Younger in the field

There was a time when eve Jones thought that dinner parties were the height of elegant sophistication... and then she woke up with a hazy memory of the night before

Here’s a picture for you. It’s a sunny sunday morning on a pretty Victorian street in south London. A bell rings and a mum of two young children who are happily playing, opens the door while a contented cat twists about her ankles. On the doorstep she finds a wildhaired, sleep-depraved, grubby woman. she gasps, the cat shoots back in, the children start to cry. “Ch-rist Jones. What’s happened?” she says. “Dinner party,” I reply, “last night, round the corner. Can I have a cup of tea?”

I once imagined dinner parties were the height of sophistication, evenings that one day I’d host with matching linen napkins, pretty table settings and cleverly seated, brilliantly entertaining guests sipping delicious wines and marvelling at my cooking talents. I now realise it’s a myth. I was, after all, brought up in a house where my parents formed part of a village “Cottage Club”. This meant about six couples alternated hosting dinner parties where no doubt the food was delicious, the wine clearly went down brilliantly but primarily it indulged the ability to get batfaced then roll home without driving. London echoes the sentiment by having 24-hour public transport getting you from any place, anywhere, anytime, consequently sporting a pretty aggressive dinner-party scene.

I was a fairly unpleasant vision on that Balham doorstep and it had nothing to do with food poisoning. No, the “chilled dinner party” had resulted in a makeshift kitchen rave, a flooded floor, a fencing dual with sex toys and some suspect bedroom hopping when the additional housemates came home. We did eat but it wasn’t exactly the focus of the night. But then dinner-party food is often the vehicle for silliness not sustenance. Like the back-to-front supper that started with espresso martinis, port and cheese and reversed downhill from there and the party where a lasagne was laced with marijuana and everyone got stoned. The first London dinner party I was invited to was a saturday “Drunkeon Luncheon”. Infamous occasions, mandatory fancy dress, invariably running from 2pm until dawn, it featured a good roast, a mean tiramisu and about 19 gallons of Moscow mules. That night I was introduced to the boisterous world of Army officers and also the King’s road basement called The 151 Club – aka The Dive. At 1am this sweaty cavern plays host to the overspill from every Fulham chin’s dinner party ever staged, simultaneously acting as a retirement home for single ex-army officers. For serving ones, st James’s Palace Guard room has been the scene of a few rowdy dinner-party sessions, hitting the silver bullet cocktails and snuff from Marengo’s hoof before competitively circumnavigating the room without touching the floor or being the first to pop the cork from a champagne bottle by bouncing it on the ground. Non-military action has been as competitive elsewhere: impromptu jousting on bicycles, bar-stool Olympics in the road, fire-ball hockey and concussion-inducing games of post-supper beer pong.

There is food, of course, and menus vary from reliable shepherd’s pie to fancier grub. There’s rarely a complaint, so long as it is plentiful. When you are boy heavy on the guest list, meaty, absorbent and lots of it is a good guideline and the primary function is to sustain the crowd and mop up the red wine.

I went to a great supper at the Horse Guards officer’s flat, where the girls invited were put to work buttering brown bread with smoked salmon, the main was a stack of M&s shepherds’ pies, one guest brought the peas and my friend and I made pudding. The host had very generously “covered the grog”, however, and we spent the better part of the evening dancing on the table. It happened to be a second date for him, which clearly impressed as they married this summer.

Dinner parties can often get a bit frisky. A friend held a safari supper involving two houses. Half the team swapped house after starters but by the time the next party arrived at hers she and her friends were starkers at the dinner table. Another is a first-rate Cilla Black and will orchestrate a whole evening around getting two people she thinks are suited seated next to each other. she has quite a high success rate, which, given that Thursdays are prime dinner-party nights, sees some impressive walks of shame to work.

The best hosts are the ones who can rustle up supper for 10 in a whipstitch and devise seating plans for optimum fun. I’m more of a partaker than a giver of dinner parties, however, because my flat is the size of a matchbox with numbers tight at four. I also quite like my neighbours and the last time I squeezed 10 in optimistically, they emailed at 1am saying, “Holy sh*t Flat 4, it’s like a herd of elephants are running up my f**king stairs and your music is frankly embarrassing”, plus I set fire to the dining table, so it’s easier if I travel.

While writing this column, I did worry that the pristine parties do actually exist and that they are hosted by more capable, less savage humans. I messaged my friend to ask whether our dinner-party behaviour was normal. “Of course it is,” she said, “we’ll grow out of it when we leave London.”

shortly after, a photo from an ex-london living, country-dwelling, middle-aged friend appeared on my phone. It was of another bloke asleep in a dog bed after supper. “Pulled an all-nighter last night; for some reason, walked home across a deer park. I blame the martinis.” Which makes me considerably doubtful that she’s right.

It featured a good roast, a mean tiramisu and about 19 gallons of Moscow mules