Yesterday — Or How a Dinner Party for the “Gourmet Brother-in-Law” Became a Lesson in Family, Boundaries, and the True Cost of Hospitality in a Classic English Home

June 7th

How quickly a gathering can turn into a test. I dont know why I still get so flustered before guests arrive, especially when its someone like PatrickMichaels younger brother, our star guest for the evening. I was still at the stove when Michael began fretting over the table, nearly dropping forks as he rearranged the crystal dishes.

Where are you putting that salad bowl? It blocks the view of the sliced meats! And shift the wine glassesPatrickll want space. You know how he waves his hands about when he talks.

My legs throbbed, my back ached, and the apron was streaked, but I nodded, hiding my exhaustion. No point complaining now. Michael was anxious to please; Patrick, forty and proud of his freelance artist status, was really just scraping by with odd jobs and sporadic help from their mum. His visits always felt more like an exam I was doomed to fail.

Calm down, Michael. The tables fine, I said, keeping my tone gentle. Just tell me, did you get the brown loaf? Last time Patrick moaned there was only sliced whitebad for the figure and all.

I did, I did, he declared, diving to the breadbox. Proper rye, with caraway seeds, just how he likes it. And the meat, Gal? Is that sorted? You know he always goes on about culinary standards!

I compressed my lips, resisting the urge to snap. Patrick fancied himself a gourmand, forever referencing London cocktail bars and posh restaurantsnever satisfied. Each time he came round, my efforts felt wasted.

I roasted the pork in honey and mustard, I replied crisply. Its fresh, from the market, twelve pounds a kilo. If he turns his nose up, Im washing my hands of it.

Michael grimaced. Come on, dont start. Hes not been over in six months. Let him feel at home. Its a tough time for him, searching for I dunno. He trailed off.

What, money? I wanted to retort, but held back. Michael idolised his little brother and bristled at the slightest criticism.

The doorbell rang promptly at seven. I stripped off the apron, tidied my hair in the hall mirror, and fixed a well-rehearsed smile. Michael was already opening the door, beaming like a polished teapot.

Pat! At last!

Patrick appeared, fashionably rumpled in an open overcoat, scarf tossed over his shoulder, stubble giving a rugged effect. He held his arms spread for Michael, half-heartedly slapping his shoulder in return.

I glanced at his hands: empty. Not even a box of chocolates or a bottle of wine. He hadnt set foot here for half a year, and still nothing. Even the childrenthankfully at Grans for the eveninggot no sweet.

Hello, Gail, he nodded, scanning the hallway, shoes still on, eyeing the wallpaper. Redecorated, eh? Bit clinical. Well, as long as you like it.

Evening, Patrick, I replied, flatly. Wash your hands, please. Here are some new slippers.

Ill stick with socks. Strange slippersdont want athletes foot, do I? Youve cleaned the floor, I hope?

My patience fizzled. I’d scrubbed twice, and he questions the floor.

Its spotless, Patrick. In you come.

We settled in the lounge. The table looked festive: white linen, smart napkins, three salads, charcuterie and cheese boards, red caviar, homemade pickled mushroomsmine from last autumn. Hot food at the centre.

Patrick slouched back, scrutinising the spread. Michael fussed, uncorking the cognac hed bought especiallytop shelf, aged five years.

To family! Michael declared, pouring a round.

Patrick swirled his glass, sniffed, grimaced. Armenian? Oh. Well, I favour French, myself. Smoother notes, not so harsh. But I suppose one must make do.

He downed it, then poked around the cold cuts, selecting the priciest ham.

Help yourself, Patrick, I said, shifting the salad bowl towards him. This ones prawn and avocadoa new recipe.

He speared a prawn, examined it theatrically. Frozen, werent they?

Of course, its Solihull, not Brighton, I replied. King prawns, from Waitrose.

Rubbery, he announced, discarding it. Youve overdone them, Gail. Precisely two minutes in boiling waterelse, tough as old boots. And this avocados not ripened. Crunchy.

