By Ige Ramos
We often mistake cultural diplomacy for a clean, linear exchange — a handshake between nations, a treaty signed with a Montblanc pen, or a polite toast raised in a gilded hall. But as a food historian and a designer of books, I have always suspected that true diplomacy is far messier. It is a collision of textures, a layout of conflicting typefaces, and, quite often, a menu that tries too hard to explain who we are to people who might not be listening.
There is no better case study for this “culinary realpolitik” than the gathering at the Hotel Majestic on May 18, 1922. We know the cast of characters: Proust, Joyce, Picasso, Stravinsky, and Diaghilev. It is the sort of guest list that feels like a dream dinner party. But what fascinates me — what speaks to me as someone who spends his life curating the pages of Philippine heritage—is not the fame of the guests, but the desperate, curated architecture of the evening itself. The gathering was not just a dinner. It was a prototype for modern cultural diplomacy, complete with all its awkward silences and indigestion.
When I look at this event through the lens of gastronomy, I see the hosts, Sydney and Violet Schiff, acting as the ultimate editors. They were attempting to bind together two distinct volumes of culture: the fading, velvet-lined world of the Belle Époque (represented by Proust) and the violent, angular shock of the Russian avant-garde (represented by Stravinsky and Diaghilev). And their medium of choice for this binding was food.
Consider the menu. It was a strategic document. The presence of Boeuf en Gelée (Beef in Aspic) was not merely a culinary choice; it was a literary citation. We know this dish from Proust’s In Search of Lost Time, described with the reverence usually reserved for cathedral architecture. By serving it, the Schiffs were attempting to translate Proust’s fiction into edible reality — a gesture of profound respect, yet also a risk. Aspic is a suspension of time. It holds chaos in clarity. It is the “slow food” of the 19th century, requiring patience and a stable environment.
Contrasting the chaos was the vodka and the presence of the Ballets Russes — a group defined by motion, disruption, and the shattering of old forms. Here lies the central tension of cultural diplomacy: the clash between preservation (the aspic) and disruption (the vodka). The Schiffs tried to serve both on the same table.
As a Filipino, this dynamic feels painfully familiar. I think of the Ilustrados — Rizal, Luna, and Hidalgo — living in Paris and Madrid in the late 19th century. They, too, used food and banquets to assert their presence. They staged dinners to prove to the colonizer that the “Indio” was civilized, that our palate was refined, and that we deserved a seat at the table. Like the provincial Diaghilev, they were cultural brokers, packaging their identity in a way that the European elite could digest.
Diaghilev is the figure I find most compelling in this tableau. He embodied the impresario, but he was secretly financially broke, nevertheless, he was comprehending the importance of designing culture for commercial success. He took the “vernacular” of Russia — the peasant red, the folk melodies, the rough textures — and polished them until they shone like diamonds under the Paris stage lights. In my own work, whether documenting the street food of Quiapo or the heirloom recipes of Cavite, I grapple with this same challenge. How do we present our local, vernacular culture to the world without sanitizing it? How do we plate the grit of the wet market so it can be understood in the hotel ballroom without losing its soul?
At the Majestic, the “design” of the evening failed in the immediate sense. The conversation between Proust and Joyce was a disaster of non sequiturs. Proust wanted to talk about duchesses; Joyce wanted to talk about truffles (or perhaps his eyes). They spoke past each other. But is this the reality of diplomacy? Diplomacy usually does not involve a convergence of ideas; it frequently merely involves the presence of individuals in a room. The success wasn’t in the dialogue, but in the proximity.
For a book designer, the lesson of the Majestic is that the “layout” matters more than the text. The image of these titans sitting together — Proust in his fur coat, Joyce in his cups, Picasso observing with his predatory eye — created a cultural imprint that outlasted the awkward silence. The dinner proved that Modernism was not a monolithic movement but a fractured, messy family.
In our current work of promoting Filipino gastronomy — whether through the Slow Food movement or our growing library of heritage cookbooks — we should remember the Majestic. We should not fear the awkward pairings. We should not be afraid to serve our versions of Boeuf en Gelée alongside our own “vodka.” Diplomacy is not about smoothing over differences; it is about placing them on the same table and letting the guests deal with the contrast.
The “Majestic” moment was a failure of conversation but a triumph of curation. It reminds us that we all want the world to see and taste what we do. And sometimes, even if the guests don’t talk to each other, the fact that they ate together is enough. The plate, after all, is the first territory of peace.
THE MENU
The late-night supper served at the Hotel Majestic on May 18, 1922, was a specially curated menu designed to honor the distinct cultural backgrounds of the guests of honor. Here is what was on the menu for that legendary night:
To Start
Caviar & Russian Hors d’oeuvres: A tribute to Sergei Diaghilev, Igor Stravinsky, and the Ballets Russes.
Vodka: Served alongside the appetizers to toast the premiere of Stravinsky’s Renard.
Main Courses
Boeuf en Gelée (Beef in Aspic): A deliberate culinary homage to Marcel Proust, as this was the signature dish of the character Françoise in his novel In Search of Lost Time.
Asparagus: Another dish with strong Proustian literary associations.
Dessert & Drinks
Almond Cake
Pistachio Ice Cream
Champagne & White Wine: Flowed freely throughout the evening.
Night at the Majestic by Richard Davenport-Hines, 2007. Faber & Faber
In May 1922, five of the 20th century’s most towering artistic figures — Proust, Joyce, Picasso, Diaghilev, and Stravinsky — convened for a single, momentous supper at a grand Parisian hotel. This singular night marked the only occasion on which Joyce and Proust ever met, alongside Picasso, Diaghilev, and Stravinsky, rendering it arguably the most extraordinary dinner party in history.
Ige Ramos is a food scholar, editor, and book designer, as well as the founder of the Ugnayan Center for Filipino Gastronomy, an applied research hub for comparative gastronomy, food studies, and edible design. Ramos’s work analyzes how ingredients, technology, geography, demographic shifts, and politics shape flavor, taste, and cuisine.