Dear Fiona,
I have a problem, and it’s to do with entertaining: basically, I panic whenever I invite people over to my house – whether for lunch, dinner, or even casual drinks. I get invited to their houses, and so feel that I must reciprocate – also, I like them, and I want to reciprocate, and surely hosting shouldn’t be that hard (I’m perfectly competent in other areas of my life, and organised)? But then the panic starts building, and I almost begin dreading it. And so I find myself going longer and longer between hosting anybody – which means I’m increasingly out of practice, and that makes it harder still.
I’ve tried to work out exactly what it is that I’m panicking about, and essentially I cycle through various thoughts, including “my cooking is nothing special, so they’re going to be disappointed in that, because several of my friends are brilliant,” “they’re going to judge my interiors – for I work in an interiors-related industry, on the creative side, and I worry that people are going to expect either something grander and more ‘done’, or something more exciting and unusual, more Dennis Severs or Kettle’s Yard”, “if I’m mixing old friends with newer friends, maybe they won’t gel and there’ll be awkward silences and conversation will be dull”, “I’m stealing time from them under false pretences, and it’s going to be so awful that they’ll tell other people about it and their opinion of me will be forever tarnished.”
I’d like to be able to get over this, because I’d like to be someone who can, say, throw a casual dinner for eight on a Thursday evening, or one of those Sunday lunches that goes on and on – or Christmas drinks for thirty that everybody, including me, looks forward to (this one will only work if I get rid of all the furniture – my flat is tiny). And I’d like to enjoy it while it’s happening, and not be uptight, as I see others enjoying it (specifically, the people who invite me to their houses, who are almost intimidatingly good hosts). It’s not just that I feel that hosting is something that I ought to be able to do with ease - I think that being able to do it would enrich my life. I’m not entirely sure what I’m asking you though – tips for fool-proof hosting? How to make my home look more impressive than it is? Or maybe just how to enjoy having people over? Or should I just give up, and acknowledge that this isn’t my forte, and I can find another means of repaying the kindness of others? Which might, perhaps, be liberating.
Thank you, in advance, for any of your thoughts,
With love,
A Reluctant Host XX
Dear Reluctant,
Your letter outlines an issue I know that many will be able to identify with. For when it comes to hosting at home, a recent survey indicated that more than half the adult population worry about it. Arguably, it is a concern that is justified, for it can go wrong. We need only look at the canon of literature, from Shakespeare’s Scottish play – who can forget Lady Macbeth’s desperate attempts to pretend that Banquo’s ghost had not turned up at the feast? – to Bridget Jones’s blue soup. But it can also go right, and the act can be elevated into an art form, hence the greatest parties, real and fictional, being eulogised: the Rothschilds’ Surrealist Ball, the dazzling soirées thrown by F. Scott FitzGerald’s Jay Gatsby. There are more intimate affairs, too, that live on in the memories of those who were present, for there are people who love hosting, it can be a form of self-expression, and a passion for cooking is probably best paired with people to eat the food. Necessary skill set aside, the problems arise, I think, when we suffer from social anxiety, or perceive a gap between our public persona and our private life (and sometimes there is a gap – either by necessity or design), or when we tend towards perfectionism. Some of us are blessed with all three situations – should we carry on, regardless?
There is a popular argument that there is no need to do things that make us feel uncomfortable. But equally there are psychologists who say that pushing ourselves out of our comfort zones is good for us – and I worry that, if as a society we follow the advice of the avoiders, our worlds are going to get incrementally smaller. What’s more, we are inherently social beings, hosting fosters connection, and connection is what stimulates the productions of endorphins – i.e. inviting people to our house has the potential to make us happy. Gatherings, being ritual celebrations, are also where much of life happens, hence being ideal plot devices. And I suspect, as the largest part of your letter concerns your wanting to host, that you would rather not give up. What might be reassuring to know is that even the greatest hosts – among them Nicky Haslam (one of his parties even made it into a Tom Wolfe short story) – have confessed to nerves in the lead-up. And arguably nerves show you care, and as such could be recognised as a positive. Of course, excessive nerves are hard to live with, but happily, there are ways and means of quelling the disquiet. Some of it is to do with self-belief, but I’m going to come back to that, and we’re instead going to start with analysing the approach of those who entertain well.
Your worries encompass pretty much every aspect of hosting, namely the food, the setting, the mix of people, and the tone. It looks like four things, but really it’s three, because the tone, which includes how relaxed the host might be, is often set by the other elements (particularly if you’re someone who is not blessed with supreme compère-ing confidence.) What is clear is that some of the most successful hosts don’t feel that they have to be good at all of them – in fact, they positively thrive on not. Nina Campbell, for instance, lays an incomparably beautiful table and arranges exquisite posies of flowers – but she does not cook. Famed restaurateur Keith McNally cooks – but you’re unlikely to find him debating whether the menu tones with his choice of china: “precious food on large plates that is arranged artfully is not for me. I like good food, but I don’t like a ceremony.” And Nicky Haslam identifies “when people try too hard” as being a recipe for a bad party – which you can either take as more pressure, or as invitation to streamline, and outsource. (We’re particularly keen on that last at House & Garden.) So, let’s go through it all, beginning with what you perceive to be your “nothing special” cooking.