Michael, mid-bite, paused awkwardly.

Oh, come on Pat, it tastes great! I had a go earlier, lovely.

Michael, taste is an education, Patrick intoned. You cant expect to appreciate fine dining if youve always had imitation. Last week, I was at a Mayfair openingscallop ceviche, exquisite texture. This, though Homemade mayo at least?

Colour rose in my face. Store-bought Classic Mayonnaisejust didnt have time for whisking eggs by hand.

Shop-bought, I admitted.

Patrick sighed as though Id confessed to poisoning him. Vinegar. Preservatives. Pure toxins. Come on, then, your pork. Praying you didnt spoil that, too.

I silently plated him a generous slice, added the honey-mustard glaze and rosemary potatoes. The aroma was heavenly, but I braced for expert critique.

He chewed, gazed at the ceiling. Michael looked on, hopeful; I, with barely contained fury.

Dry, Patrick pronounced. And too sweet on the sauce. Youve made a dessert, not a roast. Probably barely marinated the meattough fibres. Should’ve soaked it overnight in kiwi or, at least, tonic water.

I marinated it overnight, with spices and mustard, I murmured. Most people have loved it.

Most people probly find carrot a delicacy. Im objective. Its edible, certainly, if youre famished, but pleasureless.

He shoved away the almost untouched meatten pounds worthand reached for the pickled mushrooms.

Home-pickled, I hope? Or supermarket jars?

From the woods near Stratford, I said, voice tight. We brined them ourselves.

He sampled, winced. Too much vinegar. Youll wreck your stomach. And salty as the North Sea. Salty food means love, you know? Michael, watch that blood-pressure, wont you?

Michael chuckled nervously.

Oh, its classic! Perfect with vodka. Come on, let’s have another shot.

They drank. Patrick flushed, undid his scarf, kept his coat defiantly on, as if poised to escape.

What, no proper caviar? These grains are tiny. Discounted ones, were they?

Thats salmon caviar, Patrick. Sixteen pounds a jar. Special, just for you. We dont buy it for ourselveswe pinch pennies.

Scrimping on foods a sin, he observed, popping another inferior caviar sandwich into his mouth. You are what you eat. Id skip meals before buying cheap sausage. Yet your fridge is rammed with promotional rubbish and you wonder why you lack energy or have a pallor.

I looked at Michael, who silently chewed his dry pork, avoiding conflict. His indifference stung more than any insult. Always the ostrich, while his darling brother criticises everything.

Michael, I said, does the meat taste dry to you, too?

He gulped. N-no, Gail, honestly, its delicious. Pat just Well, his standards are sharper.

I placed my fork deliberately. Metal clanged on the porcelain, sharp as a warning shot.

So my standards are blunt. My hands clumsy. My cooking, poisonous.

Gail, dont make a scene, Patrick complained. Im giving constructive feedback. So you grow. You should be thanking meMichaelll gobble anything and compliment it, so youve gone soft. Women should always improve, not stagnate.

Thank you? I echoed, rising from the table. Chair scraping harshly.

Gail, where are you off? Michael panicked. Weve barely sat down.

Ill fetch pudding. Patrick adores pudding, dont you?

I retreated to the kitchen, eyeing the Napoleon torte I’d lovingly made last nightlayer upon layer, custard, vanilla. Looking from cake to empty bin, my hands shook. All the years Patrick had come, eaten, borrowed money, never once repaid. Criticised my decor, clothes, even my children. Michael always pardoned him, creative, sensitiveI must be steely, then?

I left the cake. Instead, I loaded the big tray and returned to the dining room.

Here comes dessert? Patrick perked up, craning his neck. Not shop-bought Swiss Roll, I hope?

I wordlessly began clearing platesmeat, salad, cold cuts.

What are you doing? Patrick spluttered as his sandwich vanished. I was still eating!

Why continue? I asked blandly. You said its all unfit for a guest: dry, rubbery, poison, poor quality. Cant let you suffer it. Im not your enemy.

Michael jumped up.

