Henry sliced the crusts from a loaf of white bread and he had a bowl of egg salad at the ready. He’d already prepared small homemade buns with butter and country ham, small leaves of baby endive with a dab of blue cheese at the tip of each. There were six trays of finger sandwiches covered in Saran wrap. Peering closely, I could identify anchovy butter and radishes, thinly sliced cucumber with cream cheese, sharp cheddar and chutney—all specialties of his. He’d arranged cupcakes, petit fours, and tiny cream puffs on three silver platters, again protected from the drying air with clear plastic
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