In a recent Delectations, I took a dim view of purely culinary discussions of the so-called perfect meal, arguing that it depends as much on the surroundings and the company as on the food itself. I have experienced all these elements coming together several times in my life; the one I am going to write about today stands out in my mind as true perfection.
I was living at the time on Long Island’s hilly North Shore, in a charming house on the big estate of Lawrence White and his wife, Laura Chanler, a couple whom I loved better than I had ever loved anybody outside of my own family. They lived in the Big House, a rambling wooden structure to which the original owner, Stanford White—Larry’s father— had added on rooms as he needed them. Though not as splendid as in Box Hill’s heyday, the saloon, or main drawing room of the house, was still quite grand, with twisted antique Portuguese columns, whale-oil lamps, and other strange and beautiful objects, including a wonderfully complete set of blue China Trade export china, with more pieces than I ever managed to count. There was a long rhododendron walk, which one entered through an ornate gate, to be greeted by a lifesized statue of Dionysus and Cupid. The statue was known to all of us as “The Old Man with the Baby,” although one of my sons was under the impression, as I discovered only years later, that this was St. Joseph holding the baby Jesus.
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