Eleanor Steafel - The Art of Friday Night Dinner

For Mum, Dad, Flo and Ollie, my favourite people to share a Friday night with

Contents

Toast, pastas and baked potatoes for the perfect sofa suppers

Seafood and steaks to fall in love over

Fried things and fizz, birthday vongole and going the whole hog

A tuna melt hill I will die on, and other stories

Sundaes, Friday night cookies and frozen After Eights

I sometimes wonder if even the shoddiest weeks are worth it for the heady relief that comes with making it to Friday night. With that first sip of something cold, that first frantic handful of crisps, the week begins to retreat. By the time the kitchen is filled with the scent of a good dinner coming together, all is forgiven. Its the start of a two-day exhale, where everything that has been hazy and difficult slowly comes into focus. Its the sensory full stop at the end of the week that says: You did it, you made it to Friday night have an olive, and a gin and tonic. Nothing beats the feeling of a weekend stretching out in front of you, all shiny with the promise of good food and good people or quiet pots of coffee and no people. Its like the first night of holiday when your shoulders finally drop, and the only question you have to ponder is: Do you want a glass of ros next, a plate of cheese, or both?

I learned early on the magic of a Friday night in. As a child it was when I was allowed to stay up and have dinner with my parents after my younger brother and sister were asleep. While they were cajoled into bed, I would hide in the downstairs loo so as not to raise suspicion that something fun might be about to happen. When the coast was clear, out came the crisps and on went Top of the Pops. If theres a heaven, I think it might be a saggy red sofa in a 1990s living room, with endless salt-and-vinegar Kettle Chips and the dulcet tones of the Ground Force theme tune. Ive been chasing that high ever since, and spent more nights out longing to be in than I am proud of.

There is a kind of secret glamour to an evening on the sofa, totally alone, with no one to please but yourself.

The sort of night when a fried cheese sandwich is a perfectly acceptable dinner, perhaps accompanied by a very dry, briny martini, because its your Friday night and you make the rules. I like pouring red wine into a big glass and eating spaghetti in my dressing gown in front of old West Wing episodes. I like making breakfast for dinner seven-minute Burford Browns smushed on to toast that has been spread thickly with cream cheese and Marmite and topped with pickled shallots; golden American home fries with peppers, onions and sausage. I like cradling a bowl of something delicious on the sofa while sobbing along to videos of people being reunited with long-lost family members and old Oscars acceptance speeches. It might sound tragic but, honestly, there is nothing so cathartic as watching Tom Hankss 1994 acceptance speech for Philadelphia at the end of a ropy week. Really blows the cobwebs away.

I often find I shop in a way I never would Monday to Thursday. The end of the week seems to bring along with it an end to structure and sensible decision-making. Instead, Friday night ushers in a resounding sod it. After a week spent foraging for leftovers and finding new ways to justify how adding a feeble handful of spinach to everything makes for a balanced meal, Ill get an urge to go to the posh deli on the way home and splurge a months salary on overpriced bits. A piece of English sheeps cheese, a sourdough baguette, and a paper bag containing three heritage tomatoes for 16? Dont mind if I do. A perfect bavette from the butcher to devour with baked potatoes, soured cream and chives? Just call me Katie. (And if that reference is lost on you, then for the love of God, please put this down and go and watch The Way We Were immediately.)

I love the intoxicating freedom of a Friday night. That anything-is-possible feeling when you leave work, perhaps with only a vague plan, but with some intangible fizz in the air and a little voice telling you its going to be a good night. On nights when I dont know where the wind is going to take me, I always have one eye on what Im going to make when I get home in the wee hours, having skipped dinner. A fried mozzarella, salami and honey sandwich; a tuna melt to silence all other tuna melts; a mound of egg fried rice. Tired eyes, sore feet, stupid grin and the prospect of a full stomach. Theres nothing like it.

Occasionally, Friday nights are for shutting the world away and revelling in a moment of fallow time before the weekend.

Sometimes its a night for sitting opposite your oldest friend; a chance to pour your souls out to each other over a mound of pad Thai and then sink an entire bar of Tonys (the purple one, with the pretzels, obviously) while watching Sleepless in Seattle for the millionth time. Sometimes its a night to set the table properly and tuck into something special once small people are in bed; a chance to look each other in the eye for the first time all week, to make plans and reminisce, to air some of the things that have been troubling you and to retell all those stories youve told so many times before. And sometimes, all you want to do is to assemble a gang of your favourite people around a groaning table for one of those nights that roll on and brilliantly on.

The words Come over, Ill cook! might well be my epitaph.

What usually happens is someone suggests getting together, various bars are floated and pubs debated at great length on WhatsApp, while I sit on my hands trying not to say those four little words. Eventually, I cant help myself. I dont think Ill ever tire of getting a gang of people round for dinner, whether they know each other or not. I love filling little bowls with good things to be snacked on black olives (the soft, greasy kind, or sweet little nioise), a mound of ice-cold radishes to swipe through butter and flaky salt, a jar of cornichons, a plate of good anchovies dressed with lemon zest and chilli, some sort of creamy, herby dip laced with garlic, little saucers of oil and thick, fruity vinegar, a board piled high with torn hunks of bread. I love lighting candles and putting on lipstick and mixing drinks a jug of jalapeo margaritas or tumblers of syrupy vermouth with orange slices and too many olives.

Above all, I love creating villages from strangers. I love my little flat being full, and that feeling when you finally crawl into bed in the wee hours, filled with the deep contentment of having laughed your way through a long meal with excellent people.

A Friday night can be all these things and more. It can be anything you want it to be. But first, you need to settle on something good to eat.