AUSTRALIA: Joy of dining with three good men

. SYDNEY, NSW / The Australian / Lifestyle / August 1, 2009 By Jane Fraser I HAVE a bit of advice for young people in this office and elsewhere in the workforce: go out to lunch and drop the mung beans, lettuce leaves and designer mineral water in the bin on the way out. Not that young people would swallow any advice from such an ancient crone. They'd probably smile kindly because they're a polite lot, especially the young men, but behind the perfect orthodontist teeth their reaction would be hanging in the air like the Cheshire cat's grin: get off my case, you silly old biddy. You learn things at good lunches. It always lifts your act being with people who are a thousand times better than you are at something. I once had the pleasure of playing tennis with Arthur Ashe. We were introduced to each other in Sydney in 1965 by another tennis star who was being mischievous, thinking a white South African and a black American would clash horns; in the event, we became firm friends. He said I had a lousy serve and a less than spectacular volley and marched me on to the court. I played the best few games of my life; sadly, never repeated. Tennis, of course is good for you, whereas lunch has a bad name. Look, I'm not talking about the kind of midday meals for which journalists are famous; afternoons in the pub throwing back the booze, racing back to the office to meet a deadline and then retiring under the desk in a pile of ennui. That's very yesterday. I remember one of those yesterdays when a young finance journalist rolled into the building and bumped into the very attractive and haughty woman publisher in the foyer. Overcome with emotion he threw himself to the floor, kissed her ankles and declared undying love. She gave him a frigid look, huffed to her office and collapsed, laughing. The journalist had to grovel for weeks. The lunches I'm talking about now are entertainment, where food and drink are incidental. You're there for the company and conversation. I go once a month to the Centre for Independent Studies gathering. It's a meeting of people bulging with brains and bonhomie, and I never leave without learning something I hadn't a clue about. I always feel much wiser, albeit for an hour or two. Deborah Jones, editor of The Weekend Australian's Review section, invited me to lunch at the Union, University and Schools Club of Sydney to listen to Jennifer Hewett, this paper's national affairs correspondent, who was speaking eruditely to a dozen or so smart women. It was a well-delivered overview of political and economic affairs and I certainly found it an eye-opener; in particular, realising how little I knew about anything hovering near the subject of money. Now I've even got a yen for the footsie, can anyone explain what a footsie actually is? Never mind; I'm on my way to being an All Ordinaries fan. I mourn the end of lunches with three great friends: Frank Devine, Paddy McGuinness and James Murray. The former two have died and James, who is alive and kicking, albeit with only 1 1/2 legs, is a little inconvenienced by his wheelchair and the tyranny of distance from a good restaurant. There can be nothing better than dining with three good men. No one drinks any more, of course; not, at least, anyone of a certain age. The rule of thumb is that you have a glass of wine with lunch, or with dinner, but not both, or you're in the grave danger of making a complete plonker of yourself. [rc] This column was originally intended for The Weekend Australian Review this week. Copyright 2009 News Limited.