Before the Dinner Party

A vignette & a few thoughts on what makes a great fete

The best dinner parties at our house always started like this: having bought the groceries and flowers the day before, my mother would feverishly cook for most of the afternoon. Our sad, yellow-tiled kitchen, with its nineteen-fiftes electric range, was a constant thorn in her side, impeding her heroic endeavors with small Monterey Bay shrimp from Stagnaro Brothers (the fish monger on the wharf.) The shabbiness of the kitchen was an affront to my mother’s elegant copper pots from a previous life, but that was by no means a deterrent to hosting a dinner for ten. No matter our financial situation, we always ate well. (In California, we are blessed in that there is never a bad month for produce.) Her menus maintained a consistent quality and soulfulness, even in hard times. Many evenings for a dinner party it would be: Ensalada Valenciana (composed of romaine, oranges sections, black olives, and thinly sliced red onion in a champagne vinaigrette) paired with gambas a la plancha (shrimp on the grill), a tortilla de patata and saffron rice. Bottles of dry Spanish sherry would chill in the fridge, adjacent to Martinelli’s sparkling cider (a local favorite from nearby agricultural Watsonville) for the kids.

Just before the guests were to arrive, Spanish peanuts with the red skin still affixed and green pitted olives would be placed out on the coffee table in little silver bowls. The needle would be put on the record: Miles Davis, Carlos Gardel or The Romeros (a family of Spanish guitarists). Then the doorbell would ring. “Oh shit! Let them in, Olivia! I’m not dressed!” And with that, my mother would race upstairs, toss on a fresh caftan, pull her hair into a low chignon and emerge, gliding down the stairs like it had been no work at all. The theatre it all! The setting the table, her sorcery in the kitchen, the lighting of the candles, all these rituals of entertaining were our church.

Photo by Danielle Rubi

Not to suggest that we had enough spare time to be card-carrying hedonists: all the mothers I knew growing up in Beachtown Bohemia worked full time. Nor did we have enough money to be materialists: luxury objects were not pined for, unless they were books, fine cooking knives, or good wine. We were the beach town bohemian middle class: we knew the scent of old Volvo upholstery wet from trips to the beach, the sound of the coffee grinder at dawn, the cadence of Dick Cavett’s voice as he interviewed someone on TV, and the crinkled stacks of The New York Review of Books piled neatly in simple wooden bookcases that my Dad had made in the garage one drizzly weekend.

When I approach entertaining now, as an adult, I aim between these goal posts of hospitality and an understated beauty. It’s not about the fanciest linen napkins, but it is about the care I take in ironing and folding them. Not the most extravagant cut of meat, but maybe a tenderly conceived sauce that shows an attention to flavor. The little gestures, like bowls of nuts near the drinks table make idle guests feel welcomed. Most importantly, the music must make the room feel alive, and the booze must be plentiful. Other than that, all you really need to be is a good listener. Nothing is more chic than a host who actually listens, with her whole body to you. It’s just human nature: someone will say it was a great party if they have been properly, truly, listened to.

Tenderness is on the menu. (This print for sale in my online shop — see link below)

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