When if it comes to the menu, there are a couple of crucial points. “No one wants to be at a dinner party or event where the host is either chained to the kitchen or rushing around serving,” says Matthew Shaw, founder and creative director of luxury event company Saveur. And, “complexity is not what makes a meal memorable,” says Juana Pepa, author of The Good Host (which was Bridget Jones’s mistake). Juana suggests that instead we concentrate on “the integrity of the ingredients,” i.e. there is nothing wrong with serving a salad with good bread, good cheese, and good paté. There is equally nothing wrong with having a party catered (Nina’s go-to, and definitely the Rothschilds’ and Jay Gatsby’s) whether via COOK’s excellent and well-priced offerings (I’m a big fan of both their lasagne and their fish pie for eight), an actual cook, Ottolenghi, or “order the best pizza around and get some nice champagne to pair with it,” suggests Juana – while Nicky Haslam abides by Diana Cooper’s edict that the greatest parties feature “too much to drink and a chocolate pudding.” (He’s been known to serve fondant fancies from the Co-op, incidentally.) I know that some of your friends are brilliant in the kitchen – but you don’t need to try to live up them, or try and better them; in fact, they’ll doubtlessly appreciate your ceding to their superiority in this matter – which I hope relieves that load, at least a little. Sure, you need to be organised and get the timings right, but that is easy (especially if you’re just bunging something ready made in the oven.)
So on to the setting. You work in the interiors industry – and you’re a House & Garden reader – so you will know that charm cannot be bought, and that the best interiors tend to be biographical. I have every confidence that your home is lovely, and representative of you and your interests (and not Dennis Severs’, which would be slightly weird, even if his house is extraordinary.) And, regarding what I alluded to earlier, and the possible gap between a public persona and a private life (which I get: when working for Russian Vogue in the 00s, there were oligarchs’ wives I did not invite to my ex-local authority 1960s-designed maisonette; where would their bodyguards have stood?) that is something that only you can decide how to manage. But, having been writing about art and interiors for ten years, and art and fashion for ten years before that, I can assure you that most people are only too aware of the existence of smoke and mirrors in the creative industries – and if you like them and you want to invite them to your house, then perhaps it’s time to close a gap that, in any case, might only exist in your imagination. Your say your flat is small – but our Digital Director, Virginia Clark, has an answer for that. As for the rest – well, you know the rules of tablescaping and flower arranging, to which I can only add that Nicky Haslam gathers foliage on the day from his local environs, puts it “anywhere it’s going to improve the general look of things,” and, in the evening, believes in lamplight and “masses of candles . . . the aim is to make it look slightly mystical.” The approach will vary between types of gathering – a casual kitchen supper maybe needs less of a mystical atmosphere than Christmas drinks – but do remember you can clear surfaces and rearrange furniture, serve dinner in rooms beyond the expected, and set up a temporary, yet elegant, home bar, even in a bookshelf. It’s a matter of approaching occasions with a sense of adventure, instead of the dread of impossibility (though I know how easy it is to fall into that trap.)
And so to people – who are really what make a party. And – good news – it’s not all on you: guests, once they’ve accepted (an invitation is not a summons) have an obligation to make an effort and to be in the mood (or fake it.) Sure, identity politics is currently having a moment and so you might not want to invite friends with rabidly opposing views to a smaller dinner unless you’re actively seeking fireworks, but in general, I’d advise viewing a mix as being comparable to your interiors. A smart new lamp from Julian Chichester might not seem like the obvious match for your grandmother’s side table, but they work together because you chose to put them together – and so it is with your guests. If ever conversation does flag, simply ask every other person to shift two places clockwise between courses, for there’s nothing like actual movement to provoke a flow of words. But I find it’s seldom necessary, because we, as humans, aim to have a good time – in inviting people over, you’re basically forming a collective of joyful intent.
Which brings us to the last issue: your self-belief, which I did say that I’d come back to. Negative thoughts, aka our inner critic, are comparable to Banquo’s ghost, and we are as much hostage to the situation as Macbeth was – even though we haven’t engaged in regicide. I’ve looked into several psychologists’ advice on quietening the incessant condemnation, and my favourite words of wisdom come from my fellow agony aunt, Philippa Perry, in The Book You Want Everyone You Love* To Read. She explains that while an actual critic might be helpful and, say, suggest that we put more seasoning in a pie, or change the sofa cushions, our inner critic tends to be “blunt and general” – which rings true for you. And so, she says, there is no point in listening. “Instead, direct your energy into things that bring you joy.” For instance, planning parties – for you should now be feeling that a smallish gathering such as you propose is less momentous than it seemed at first, and thus you’ll look forward to it, and the tone you’ll transmit will be one of near undiluted optimism. And really, that’s all you need for glittering success.
With love,
Fiona XX
