Alan S. Oser

It is not my intention to belittle the pleasures of dining out. But frankly restaurant meals as a social event are no substitute for domestic dinner parties. My wife and I give them at least once a year. They are a do-it-yourself process: no caterers, no servants. In the aftermath, a glow of pleasure.

The dinner party process can be divided into three phases: the planning, the party itself, and the postmortem. The party itself–Phase Two–usually passes by like a pleasant dream. But the pleasures can also be great in Phase One and Phase Three.

I love to plan. Shall we invite the X’s and the Y’s to the same party? They were both at our last dinner party. So this time we will invite only the Y’s, who know the Z’s but rarely get to see them. We also want the Y’s and A’s to meet each other. We have never had the A’s, nor have they had us. Most of our guests have never had us, and many never will. But we don’t care. We get pleasure from getting friends who don’t know each other to meet, if we think they will like each other. So in addition to the Y’s and Z’s, we will invite the A’s, B’s, C’s and D’s.

There are other interesting questions. There are some singles we’d like to invite. If we do, should there be an even number, and if so should we have the same number from each sex? We do not want to appear to be trying to fix up our recently widowed friend with our recently divorced friend. On the other hand, wouldn’t it be nice if they met and liked each other?

One party a year or so ago was called for a Saturday night in February. The singles question did not arise on this occasion. In order to get the couples mix we wanted, we sent out e-mail invitations in December, a comfortable three months in advance, giving three alternative dates. We settled finally on the 11th.

A guest phoned us on the 10th and asked whether the ferry to Staten Island, where we live, would run in a blizzard. A blizzard? We checked the weather report on line and decided at once to call the party off. No one would enjoy coming to a dinner party on Staten Island under threat of a blizzard, much less during the blizzard itself. It is hard enough under any circumstances to get off-islanders to come to Staten Island. We judge character by their willingness to do so.

By the time of the cancellation our dining room table had been set for 14 people for 5 days. Four pounds of specially trimmed veal had been ordered from the butcher. My wife, Jan, had cooked her special noodle pudding and purchased several pounds of salad greens. A side table had been set up in the rear of our entryway for the hot food, in accordance with our serving plan: serve yourself and take the plate to the table.

We phoned all the guests, called them off, and proposed alternate dates: Feb. 26 or March 5. Feb. 26 turned out to be preferable even though the B’s and the D’s could not make it. So we asked the X’s, and the E’s as well. To our pleasure, they accepted. Our table, set elbow to elbow for 14, did not have to be changed.

My wife is a splendid dinner-party cook. Complexity does not intimidate her, expense does not inhibit her, and long hours of work do not faze her. For this occasion she chose to make pearly-onion veal stew, from The Silver Palate cookbook, using veal that the butcher had agreed to hold for us in his freezer. She kept the table set, and stayed up till 2 a.m. the night before the party peeling two pounds of tiny white onions. Yet she managed to be ready and look relaxed when guests arrived.

Looking relaxed is important. I achieve this state with the help of gin. Our rescheduled party was held on a Sunday, so we invited guests for an early hour–4 to 4:30, we said–thinking that most would want to leave by 9 or 9:30. But we warned everyone that drinks would be served promptly at 4. As soon as the clock struck that hour I served myself. Fortunately, two prompt arrivals were there to join me.

By 4:30 I had achieved the exceedingly relaxed and charitable state of mind that necessarily precedes a thorough appreciation on my part of my own parties. Most guests arrived between 4:30 and 5, or much later in one case. To go with drinks we put out soy nuts and three hunks of cheese, each one stuck with a small plastic flag giving the names: Moliterno, Morbier and Ubriaco. We moved to the buffet table for dinner at 6.

It helped socially that the A’s drove the Y’s to and from the party. Both couples live on the Upper West Side but the Y’s don’t own a car. Getting those couples together was a principal motivation for the party. They hit it off famously. Mrs. A and Mrs. D, West Side neighbors, seemed to take to each other too. The pre-dinner mingling was assisted by the considerable social skills of some of the guests. Mr. Z is a plus because he is witty, although he sometimes gets too worked up over affairs of state. I especially commend Mrs. X, who knows how to get strangers to talk about themselves. She was very good with Mr. L., who was visiting our friend Ms. E. from his farm in New Zealand.

If anything worth remembering was said at the dinner table, I do not remember it. Several conversations went on simultaneously. I think the Palestinian situation came up, a holdover from cocktail conversation before dinner. I recall telling a long anecdote that seemed to me to get funnier the longer it went on. It held the astonished attention of the entire table, at least in my memory, but I don’t remember what it was about.

We placed three bottles of wine on the long dinner table, and kept a large urn of decaf coffee and a smaller pot of regular coffee perking nearby. Almost everyone asked for decaf. We also served a fine French pastry from a local bakery. Foreseeing an opportunity for making use of a small portion of the eight full bottles of cordial I inherited from my father, who had them for decades before he died in 1995, I shouldered guests into the living room after dessert. A few came, not too enthusiastically. The Drambouie was popular among the few who would drink cordial at all.

By 9:30 we were alone.

Even before total cleanup was completed a week later, we were deep into the self-congratulatory postmortem phase. We can still do it! We still enjoy doing it. What we do, others enjoy. Or so they said in thank-you cards that were already arriving. We got the Y’s together with the Z’s, one of our original goals. We got the Z’s and C’s, making their first trip to Staten Island, to visit our house and meet our friends. And the New Zealander has invited us to visit him on his farm. Inspired planning, I conclude, and deft execution.

A dinner party is effort well spent. Fortunately, my wife, the principal effort-spender, agrees.