At last, I’m no longer a dinner party virgin
An expert team of ‘hostbusters’ comes to the aid of Marieclaire Chappet, who feared her first bash would be a disaster
Ihave never thrown a dinner party. It’s for the same reason I never learnt to drive: it feels like too much responsibility. Aged 28, it genuinely scares me. In the same way I don’t want my friends injured because of my poor driving, nor do I want them retching for 48 hours because of my lax way with marinating chicken.
As a child, I watched my grandparents be the perfect hosts. Dinner at theirs was a masterclass in hospitality. They filled people’s glasses, talked to each guest in turn and served up food so good just the memory of it is enough to tickle my taste buds today. Sunday lunches came from the golden age of hosting; where every dinner was an event and not Deliveroo in front of Netflix.
I can never imagine possessing their seamless ease. I worry about awkward silences and feel anxious at the very thought of timing everything to perfection and getting the wine list right. My mother didn’t inherit the dinner party gene either. She believes life is too short to cook something you could buy at M&S. The Abigail’s Party “hostess trolley” era was not her scene, and the Come Dine With Me renaissance passed me by in the same way affordable housing (with a kitchen big enough to have a table in) did.
It seems I am not alone. Whether it’s a group of hopeless millennials who may not be able to afford their own homes but still don’t think twice about spending a small fortune eating out every other week, or midlifers who are addicted to watching Nigella but not quite confident enough to make her summer chicken, there is a lost generation when it comes to hosting the perfect dinner party.
Recognising this skill gap, Clos19, the latest appendage of LVMH’S many-armed luxury beast, launched earlier this year. Its aim is to educate a new generation in the fine art of hosting, from logistics and advice to lessons in wine sniffing. Could these self-proclaimed “hostbusters” give me the confidence to throw my first ever dinner party? With my propensity for culinary disasters and their ready supply of alcohol, it had to be a match made in heaven. I signed up to the Become the Host experience, which sounded grand, and so it should be with a price tag of just over £2,000. It includes a consultation about your party, and all the alcohol you could ever need (and a mixologist) delivered to your home. Plus, if you have five piles of unopened bills and the last three weekends’ papers cluttering your worktops, they will install a physical bar for you too.
Since fully embracing the millennial cliché and moving back to my parents’ to save up for a deposit, my kitchen comes as a package deal with two sexagenarians. It’s not the ideal venue, so a lovely friend loaned me her swanky Fulham pad, complete with stunning crockery and furniture and an open-plan kitchen (with a fully stocked selection of utensils).
Rosalyn Lane, my host tutor, first talks me through the co-ordination of my
dinner party and helps curate the evening around my ideas. Our chat is a mix of me nervously suggesting food I could imagine actually cooking without having a nervous breakdown, and taking in her suggestions of drinks. I decide on burrata and tomato to start, and salmon and a hot pea, feta and mint salad for a main course (something I have once made without incident albeit just for me and my boyfriend). When I can’t decide on a dessert, we work backwards, with Rosalyn suggesting three potential after-dinner cocktails and the ideal pudding partner for each. I settle on a whisky, port and fresh mint cocktail with a chocolate torte. It’s the only portion of the menu I won’t make myself (hi, Whole Foods), but I learn this is not necessarily a taboo.
Stephanie Watine Arnault, the founder of Clos19 and niece of LVMH mega-boss Bernard Arnault, reassures me that there are few unbreakable rules of hosting, not even on the subject shop-bought cake. “The etiquette of hosting and entertaining changes every day,” she says, in an excitable French accent. “The art of hosting is about taking pleasure in life, not doing it a particular way.” Stephanie then talks through my menu with me. “Always make something you’ll find easy,” she says, adding her go-to dish is always roast chicken and a chocolate cake recipe from her grandmother. Her other advice is: “Preparation is the ultimate thing. Always make sure everything is planned and ready for when people arrive; you don’t want them waiting for anything. Also, make it personal. Think about who your guests are and what they like.”
I decide on eight as the maximum number. My boyfriend makes the cut so I have someone to yell at in the kitchen, and I strike an even split of men and women and one other couple. Everyone knows each other bar one male guest but everyone on the list is super-friendly.
On the day I make frantic lists of what to do, and the order in which everything should be sliced, mixed and cooked. I rewrite it about five times and then Joe the mixologist turns up and I go off-piste, chatting to him as he sets up the bar, before manically crushing feta, a full three bullet points earlier than planned. Panicking, I get back on-list and start grating garlic. This is what I learnt about grating garlic: life is too short to grate garlic. Not only did I slice my finger, I couldn’t get the stuff out. It
I was pleasantly sozzled and eating the cake I didn’t bake
took more than 15 minutes to surgically remove each mushy glob.
Despite this, I was dressed, ready and tentatively well-prepared when my guests arrived. There was mild awkwardness, but having Joe and his marvellous medicine there was a huge boon. There were a few minor hitches that made me understand why dinner parties are so often hosted by smug marrieds. Secretly sneaking away from the table to cut my salmon for the main course didn’t work, as I literally couldn’t cut it. I had to shuffle back and ask my boyfriend for help, only to have him tell me I was using a bread knife. He also bailed me out when the music failed, and dishing up the main while the food was hot was a two-person job. Dinner parties may just be the national sport of codependence.
By the end of the evening, the men were fulfilling a time-honoured stereotype and were drinking whisky with Joe in the kitchen, while I was pleasantly sozzled and eating the cake I didn’t bake. When, 48 hours later, along with thank you emails came the wonderful news no one was suffering from food poisoning, I finally relaxed. Losing my dinner party virginity wasn’t anywhere near as painful as I thought it would be. What’s everyone doing for Christmas?