Sunday lunch every alternative weekend with my grandparents (Oupa Wessel en Ouma Kate)…(that was after Sunday School) and it was a big dress up for every occassion. Ever so often the silver were displayed…we had to sit up straight, not touch the table and just before we’d start, (obviously) we’d say a prayer (Liewe Vader, seen die ete)…For some reason I always used to sit next to Oupa Wessel…(I might have been his favourite:):):)..and every single time, I’d get a dash of either gravy or whatever was available…under the nose while someone was saying grace!!! How I loved those days…you might be surprized to know that I still do it on the odd occasion…I LOVEEEEE Sunday meals around the table with good friends xxxx Good one Cin xxx

    1. theonlycin says:

      I also love it, just makes me happy 🙂

  6. nrhatch says:

    I remember this post. : )

    These days, I would be happy to go from Cream of Asparagus soup to Welsh Rarebit to Meringue to Cheese ~ skipping the other courses.

    What a wonderful way to introduce children to the art of fine dining, by supping with their grandparents.

    1. theonlycin says:

      Too seldom happens these days 😦

  7. granny1947 says:

    You have such a wonderful way with words..took me right back to the past.

    1. theonlycin says:

      Glad you enjoyed it 🙂

  8. Kavita says:

    I was glued to dessert 🙂 Like I always am! 🙂

  9. What a beautiful memory! All strata of of society remember experiences with their grandparents, it seems. I enjoyed reading about this special day you spent with your grandparents. I think of my grandmother and grandfather many times. The thoughts are always heartwarming. The best days lived are the ones that form memories that stay with us long after our dear ones pass on. Blessings to you, Cindy…

    1. theonlycin says:

      Thanks for reading, Carol 🙂

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