I have always had a deep distrust of the concept of the “dinner”. In theory some pasta with your friends. Practically an awkward act of being grown up by terribly self-conscious kids – all planning meals and awkward chatter, and mulled wine and pretending to be our parents. And increasingly an entire economy.
Which doesn’t mean I don’t like them. No, I do that very much, from both sides. I like inviting people into my carefully perfumed house, feeding them the food my friend cooked and encouraging them to stay a little longer, a little later, maybe some chocolates now. And I like going to other houses, taking off shoes at the door, funny little rituals around potato chips, raving about homemade bread, dragging secrets from new friends as we finish our drinks. Still, the culture and evolving business of the dinner party, it kind of gives me the shivers.
Did you know there are now dinner party influencers on TikTok? I’ve read a lot about it on Eater – after the pandemic, dinners are back, it said. And “a growing niche of guides, services and influencers is emerging to demystify hosting: welcome to the new dining economy”. You can buy downloadable guides with a shopping list, menu and recipes, with a checklist that breaks down tasks into days and minutes, “including small details like lighting a candle in the toilet and putting on music from a provided Spotify code just before guests arrive.”
There are dinner services that rent out ‘tablescapes’ and there are conversation cards for diners with ‘appetite prompts’ such as ‘What’s your ultimate comfort food?’ I don’t know, by the time we get to the “What’s your ultimate comfort food?” For part of the evening I think I would make my way through the toilet window, taking the host’s dog with me because he was a good boy and no one deserves such a life, but every man for himself. However, I love the table set rental company that allows you to return the plates still covered in sauce.
But overall, it’s all a very “murder mystery party,” isn’t it? Rules, props, performances packed in a cardboard box, for people who want to have a good time but need to hold an adult’s hand for the scary bits. Which is fine, of course. Of course, we all need a hand every now and then, especially through the dark tunnels of friendship and the busy roads of adolescence. My concern, however, is that by trying to do it right, with the menus and fancy plates, those who give the dinner parties lose the chance of getting it wrong. That’s certainly where the fun is. That’s where the walls crumble between us, and by revealing our vulnerabilities, whether it’s relationships or desserts, new connections can emerge. Fun blooms in the rubble.
The dinner party’s pretentious aspirations, while adding an element of glamor (something rare and beautiful and scarce) to a meal, also threaten to spoil an evening of his soul. Hand me pizza and the television, accidentally give me hosts high on gummies, give me a kitchen table half cleared of homework instead of a beautifully designed bouquet of wildflowers. If you were honest, your fantasy dinner wouldn’t really consist of two dead authors and a model who would (sorry) hate you. No, your fantasy dinner party would be your three best friends and a fish and chip bitch. It would be in the kitchen with a newly single sister telling you what sex is like in 2022 while trying not to burn yourself on the chicken. It would be your first love who unexpectedly rings the doorbell after 10 years and apologizes for everything about Marmite on toast.
Much could be saved by simply removing the word “party”. “Dinner” alone does not require tablecaping. It does not depend on a surprising and daring combination of guests, chosen for their contrasting opinions, beauty or humor. Dinner is a big plate of food and gossip, maybe seconds. Please, internet, capitalism, fashion, I beg you: don’t take this from us with your stylish conviction. Don’t deprive the people we love of the simple pleasure of cooking poorly. Don’t make me vajazzle my tea. — Guardian News and Media