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by C. Jeanette Tyson
Oh,
how tangled the web of social obligation. First they ask you, then you ask
them, then they ask you, then they ask you again, then again because
apparently they do not work or have weeds in the garden or juice spilled all
over the back seat or bosses with migraines then they ask you again before
you can quite get to scraping the black stuff off the grill, then they do
something above-and-beyond fabulous, and then it is absolutely, without a
doubt, you’ll- never- freeload- dinner -in –this- town- again, your
turn.
Sure, entertaining looks easy. (So do the parallel
bars.) We all know it’s not. At minimum, there’s a week of phone calls,
a night of flipping through cookbooks, and an afternoon of shopping.
There’s just no way around it.
Or is there? You could do what I’ve
noticed a few people doing lately: let a restaurant host your party for you.
Let it be
known up front, I have no problem accepting these invitations. But I wonder:
are we finding new ways to adapt to our fast-paced world or have we lost the
will to reciprocate?
I asked a few geographically-dispersed friends
about the pro’s and con’s.
Nothing’s changed in
A single mom in
Orlando
emailed “A dinner party? What’s that?”
But figures we should take any old chance to pull out the good china.
In
Chapel Hill
, you go to someone’s house, but forget the potluck.
A reminder from
San Francisco
: watch the booze. With mark-up at 100%, and the expected tip, it can kill
you. But if you can live with that, then be sure to get a round table and
drink and eat up.
Restaurant-hosting has its perks: the plates and
silverware match, you can spend as much time on your hair as your guests do,
and of course, no clean-up. The only rule seems to be that you tell everyone
the rules. In other words, if you want guests to cover their own drinks, let
them know long before the waiter comes with the check.
But restaurant-hosting does have its price. For
instance, you’re giving up the chance to be known for your “signature
dish.” This does not have to be your grandmother’s marshmallow jello,
friends. It could be jambalaya or spanikopita or even Virginia ham.
For many years, when I lived in
California
, I’d import one of those lip-puckering
Virginia
hams for my annual fall party and the word got around. I was also known for
the longwinded invitations going on about the first nip of cool in the air
and the way the sun dropped low in the sky and lit the valley and the
relative relationship of truth, beauty and wine. Really, it’s a wonder
anyone came at all.
But come they did. And that, you see, is the whole
point. Keep ‘em coming, and get credit for it.
Speaking of which, you only get points for trying
if you’re at your house. So the lamb’s a little overdone or the
chocolate chip cookies are hard as a rock. It doesn’t matter. It even
works in your favor, as a kind of reverse signature dish; people remember
you fondly for the things you can’t do.
Host your party at a restaurant and you deprive
yourself, and your guests, of the entire dynamic of the invitation. You know
what I mean.
You call to invite someone to your house. They say,
“Oh, that sounds lovely. Can I bring anything?”
You, of course, say “no,” which gives your
guest that full-bodied flush of relief and also sets you up nicely as a
martyr, with continuing solo credit for the party. You go along your merry,
organizational way but the drama continues for the guest, who must then
figure out what to bring when you tell them not to bring anything.
Usually I just take wine. It’s easy to keep the
extra bottles in the house so I don’t have to make a frenzied stop at the
liquor store when I’m running late anyway. You can also re-gift wine
you’re not too sure about. If you party with the same folks all the time,
this can backfire on you, though, so just be warned.
Flowers are a nice gesture, especially if you provide a vase so the
host doesn’t have to go rummaging through cabinets while the toast points
burn.
But restaurants have plenty of wine and flowers.
What’s the well-bred guest to do then? Unclear on the concept, I went to
dinner once with a gift tucked in my bag, just to see how the evening would
play. Now I’m the proud owner of an ice cream scoop with a rather artsy
handle. Oh well, Christmas shopping starts early.
Nothing seemed this complicated when I was growing
up. Granted, I didn’t get invited many places that didn’t include
relatives.
I love going to parties at people’s houses. I
love the slightly nervous, slightly exhausted look of pride on the hosts’
face. I like to see what their imagination has cooked up. I like to tuck
away in various hallways and rooms, dropping in and out of conversations, so
that it’s not one party I’m attending, but several. I like calling the
next day and telling the hosts what a great event they pulled off and
hearing how they’re still finding wine glasses in the strangest places.
I guess I just like it when hosts are hosts and
guests are guests and hosts don’t get to be guests, too.
But it’s your party.
I’ll come if you ask me.
__________
C. Jeanette Tyson is
AustinMama.com's beloved foodie-in-the-field.
