I was at G.O.D., silverware shopping for Dick’s first dinner party, trying to decide whether he was an elaborate curlicue man or a minimalist alien-titanium kinda guy. His kitchen drawer contained nothing but plastic takeout utensils, so I went with the generic box set – eight of everything, the kind you give to newlyweds you don’t really know. I sensed it was wrong, but safe. On my way to the checkout, I saw the classic - sleek and heavy. Very Dick. It wasn’t until I had a weighty steak knife in my hand that I realized how important choosing silverware is. Dick graduated from the futon long ago – maybe he was ready for something more permanent? I went with the tragically classic heavyweights.
I tend to take my dinner parties very seriously and I blame my old college buddy Grace for that. She taught me how to eat, making our dinner parties a competitive sport. It started in college when I invited her over for Mongolian hotpot. She hit back with a bouillabaisse made from scratch. I returned with lobster in miso-sake butter; she with beef Wellington. I made a bouquet-garni tied with used pantyhose; she made sugar cages with inflated party balloons. Our six-year battle ended when the fire department paid us a visit because I dug a hole at a public beach for a Hawaiian luau.
I was trying to control myself the day of the party. I might not be good at many things, but I know dinner parties. I called Dick two hours before showtime – he was hungover from the night before and still in bed. “You have people coming over in two hours!” I panicked. “I need to go shopping then,” he groaned.
We were at 360, sobering up on coffee when he suggested we pick up a roast in the cooked foods selection. “No!” I said, foolishly forgetting eight guests were arriving in an hour’s time. We threw items into the cart, checked out and ran home. It took about 20 minutes to work the oven, another 20 minutes to realize we didn’t have salt and pepper. Then the doorbell rang. Then the smoke alarm rang. And the oven beeped. But Dick was cool as a winter’s mint. Eventually a Sunday’s "feast" was put on the table – but the food wasn’t even the point. What I forgot is a gathering like that is not about showing off talents in the kitchen, or having every kitchen tool under the sun – it’s about the friends you keep and the conversations you celebrate.