At the neighbourhood potluck, every guest suspected someone was secretly judging the food. The trouble began when their host, Paula, said she had invited “a special guest with a very refined palate.”
Paula meant her aunt Betty, who could identify a spice by smelling the lid of its jar. The neighbours imagined a newspaper critic. Suddenly no one wanted to put a supermarket label on the table.
Graham had made potato salad. He transferred it from a plastic tub into a ceramic bowl and sprinkled parsley on top. Vera brought her famous pie but renamed it “orchard tart” on a card written in careful lettering. Malik, who had made plain rice, called it “a minimalist side.”
Betty arrived wearing a knitted cardigan and carrying a jar of pickles. Nobody recognized her as the special guest. They assumed she was another neighbour and offered her a seat beside the drinks.
Paula was delayed in the kitchen. The guests decided to impress the imagined critic before she appeared. Graham described his potatoes as “locally considered.” Vera explained that the tart had “a conversation with cinnamon.” Malik refused to explain the rice, saying mystery was part of its design.
Betty listened. Then she tasted each dish.
“This salad needs more salt,” she said. “The tart is lovely. And this rice is rice.”
Malik thanked her for the honest review. Graham added salt. Vera looked so pleased that she forgot to act modest.
When Paula came out, she introduced Betty to the room. “My aunt, the one I told you about.”
Graham nearly dropped his spoon. “You’re the judge?”
“I’m here for supper,” Betty said. “Did someone make it a contest?”
Everyone looked at Paula. Paula looked at the elaborate food cards and the parsley that Graham had arranged like a tiny hedge.
Betty did not mind. She proposed a friendly vote for the dish people would most want again next week. Graham campaigned for his newly salted salad. Vera promised to reveal the tart’s actual name. Malik argued that rice belonged on every ballot because it went with everything.
The votes were tied until Paula discovered a small covered tray in the kitchen. It belonged to Mr. Evans, who had arrived late and slipped away to fetch extra chairs. The tray held cheese sandwiches cut into triangles.
Nobody had dressed them up. They were made with ordinary bread, ordinary cheese, and a thin layer of mustard. Betty took one, then a second. The neighbours followed.
Mr. Evans returned to find the tray empty. “Sorry,” he said. “I only made them because I wasn’t sure what went with the rest.”
“Everything,” said Malik.
The sandwiches won the vote. Graham demanded to know whether the secret ingredient was expensive cheese. Mr. Evans said it was the last cheese left in his fridge and the secret was making food people could pick up while talking.
The next month, everyone brought simpler dishes. Paula put out a plain sign saying POTLUCK. Betty brought more pickles and declined to judge, although she still told Graham when he needed salt.
Graham asked Mr. Evans for the sandwich recipe. Mr. Evans wrote two words on a napkin: “Invite people.”
Betty added a third: “Feed them.”
No one asked for the newspaper review again.