First Attempts

Perfection in entertaining is neither attainable nor necessarily desirable. The road to great dinner parties is paved with simple suppers and witty, half-starved friends.

The first dinner party I ever cooked was for my own family, when I was nine years old. I slaved away for a whole day to produce five dazzling courses (all of which contained cheese), then I got my little brother to act as waiter, decked out with a tea cosy on his head and my grandmother’s high-heeled shoes. He wobbled dutifully back and forth from kitchen to dining room all night, transporting my pièces de résistance, while I manned the stove.

Afterwards, keen to be told what a little marvel I was for this achievement, I asked for a critique from the attendees. My uncle Freeman was always quick to offer his learned opinion on any subject. From his postprandial position (flat out on the deck) he raised his head to croak out the suggestion that next time I might consider throwing in the odd taste and textural contrast between one course and the next. His head fell back again and hit the floor with a thud. Despite my young age, my uncle’s advice took root. I acknowledged my faux-pas (cheese soup, cheese-stuffed peppers, cheesecake … might be better spread out over a month, rather than one meal). And I could see that if in future I wanted to ensure my guests’ pleasure and my own triumph, my dinner party menus would require more thoughtful crafting.

“If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again!” (My grandfather had pounded this bit of wisdom into our brains, along with “waste not, want not,” from the moment we were out of the womb). So, the next time I flaunted my culinary talents at a dinner party for the family, I painstakingly balanced ingredients, course by course, and thought I had it nailed: chicken in curry cream sauce with toasted, slivered almonds scattered over top, mashed potatoes, and, afterwards, an iced chocolate fudge cake weighing, roughly, four pounds a slice. Ta-dah! Needless to say, that round I learned that weight of dishes is yet another vital consideration in menu planning. (Many more lessons, endless in species, were to come.)

On it went. I cooked dinner parties, relentlessly, throughout my childhood and teenage years, then on through my twenties with ever greater fervour, and on … It’s still happening with the same mania today. Occasionally, I’ve outdone myself and truly shone (a particular croquembouche comes to mind). Most of the time, I manage to please and comfort, usually with something roasted or stewed, granny style. But, I have certainly had my fair share of embarrassments, too. Once there was such a catastrophe in my kitchen I ended up serving boiled eggs as the main course for a dinner. (This was in Paris with guests from the embassy, too. Cringe.)

Well, we win some, we lose some. Entertaining, at least to me, seems to be another of those lifelong journeys with no actual “arrival." People change, times change, mores and circumstances change, along with seasons, fashions, appetites, and our own moods. On a stage this slippery, every step can seem like the first. But, we just have to go with it. Besides, with every dinner party, whether raving success or not, we can tuck ourselves into bed afterwards satisfied in our souls that with each attempt to entertain the hungers of others and put them more at peace with the world, we have, at the very least, come one step closer to unraveling the mysteries of feeding people.

If you rarely cook for yourself on weeknights, then I would not recommend playing Jackie Kennedy’s White House for a flock of acquaintances on Saturday night. The road to great dinner parties is paved with simple suppers, so start there. Invite only a few choice (read: witty, half-starved, and forgiving) people; tell them before they come that it is just a simple, school-night supper entre amis; then cook like a nice mommy, rather than like a chef. To cheer you on, here is a last-minute weeknight supper dish that never fails to please.

Red Lentil Bowls with Spinach and Lemon

To make this even more substantial, you can throw in a small tin of drained chickpeas at the end or a cup or two of cooked rice.

Makes: four servings

• 2 tablespoons/30 ml olive oil
• 2 garlic cloves, minced
• 2 small pepperoncini (or crushed chilli peppers to taste), chopped
• 2 teaspoons cumin powder, to taste
• 1 teaspoon curry, to taste
• 1 teaspoon powdered coriander, to taste
• 1/4 teaspoon turmeric
• 1 cup red lentils
• 1 envelope sodium-reduced chicken stock powder
• 4 cups/1 litre water
• 1 small tin chopped, stewed tomatoes
• Salt and pepper, to taste
• 8 ounces/227 g trimmed, washed spinach
• 1 lemon, for squeezing

Heat the oil in a large saucepan. Add the garlic, hot peppers and spices, stirring constantly until the garlic is light golden. Add the lentils, sprinkle over the stock powder, pour over the water, cover, and cook until the lentils soften to purée, about 20 minutes. Stir in the tomatoes to heat through. Season with salt and pepper. Steam the spinach, separately.

Serve the lentils hot in shallow bowls, with a little heap of steamed spinach on top and pass lemon wedges for squeezing.