Seville still has those sleepy, old-fashioned clubs where ancient members nod over their newspapers in dim, high-ceilinged rooms. Although far from ancient, Rich and I occasionally stop to rest our feet in one that’s open to the public in the downtown shopping area. The hushed atmosphere and air of slightly seedy grandeur reminds me of a club we once belonged to in Ohio. It was an old Scottish manor house, brought over stone by stone in the 1920s. The plans for reassembly were lost en route, so the results were somewhat quirky. As was the staff.
There was a butler from Trinidad named Charles, who sported a threadbare tuxedo, white cotton gloves and a glass eye. He couldn’t read and tended to garble the evening’s specials. Once, hosting a business dinner, we asked Charles about the special, and he told us, “Halibut.” How it was prepared? He said, “It’s dead in a white sauce.”
A moment’s stunned reflection suggested this was good news; who wants to eat live halibut? Eventually, we worked it out: he was using some convoluted past pluperfect of the word “done,” that is, “It’s did in a white sauce.” The phrase took immediate and permanent root in our vocabulary. Now, when something is clearly doomed (a bill in Congress, the kid who runs back to save the cat when everyone knows the killer’s in the house, a fading techno trend) we turn to one another and say, “Dead in a white sauce.”
Originally published May 30, 2010
A moment’s stunned reflection suggested this was good news; who wants to eat live halibut? Eventually, we worked it out: he was using some convoluted past pluperfect of the word “done,” that is, “It’s did in a white sauce.” The phrase took immediate and permanent root in our vocabulary. Now, when something is clearly doomed (a bill in Congress, the kid who runs back to save the cat when everyone knows the killer’s in the house, a fading techno trend) we turn to one another and say, “Dead in a white sauce.”
Originally published May 30, 2010
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