I recently found myself forced to endure a picnic. A first-world problem, to be sure. But at Glyndebourne (where I was going with friends to see Tosca, my favourite) there was no restaurant option. It was either picnic, or go hungry.
The posh-off with our neighbours had begun
Four of our party of six arrived at the grounds, to meet our two highly organised and super-punctual friends.They had insisted (because they were driving) on bringing the bulk of the picnic. All the rest of us had to do was rock up with Tupperware containers of appetisers (plus booze) to add to the fine array arriving by car.
As we entered the covered picnic area, we were surprised to note that the table they had rented remained unoccupied. Meanwhile, all around us, against the backdrop soundscape of popping champagne corks, platters of delicious-looking food were being organised by toffs in penguin suits and flowing dresses.
Our bare table was a sorry sight. As were the four of us. We sat for an hour with no drinks, no ice, no glasses and no corkscrew. Where on earth were our absent friends? All we could do was make our way to the bar, past the Champagne cork recycling patch, to order the most expensive drinks I’ve ever had in my life (and I’ve bought rounds in both Venice and Norway).
Eventually, we cracked open the canapés and ate a few as we sipped our fizz, hastily snapping the containers closed again as though we hadn’t indulged. Our friends (still stuck on the motorway from London at this point) are meticulous in their presentation and protocol around formal picnics. Who even knew there was such a thing? We knew they would judge us harshly for any grazing without proper napkins, cutlery or china plates.
Five minutes before the opera was to begin, they arrived at last, running in with wicker baskets. The table was laid so fast, it was like one of those speeded-up films.
We went in for the first act, which was mercifully short, and then came the 15-minute set-change break, which was just long enough to run back to the table, throw back a decent Negroni (mercifully, with the ice and orange slices that were nestling in one of the cool bags), and eat a few olives before hurrying back in for the second act. Knowing we wouldn’t get to eat properly until the main interval, which lasts around 70 minutes, we made the most of it.
I am aware of already having made my views on picnics (and outdoor eating in general) quite clear. However, a superbly generous birthday gift this summer has resulted in a change of heart. If that picnic is going to be under a canopy, in the stunning grounds of Glyndebourne, then we can talk. And if the catering is of the standard I enjoyed during the intervals of the best production of Tosca that I have ever experienced, all the better.
Not only was there a proper table and comfortable chairs, but our friends had also brought along a colourful tablecloth and a candelabra, as well as beautiful wine and cocktail glasses, and real crockery and cutlery. Our ice was kept frozen in a good-quality cool bag (though the table next door went one better, with a gorgeous leather ice bucket). The posh-off with our neighbours had begun.
We laid out the food: Manzanilla olives, the best salted almonds, delicious home-made canapés, charcuterie, including the finest Iberico ham, salads and a massive cheese board. Meanwhile, our selection of drinks included pre-mixed Negronis (made by my own fair hand), vintage Champagne, a Greek white and a stunning Barbera Frere.
Nary a Scotch egg was in sight, but a number of Fortnum & Mason hampers were spotted. A snip at just £400, the F&M Garden Party Hamper includes sparkling and rosé wines, pickles, gherkins, chutney, cheese biscuits, honey, potted Stilton, knickerbocker glory white chocolate-coated biscuits, brie and smoked salmon, all in a big picnic cool bag.
We lost the posh-off with the neighbours. Their candelabra was not only more opulent than ours, they had abided by the rules and used one with electric lights. Ours had real flames, and we were visited by two security personnel and told we were breaking the law, and to extinguish them immediately.
It took me a while to work out why I had so enjoyed the picnic part of our trip to the opera. I concluded that this experience was not one, despite the presence of picnic baskets. Rather, the eating part of our trip to the opera was almost as dramatic as Tosca itself. Maybe next time, a stash of energy bars and a hip flask would suffice.
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