Hosting a Dinner Party

Behind the Scenes

Like Coco Chanel, do your utmost to avoid dinners with more than six guests around the table. In Paris, an evening often starts with a bottle of champagne, served with ice. If possible, get the conversation flowing with a controversial political statement.

— As a matter of fact, we’re witnessing a shift in the class struggle. It’s no longer workers against employers; it’s about immigration. And at the end of the day, it’s the poor against the poor.

— Capitalism has succeeded in its aim of making sure that the workers are no longer battling against those above them, but instead, those below them. Marx was right all along.

— You have no idea what you’re talking about—you’re just throwing around notions you don’t actually understand.

— Okay then, explain to me the difference between the right and the left.

— It’s very simple! For the right, if the individual thrives, so does society. For the left, if society thrives, so does the individual.

Once the guests have stopped arguing and the conversation is beginning to wear thin, to avoid veering toward the topic of children, the hostess should then suggest that everyone take their seats at the dinner table.

She hasn’t prepared an appetizer and goes straight to the main course. After all, it’s not as though she didn’t have other things to do with her day.

The trick lies not in being a gourmet chef, but rather mastering a couple of recipes perfectly. One of them should be easy so that you can rustle it up at the last minute. The other should be very complicated, to wow your friends.

The portions should be generous and the table should look pretty. Don’t forget the flowers. Above all, the cook should never appear stressed out—everything must look effortless.

LEMON CHICKEN

INGREDIENTS

1 large chicken, ready to roast

2 lemons

1 tin of small candied lemons

Cinnamon, a few pinches to taste

1 onion, to taste (optional)

2 tablespoons soy sauce

Serves 4–5

Prep time: 15 minutes

Cooking time: 2 hours

• Preheat the oven to 350°F.

• Place the chicken in a cast-iron pot.

• Zest the lemons (if they are not organic, wash them with soap beforehand).

• Pour the juice of one lemon over the chicken.

• Cut the candied lemons in half, adding them and their juices into the pot, along with the lemon zest.

• Peel the second lemon, and stuff the chicken with it.

• Rub the cinnamon onto the chicken, which will give it a nice crispy, brown skin (without having to use any oil).

• Add the onion, finely sliced, if using.

• Cook for 2 hours in the oven.

• After 1 hour, turn the chicken over to make sure it cooks on both sides.

• After another 45 minutes, turn it back over and baste it with the soy sauce.

NOTE: Don’t add salt, as the juices of the candied lemons already contain plenty.

While your guests are savoring your chicken, redirect the conversation around to a Parisian’s second favorite dinner topic: sex.

— For example, I realized I love it when he calls me “you little slut” in bed. “Bitch,” on the other hand, really gets on my nerves.

— Oh, “bitch” is fine; it just depends on the context. Like “little bitch” is completely different from “bitch” on its own. “Naughty bitch” is quite sweet too, I like it.

The Parisienne also has an old family recipe up her sleeve, passed down from generation to generation, which requires much more preparation, often a couple of days in advance. (Shop two days beforehand, begin cooking the day before.) The most important thing is to always say, “Oh no, it’s nothing special, just something I threw together,” and to never disclose your recipes or where you bought your ingredients.

POT-AU-FEU

Prepare this the day before in order to leave time to degrease.

INGREDIENTS

Sea salt and freshly ground pepper

3 pounds of beef (preferably cheek, but if you can’t find it, use shank or brisket)

1 good-sized carrot per person, plus one for the stock, peeled and cut into quarters

1 large onion, studded with cloves

1 garlic clove, with the skin left on

1 long celery stalk, cut into quarters

1 bouquet garni, including parsley, bay leaves, and thyme

A small handful of whole peppercorns

4 whole leeks, sliced into halves if small, into quarters if large

1 turnip per person, peeled and chopped into halves or quarters

1 head cabbage, cored and cut into wedges

1 beef marrowbone per person (about 1½ inches each)

Cornichons, served as a side, with mustard, for the table

Serves 6

• Fill a large saucepan with cold water and add salt.

