If I had my druthers an ideal evening meal would be a compound of simplicity and traditional fare (as I have outlined below). And because this is entirely phantasmal and I no longer drink alcohol, I have added my former tipple choices as well.

1.  in the withdrawing room – preferably by a fireplace or Vermont casting with a book by Jane Austen – several shavings of smoked salmon rolled about a cucumber spear, a dry gin martini and a large green olive stuffed with pimiento;
2. at table, a consommé soup, Dry Sack sherry and background of baroque music by Johann Sebastian Bach;
3. for the main dish, filet mignon (medium rare), baked potato doused with freshly squeezed lemon juice and a titch of Maldon salt, dry red wine or Champagne;
4. for dessert, a bowl of fresh fruit, Belgium chocolates and Porto; and,
5. for conclusion an espresso and Cognac (XO).

Since all this is illusory, I might also add a panetella cigar as the final closure.

I feel compelled to strengthen this particular bit of pretentious nonsense by mentioning what would, if I were asked, be my ideal luncheon as well. Herewith the menu. I hasten to interject that in neither this nor the evening meal would I assume any of the culinary talent invoked.

So, onto luncheon:

1. fireplace once again; you can tell from that that much of the capital for these expositions derived from seasons late in the year; this is possibly because most often during good weather we make a point of getting into the open air; but when late autumn or winter set in, the cold was worsened by the miserable weather; a cheery indoor climate propelled by a reddened hearth was much preferred; and  a frozen vodka martini with lemon zest;
2. pan seared sea bass, but here I confess I’ve forgotten the detail of what accompanied the sea bass, nor do I think it was another martini, something simple whatever it was, like rice and large slices of field tomatoes; and,
3. nap.

There is no point pretending that the allure of a fireplace, a nip and lunch was but an interlude to an afternoon nap. The crackling fire and the autumnal blast were soporific music.

Perhaps I should round out this abbreviated rendition of a cook book by revealing the particulars of the matutinal indulgence also.  But on second thought, I sense I have fully exhausted the source of any further interest. I have just one last observation in the hopes of acquitting myself of being hopelessly dull. In the event it matters I am at a loss to explain the attraction of this droll subject (whatever it is). I can’t say it’s only about dining; nor only about eating; nor alcohol; nor furnishings. Somehow I relate this to just another of those instances when it is the privilege of old age to regard the past and to revive it momentarily in whatever form suits. I do however acknowledge that it is noticeably beyond the pale to attach to such an account, whatever it is accounting.