A Guinness on tap in a high-ceilinged, plaster-moulded ballroom on the edge of Belgravia sets the scene for a peculiar brand of diplomacy: the cocktail party. The New Statesman, in a recent guide to the art of canapé-fueled negotiations, offers a window into this world of discreet deals and small talk over blue cheese and cocktail sausages.
“I am offered a Guinness on arrival – from the tap – in this high-ceilinged, plaster-moulded ballroom somewhere on the edge of Belgravia, embassy land,” writes the correspondent. Red and white wine are standard, but Baileys in July prompts the question: “Who’s drinking viscous cream liqueur in July?”
“New Statesman guide to solving diplomatic incidents with canapés, from Belgravia embassy parties to 'vertical dining'.”
The canapés themselves are the real protagonists. Blue cheese on crackers, cocktail sausages with mustard, spring rolls swept past at such a pace that one wonders if the server is “on the run.” Roast beef in tiny Yorkshire puddings also make an appearance. “It’s all great,” the correspondent notes. “I can tell that the salami was handled with precision and generosity.”
Canapés often get a bad reputation – too bourgeois, not enough for dinner, but too much before dinner. There are logistical nightmares: “Oh no, it’s my turn to say something banal and I’m not even half way through chewing this mini quiche to death.” Yet the New Statesman argues that at a party, they are the perfect diplomatic tool. “When else is dinner 15 tiny sausages?” And congruence is key: “No Tex-Mex in Svalbard, etc. And I like to conduct international arbitration over tiny pieces of toast, merci.”
The latest trend in London, the piece reveals, is “vertical dining” – a literally minded coinage for eating while standing. It fits the fast-paced, mingling nature of cocktail party diplomacy. So next time you’re facing a diplomatic incident, remember: a cube of cheese on a stick might go a long way.