• Place the meat in the saucepan, and then add a carrot and the onion, garlic, celery, bouquet garni, pepper, and some of the green bits of the leeks to make a stock.

• Cover and bring to a simmer and cook on medium heat for around 3 hours.

• While it’s simmering, check frequently and use a spoon to skim off any impurities and grease.

• Leave it to cool and place in the fridge overnight.

• The next day, scrape off the layer of grease that has formed on the surface. Place the saucepan back on the stove on low heat and put a steamer on top of the saucepan.

• Put the remaining carrots and the turnips in the steamer and cook for about 15 minutes. Then add the cabbage and the remaining leeks and continue to cook for another 10 to 15 minutes. But don’t overcook—the vegetables should be firm.

• Dab the ends of the beef marrowbones in salt, and wrap each piece in aluminum foil.

• Fill a saucepan with water, set on high heat, and add salt and pepper. When the water is boiling, add the bone marrow pieces and bring down to a simmer for 10 minutes.

• After removing the garlic and the bouquet garni, serve the meat and marrowbones in one dish and the vegetables in another, with the bouillon on the side.

• Don’t forget to bring out the mustard and cornichons for the table.

After talking about sex, the topic of conversation that goes best with dessert is adultery. It’s a universal subject; everyone will have an opinion or an experience to share and you can be sure that none of your guests will be bored.

— I’d much rather my boyfriend have a one-night stand than a platonic romantic attachment.

— I agree. You don’t leave someone because you’ve cheated on them; you leave because you’re not in love with them anymore. Technically, fantasizing is cheating.

— But I spend my life fantasizing. When I’m making love I think of my boxing coach, my PhD student, my neighbor … It’s just my imagination, it has nothing to do with reality.

— But that’s not what I’m talking about! I mean imagine there was one guy in particular who you thought about every time you’re in bed with your boyfriend … Don’t you see it’s completely different?

There are as many recipes for chocolate cake as there are Parisiennes in Paris. However you prefer it—more or less sweet, gooey, or rich—it doesn’t matter. There’s nothing better than a good chocolate fondant to accompany a little talk on infidelity.

CHOCOLATE FONDANT

INGREDIENTS

1 stick and 1 tablespoon butter

7½ ounces very dark bittersweet chocolate

4 eggs

½ cup sugar

½ cup flour

Serves 6

Prep time: 15 minutes

Cooking time: 30 minutes plus 10 minutes for cooling

• Preheat the oven to 350°F.

• Melt the butter and the chocolate in a bain-marie (place the butter and chocolate in a bowl, then place the bowl in a saucepan of boiling water to melt them together. If using the microwave, use a larger bowl filled with water).

• In a separate bowl, use an electric mixer to beat the eggs with the sugar and then add the flour.

• Fold the chocolate/butter mixture into the egg mixture.

• Pour the mixture into a round medium-sized baking pan and bake for 30 minutes at 350°F, then leave to cool for 10 minutes before serving. To check, slide a knife in and if it comes out clean, your cake is ready.

Parisian dinner parties often end later than a night out clubbing. Heated debates, outrageous statements, dramatic turns of event … anything goes to keep boredom at bay. But the best part of the evening is yet to come. When the guests leave, it’s not time to go to sleep straightaway but to dissect the evening. They don’t wait until they’re in bed, or call one another the next day on their lunch breaks—the debriefing begins as soon as the guests walk out the door.

— Françoise and Jean-Paul seem to be doing much better.

— I know. Sleeping with his best friend has really put the fire back into their relationship.

— You mean he’s cheating on her with another man?

— Sweetheart, I’d be even more surprised if it were the other way around.

— Françoise is such a great hostess …

— Is that a good enough reason not to say anything about the Saint-Émilion being corked?

— It wasn’t the wine—everyone knows you shouldn’t serve a pot-au-feu with a Bordeaux—it ruins the taste. But you’re right, the wine was corked.

