KEY POINTS:
I was unceremoniously invited to dinner on Saturday by an Auckland society stalwart. "Come to mine," he said, "I'm having a dinner party. Sixteen for supper, can you believe?" he squealed in madcap delight.
The fact that dinner at home for Mr Society regularly consists of microwaved McDonald's burgers he buys in bulk and leaves to freeze did send a slight panic. Who, after all, volunteers to cook when the last time they used the oven was for wine storage purposes?
"Don't worry," he assures me, "I'm getting it catered."
The catering team consisted of Mr Soc's exquisitely manicured doyenne Mother and her yummy mummy daughter. Close friend guests, in reading the dire situation, brought their own contributions: long-stemmed orchids for the table; burned CDs of '80s and '90s comeback tunes; French fromage; Belgian chocolates, Moet Nectar Champagne; and after-dinner spliffs.
Guests walked in Noah style: two-by-two save for the awesome foursome literati set who arrived armed in Beatnik glam but empty-handed. A big no-no in dinner party etiquette.
The kohl-rimmed society wife over-dressed in a Prada gown (long) and Chanel accessories arrived with her Sydney-sider cousin and bottles of bubbly galore. Hubbies were out of town on business and they were looking for a late of night of fun.
They spied a troublesome spirit in the gay man's wife, who, like the music maestro and his partner, got the party started with potent vodka cosmos teeming with marinated berries. The Boho beats lapped them up. Their outsider status quietly diminishing with every slurp.
The PR princess and her ad man prince told glamorous stories about their recent trip to Cannes partying with the Murdoch's (Rupe and Wens) on their superyacht and beach parties with A-listers and Euro-trash Pamela Anderson-types.
Mr Soc's dinner party was off to a roaring start. What he lacks in culinary skills, he more than makes up for in social butterfly flair. His frequent get-togethers at The Landing - a 10-metre balcony with views across the cityscape and Gulf - are notoriously popular. It's been said some have even proffered monetary bribes just to get the nod inside.
What made this gathering different from his fortnightly Landing parties was the dinner theme; the raison d'être. A dinner party, as opposed to an ordinary dinner at home with mates, is when we get all frocked up to dine on food we would never normally eat. Where we lay the table with implements we would never normally use (or forgotten we had): glasses for every sort of beverage imaginable, butter knives, votive candles, vases of stupendidly expensive flowers, silver service, napkin rings, starched white linen, place name cards where we calligraphically etch the names of our friends as if we'd forgotten them and slot them into dinky little Stirling silver frogs or tortoises bought from Smith & Caughey's on a desperate housewife whim.
A dinner party is where the host sits at one end in regal pose; His people lined around the table in boy-girl precision. Nevermind the fact only a week earlier I dined at Mr Soc's with fish and chips on our knees, tomato sauce, a remote control and a bottle of Pinot Gris (that I served myself), the centrepiece on the ottoman 'coffee table'.
This time, etiquette and fancy schmancy manners were the order of the night. Beverages were poured for you; meals served on the plate; the only effort required were conversations with each of the guests (something even the reserved literati set acquired with ease).
Dinner parties were all the rage in the '80s where quail, kumquats, beef wellington and crepe suzette made their social-climbing appearance at various tables around the 'burbs. Entertaining at home is back in fashion. Good food, generous cocktails, background music and after-dinner games all make for a delightful evening. Try it. You don't even need to know how to cook.
Rachel Glucina
