Dining at the High Table

Once in your Magdalen graduate career, you are graced with an invitation to dine at high table. I'd always seen the high table, perched at the south end of the hall, looking ominous and, well, high. And finally, like a kid waiting for Santa Claus, I got my invitation a couple weeks ago.

Flanked by fellow historians and classists, we rang the doorbell to the Senior Common Room at 7:05, the crypitcally specified time on the invitation. The tutor for graduates graciously welcomed us and we proceeded to what is the fellows "hang-out" spot, for lack a better phrase. I was right off offered a glass of sherry, which I declined on account of the big rowing race I have later today.

Let the awkward small talk begin! I honestly thought to myself before I left my house, just take it easy and whatever you do, don't start talking about American foreign policy, or worse, rowing!

When it was time for dinner to begin, we walked across the roof (!) to the special fellow's entrance to the hall. As we filed in to find seats, I was very aware of the importance of my dining mates and headed for sympathetic ears, an American librarian who I had met just beforehand. But, on account of gender balance, I was shifted one seat to by flanked by two male fellows, a classist and an historian.

It went off without a hitch! I was a smashing success. We chatted about Mark's driving tour through America in 1991 and Edmund's ideal monograph of modern historiography. And only when pressed, did I talk about rowing. (I promise!)

Dinner was lovely, starting with tomato (toe-MAH-toe) and bacon soup. The main consisted of goose and veg, followed up by a liqueur soaked peach with chocolate sauce.

In ordinary circles, this would herald the end of the evening. But this is Oxford, far from ordinary. I was instructed by my new friends to stand, bow my head from the closing grace and take my napkin with me.

"Take your napkin," "Oh, okay..."

Walking through cloisters, napkin in hand, a door was opened to me that I didn't even know existed. What lay beyond was the Senior Smoking Room. In two lines facing each other with 10 or so feet between them were chairs setup with small round tables in front of each chair with port glasses and a plate with knife and fork. The vice-president was in charge of the seating plan and in true elementary school dodgeball fashion, we were assigned sides and seats in the room. (I was picked near the end!)

Here I was seated next to Paul, the second-in-command at the Magdalen Boy's School. We were offered five different alcohols (port, Madeira, claret, dessert wine and one that I now forget), chocolates and the most exotic fruits (figs, plums, lychees, and blackberries.) To transport the glass bottles of alcohol between the two rows of fellows and graduates, a contraption devised over 100 years ago was used. It looks somewhat like a Nordic Track without the top half, and the downward slant is used to slide the bottles to the otherside, with one track going downwards and another back up. I honestly shook my head and thought, "This is so Oxford."

And just when I thought it was over, then came the snuff. I passed, but Evert (my Dutch friend) was brave and gave it a go. Afterwards he said, "Well, now I never have to do that again."

It was an altogether lovely evening...