Chapter 1: Zen and the Art of the Party It's a Saturday night, and my mother has just tried on her sixth outfit. "How does this one look?" she asks, turning from side to side in a kind of mock model swirl. She's dressed in the latest '60s suburban chic fashion -- cocoa brown pants with a matching cowl-neck cashmere sweater. "Good," I say, trying to put this excruciating part of the evening to rest. "Really good," I emphasize. My mother seems pleased and begins to clip on oversized gold hoop earrings and a necklace. She brushes out her gorgeous thick hair. And then, showing my teenage naïveté, I make a crucial mistake. "But how will you cook in that sweater?" I ask. "What?" she snaps back at me, panic sweeping over her face. "What did you say? Cook? I forgot all about that."
The guests are expected in an hour. The good thing is that the chicken casserole, which she made two days ago, is already warming in the oven and the dining room table has been set. The dining room is one of those showplace rooms that our family doesn't actually use. Like a secret vault, it's unsealed only a few times a year -- on major holidays and when my parents throw a dinner party. Sometimes, between these events, I sneak into the room to run my hands over the smooth wooden table, marvel at the silver all tucked away in individual velvet bags, and finger the delicate lace napkins that are used only on the rarest occasions.
While my mother changes again (this time she opts for a more casual man-tailored shirt that doesn't look nearly as good), she shouts for me to put the stuffed potatoes into the oven. "Oh my God, the dessert!" she shrieks, stuffing her feet into high-heeled sandals, and rubbing a quick smear of rouge along her high cheekbones.
She runs to the kitchen and begins to whip the cream for her signature chocolate mousse. This is the dessert she makes for every dinner party. When the cream splatters all over her shirt, I retreat to my room to avoid the hysterics I know will soon follow. Like clockwork, the doorbell rings and my father ushers in the first guest. He pours the Scotch, and takes the deviled eggs and wedge of Brie out of the refrigerator. In the bedroom, my mother changes her shirt, cursing under her breath.
Soon the house is filled with friends and neighbors, and my brothers and I are sent off to the den with our T.V. dinners to watch our favorite shows. Before bed we come downstairs in our clean pajamas, teeth brushed, and say a brief, polite hello to the assembled guests. This ritual always reminds me of the Von Trapp children as they are marched in front of the crowd at their father's gala dinner for the rousing chorus of "So Long Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, Goodnight."
Despite this hysteria, I was still able to hold onto the storybook idea little girls have about what fun it is to throw a party. I began hosting birthday parties for my parents, setting an immaculate table with matching paper plates, napkins, tablecloth, party favors, and streamers from the nearby Hallmark Party Store. I stuffed cream cheese into fat ribs of celery and spooned Boursin cheese onto Ritz crackers in swirly patterns. I made meat loaf and begged my mother to teach me her recipe for baked stuffed potatoes. I may have borrowed recipes from my mother, but I did not seem to adopt her attitude. Making dinner for my family gave me a deep sense of calm and girlhood accomplishment.
Unfortunately, the feeling didn't last. As I got older, got my first apartment, and began giving real dinner parties, the family propensity for tensing up to the point of breakdown took hold of me. The more I wanted to impress my guests by cooking show-off dishes, the higher the stress level became. Once the lessons I learned from observing my mother kicked in, it took years to really let go and enjoy the parties I hosted.
I entered adulthood wondering why people bothered to give dinner parties. To me they were tortuous exercises that always ended with a sinkful of dishes and extreme exhaustion by the host. What exactly was the appeal? Even today, the titles of recent books and articles on entertaining teach that one must strive for perfection to impress one's guests. "Entertaining Like a Millionaire," "The Beach House Party Book," "Entertaining Tips from the Stars," "Entertaining with the Leading Fashion Designers," "Perfect Wine for Perfect Food," and so on.
