The loo itself was of Hofburg-like grandeur...
The Right Honourable Reader knows at this point of our joint journey that this blogger of yours would not like Him to be deprived of such an unique occasion as the cocktail hosted by Biscuit, one of the last larger-than-life sovereign empresses of Madrid's social high life. The mix of connoisseur/collector hubris with the traditional high ceiling-ed boiserie was staggering. All the boxes were thoroughly ticked: the generous flowing of Taittinger; the cute dress of the in-house female servants; the professionalism of the catering waiters ( Bernardo,with silver tray and elegant pose, knew exactly the proportions of whisky and water to be served to my Library Room neighbour, Poula Letpin, a grand host of lavish dinner-parties himself).
The mix of tribes was a good one too. Not only the OldSpain ethnicity one expects in these rarefied salons but also some "riff-raff" from the Arts & Entertainment family. The image of an almost Nô-faced Lady, in heavy make-up and Andalusian hair-style, smoking a robusto cigar in the Dining Room, cannot be erased from my memory. Some representatives of the merry sex were performing their usual bridging role between Grandes and artists. But what was really striking, together with the zillion carats of the Hostess' diadem, was the omnipresence of courtiers. Our queenmotherly figure, thanks to whom we were all indulging the eleven o'clock Mariachis, commands a small Court of Close Family, Ladies-in-Waiting and hyperactive Courtiers that reminds one of the Société Privée de La Reine, the entourage of Marie Antoinette at Versailles/Petit Trianon. But the positively regal demeanour of Biscuit and the obvious charismatic power she exerts on her entourage makes one think rather of Antoinette's mother, Empress Maria Theresa herself.
The chandelier was awesome...
Many small wonders and good stories were exchanged during the evening, as it happens when the party, like mayonnaise, has all the ingredients and the cooking is first rate. One takes heart too at the politically incorrect display of photos as one could spot the severe military traits of Francisco Franco and the ambiguous monalisish smile of Doutor Salazar, posing with members of Biscuit's family. In the current days of strict boundaries in political good taste, keeping these photos in the light becomes an act of almost joyful challenge. It would be so simple to discretely move away those pictures, for a number of reasons including a couple of very good ones, but there is no revisionism of history here. What happened did happen, not some edulcorated new version of events to please all and confront no one.
This blogger of yours was rather charmed by the excellence of the English accent of the charming HassebladPortraitist, a musical enjoyment one has, hélas!, very few occasions to feel in these slightly foreign-idiomophobe lands.
Should I report a blatant case of sexual harassments which occurred during the party? The Right Honourable Reader agrees? Right. A white and 70s-style haired chronicler who honours us daily with his wisdom, a glory of this country's Belles Lettres, was visibly enchanted with the conspicuous whiteness of Mayamalinkarusskaya's complexion. He gallantlyl warned her, with an obvious enthusiasm for the Slavic biotype, against being left alone, abandoned by her husband-blogger, for more than a few seconds...
No serious party is complete without a Mariachi performance...
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