Gail! Stop it! Put the food back! Apologise, quickly!

I set the tray in the kitchen, back straight and eyes icy.

Oh, Im embarrassing you now? I asked Michael. How about when you nodded while your brother insulted me? Didnt that shame you? Are you a man or a doormat? He scarfed caviar worth sixteen pounds in five minutes and sneered. Ever bought me caviar just because? Never. Everything premium, for guests; and guests wipe their feet on us.

Hes my brother! My own blood!

And Im your wife! Ten years, cooking, cleaning, washing. Last night I was at the stove until midnight, just for this. Only to be told Im useless. If you dont shut up or stop blaming me, Ill plant this cake on your headand Im not kidding, Michael.

He recoiled. Hed never seen me this wayalways soft, agreeable, easy. Now I was a tempest, ready to destroy.

Patrick poked his head in, more stunned than indignant.

Well, Ive never he began. Is this English hospitality? I bring my heart, you count crumbs.

You bring your heart? Where? In your empty hands? Ever brought anything at all to this house? Even a box of tea? You come only to gorge and criticise.

Im strapped for cash! Hard times, you know?

Your hard times last twenty years. Yet your coats fresh, your scarf poshand you hit every gallery opening. But borrowing a hundred pounds from Michael and forgetting to return it is sacred.

Shut it, Gail! Michael cut in. Dont count his money!

Its not just his moneyits ours! Our familys, scraped together for this so-called connoisseur.

Patrick clutched his chest theatrically.

Im leaving! I didnt expect youd marry such a common woman. Ill never step in this house again.

He spun on his heel, heading for the door. Michael chased him.

Pat, wait! Dont listen, shes just tired! Shell calm down, youll see!

No, Michael, Patrick intoned, pulling on shoes over his socks. This hurt wont be undone. Im away. Dont call until shes apologised!

The door slammed.

Michael lingered, staring at it as if access to paradise had been denied. Then trudged back to the kitchen, where I was boxing leftovers.

Pleased with yourself? he muttered. Youve ruined my only brother for me.

Ive rid us of a freeloader, I replied, without turning. Sit. Eat. Or is the meat too dry for you?

Michael sat, grasped his head.

Hes a guest

A guest should behave. Not act as Environmental Health. Listen closely: I will never cook for him again. If you want time with Patrick, meet him elsewhereand pay for yourself. Not with my budget, nor my labour.

Youve grown hard, he whispered.

Ive grown fair. Eat up. Or shall I clear it away?

He eyed the beautiful roast. His stomach grumbled, beaten by the aroma. Tentatively, he forked a slivertasting, then closing his eyes, savouring.

Well? I prompted.

Its delicious, he admitted. Truly, Gail.

See? Your brother is just a bitter failure, trying to feel superior. Recognise that.

He chewed in silence. For the first time, a glimmer of doubt flickered in his mind. He recalled Patricks empty hands, his scornful tone. And felt sheepish for his own complicity.

What about the cake? he asked quietly. Will we have it?

I smiledfor the first time since the doorbell.

Well have tea, too. With thyme, just how you like.

I sliced the Napoleon, generous portions for both. We sat, shared tea and cake, the tension slowly dissolving.

You know, Michael said, polishing off his second slice, he didnt give Mum a birthday present last month. Said his presence was the gift.

There you go, I answered. Youre seeing it.

Michaels phone pinged: a message from Patrick*Couldve sent me home with sandwiches, I left hungry. Owe me £100 for emotional distress.*

Michael read it aloud. Silence. I raised an eyebrow.

So what will you say?

Michael looked aroundat me, at the warm kitchen, at the cake. He typed with purpose: *Dine out, youre the foodie. No money.* And hit Block.

What did you write? I asked.

That were off to bed.

I let it slide, though Id glimpsed the screen. I hugged him from behind.

Well done, Michael. You got there, at last.

That night, we understood something vital: to protect a family, sometimes you must send people awayeven family. And the roast really was incredible, no matter what self-proclaimed experts with empty pockets said.