Invited by the inlaws: the shock of an empty table
Our inlaws asked to come over, and when I saw their dining table I was utterly stunned.
For three days I prepared for their visit as if I were taking a crucial exam. I grew up in a village near Bordeaux where hospitality isnt merely a custom but a sacred duty. Since childhood we were taught that a guest must leave full and satisfied, even if it means offering the last slice of bread. At home the table was always piled high with cold cuts, artisan cheeses, vegetables, bitesize appetizers, piesmore a sign of respect and warmth than just a meal.
Our daughter Camille got married a few months ago. We had already met the inlaws, but only in neutral settingsa café, the wedding itself. They had never stepped into our modest flat on the outskirts of Paris, and the thought of hosting them made me nervous. I suggested they come on Sunday, hoping we could draw closer and get to know each other better. My motherinlaw, Élodie, accepted enthusiastically, and I immediately set to work: buying groceries, fruit, ice cream, and baking my famous creamandnut cake. Hospitality runs in my veins, and I was determined not to disappoint.
Both of them turned out to be highly educated university professors, dignified and sharp, commanding respect. I feared awkward silences, but the evening turned out surprisingly pleasant. We talked about our childrens futures, laughed, joked, and stayed up late. Camille and her husband joined us later, making the atmosphere even cozier. At the nights end the inlaws invited us to their place the following week. I knew they had enjoyed the meeting, and that warmed my heart.
The invitation filled me with joy. I even bought a new navyblue dress with a modest neckline so I would look presentable. Of course I baked another cakestorebought ones never satisfy me; they lack soul. My husband Pierre was complaining that he wanted to eat before we left, but I cut him off: Élodie said shell take care of our arrival. If you arrive with a full stomach shell be upset! Hold on. He sighed, then complied.
When we arrived at their city apartment, I was dazzled. The interior looked like a spread from a design magazinerecent renovations, expensive furniture, elegant details. I expected a special, convivial evening. Yet when we were led to the living room and I saw their table, my heart stopped in astonishment. It was bare. No plates, no napkins, no trace of a snack. Tea or coffee? Élodie asked with a faint smile, as if the answer were obvious. The only thing on the table was my cake, which she praised before asking for the recipe. One cup of tea with a slice of cakeour socalled feast.
Staring at that strippeddown table, a knot of resentment and incomprehension grew inside me. Pierre sat beside me, his eyes showing a hungry disappointment. He remained silent, but I knew he was counting the minutes until we could return home. I forced a smile and said it was time to leave. We thanked them, said goodbye, and they announced, as if nothing unusual had happened, that they would come to our house the next week. Of courseat our place the table is always buried under food; it never sits alone with a solitary cup of tea!
On the drive back, the image haunted me. How could anyone host like that? I thought of our families, of the chasm that had opened in our understanding of hospitality. To me a table is the heart of a home, a symbol of care; to them, apparently, it is merely a piece of furniture. Pierre stayed quiet, but I could see him dreaming of the roast chicken waiting in our fridge. This morning I didnt let him eat it, and now he stared out the window with the look of a betrayed person. I felt deceivednot by the lack of food, but by the indifference of people who had become part of our family.
Invited by the In-Laws: Unveiling a Dazzling Dining Experience