In a leading food magazine there is an "entertaining" column written by a New York society woman. She tells tales of playing hostess to the rich and famous. As far as I can see, she doesn't actually cook, but she knows how to buy take-out food and hire New York's hottest chefs to cater her soirees. Since when did millionaires become our advisors on how to cook for friends? Since when did good food and money become synonymous?
Think about the best parties you've ever been to. What do you remember about these evenings? Was it the perfectly matched napkins and impeccable wines? Was it the floral arrangements or the candles? Chances are it wasn't any of those details. If you're anything like me, the best parties were ones where the food was simple, homemade, and served with a generous spirit, the ones where you laughed the hardest or met some great new people. Some of these parties may have been in exotic, wonderful places -- on a gorgeous beach or by the fire in someone's elegant home. But some of them probably also happened in a studio apartment at a cramped little table, or in a house full of laughing children. The point is that it's not the location of the party that matters most, but the spirit of the event.
Entertaining is about giving. It may be as simple as sharing a summer salad grown in a friend's garden, enjoying a chicken roasted the way your grandmother taught you, savoring a cake made from an old family recipe, or sharing an outstanding bottle of wine simply because you are getting together with old friends. It's about the stories that are told and the feeling of being included -- a feeling that makes you want to sit and eat and drink and linger around a table for a long time.
The good host isn't necessarily someone who spends a lot of money or dedicates three days to cooking the perfect meal. The good host is the person who makes you feel welcome, relaxed, and a part of his or her life.
I was recently invited to a friend's house for dinner. It was a cool summer night and she had set a table under a huge shade tree. A small group of us arrived and she was nowhere in sight. We went looking and discovered she was in the kitchen, cooking furiously next to a sink piled high with dishes, with a look of sheer panic on her face. She welcomed us, gave us each a glass of wine, and sent us back outside. We sat out there, under the tree, for close to forty-five minutes. We wandered back into the kitchen and asked to help, begged her to come outside and sit with us, but she insisted she wanted to finish up in the kitchen -- alone.
We managed to laugh and drink and get exceedingly hungry, but mostly we felt bad. We felt like a burden. When we finally ate, over an hour and a half after arriving, rain began to sprinkle and none of us felt particularly hungry, although the food was superb. The hostess had outdone herself -- baked bread, made a beautiful soup and a delicious salad of roasted vegetables -- but there was no joy in that food, no sense of being a welcomed guest in her home. Instead of politely saying thanks, I wanted to tell my friend, "We are the reason you had this party, not so you could lock yourself in your kitchen and try to control the food. No one came for perfect food. We came to see you." That party stands out for me because it was such a good example of how hard people work to make party food taste and look good, while forgetting what the party was really about.
If you find yourself obsessing about making a good impression you need to stop and sit down. There were many times when I was writing this book that I would review the recipes and think, "This isn't party food. These dishes aren't fancy enough. I better make a complex bouillabaisse or a four-layer cake with homemade ice cream." And then I would remind myself that the whole point of this book is to show that good, creative, simple food is the very best thing you can serve to people you care about. If you want complex, show-off, trend-of-the-moment food you can go out to a restaurant. Entertaining at home should be about something different.
The ritual of sharing food is undoubtedly one of our earliest social conventions. And yet the basic act of eating and drinking with others is disappearing in everyday life. We eat alone in our cars or in front of the television or computer. In a world where solitary eating has become the norm, it's no wonder that the art of sharing food with others -- entertaining -- is being lost.
My first hope is that you will use this book to find recipes, ideas, and mostly inspiration to invite people to share food with you. I have offered recipes and ideas that I hope are approachable, that might just change your definition of "party food." My second hope is that this book helps you to relax and take it slow. Begin with a very simple menu and take your time as you cook, set the table, and open the wine. Look into the faces of your guests and realize that it's not perfection they're looking for, it's your presence. So, Relax, Company's Coming!
-- Kathy Gunst
South Berwick, Maine
November, 2000
Copyright © 2001 by Kathy Gunst