— Marie wasn’t drinking, do you think she’s pregnant?

— Uh uh. At her age?

— She didn’t look great.

— My dear, haven’t you heard of the affliction that will catch up with us all one day? It’s called age.

— That Georges … he’s so mysterious. He’s a writer, isn’t he?

— Honey, don’t be fooled: he stays silent so as to give himself airs. As Sacha Guitry used to say, “You can pretend to be serious, but you cannot pretend to be witty.”

— Don’t be so mean; he’s Catherine’s deaf brother!

— NO WAY! I always thought she’d invented him to stop us teasing her about having an only-child syndrome.

Good night, my friends, and sweet dreams. And don’t forget to drink a gallon of water before going to sleep—it’s the best way to avoid a hangover.

COOL OR COLD?

Never wear your glasses, especially if you’re nearsighted. That way, you won’t have to acknowledge people you know. You’ll have that aloof look, the one that seduces men (but annoys women because they see right through you).

When invited to parties, be the last to arrive. Sip your champagne, but never get too drunk.

Always look as if you are gazing at the sunset. Even during rush hour in the Métro. Even when picking up frozen pizza from the supermarket.

When on the phone, no need for small talk. “Hi, how are you.” Get to the point. Hang up as soon as you have your answer. End all of your calls with “See you later,” even with people you won’t see for another year.

Talk softly so that people have to lean in to hear you. Look preoccupied. Speak in quotes.

Give yourself over but don’t give yourself away.

Of course you run the risk of ending up alone. And all because you were oblivious to the man who could have held you in his arms, and ignored the awkward-looking girl who could have been a lifelong friend.

If that’s the case, you can always book a one-way ticket to Paris.

Where Does This Pout Come From?

To the delight of visitors and the dismay of the locals, Paris is an open-air museum. Each street is steeped in history; each cobblestone carries the weight of tradition. The ghosts of our Parisian ancestors, their wandering souls, look down from the gargoyles above, taunting us with their cry: “Will you be up to it?”

The précieuses belong to these lingering ancestors. During the reigns of Louis XIII and Louis XIV, some women of the court created a feminist movement to fight against the prevailing misogyny of the era. These women sought tenderness and restraint. They wanted to hear sweet nothings whispered in their ears—to be charmed and won over with wit and grace, before being whisked off to bed.

The writer Madeleine de Scudéry was the leader of this movement. She drew a map of an imaginary country called Tenderness. In order to reach the city of Love, one had to pass through several small villages, each one a new step toward winning the heart of one’s beloved.

From these first feminists, the Parisiennes have kept the characteristically cold, slightly aloof pout. It is part of our heritage, just like a delicately placed beauty spot or an antique chest of drawers, passed down from one generation to the next.

Even today, the Map of Tenderness lives on subconsciously in the heart of a Parisienne. She can shift from hot to cold, from indifference to friendship, exploring the twists and turns that are essential to any journey in human relationships. Things develop over time, but you need quiet strength to nurture strong ties. Although the Parisienne does not extend her affection lightly, once offered, it lasts till death do us part, “cross my heart and hope to die.”

Parisian Snobbisms

On New Year’s Eve, enjoy a plate of oysters at home and go to bed before midnight. (The pre–New Year’s Eve party you hosted last night was already the “best of the year.”)

Never say “Bon Appétit!” when you sit down for a meal. (And never pass the salt directly—place it on the table first for the other person to pick up.)

Leave a party when it’s in full swing. (Even your own.)

Wear navy blue with black. (And red with pink, à la Yves Saint Laurent.)

When meeting someone for the first time, never say “What a pleasure,” but rather “What a pleasure to meet you.” (You never know what the future might hold.)

Say “The Search” (when referring to Proust’s In Search of Lost Time).

Don’t use abbreviations when texting. (And emoticons should be only for your girlfriends.)

Don’t follow trends. (Trends follow you.)

Never lose control. (But make sure you have a steamy past.)

Be friends with people of different generations. (Both young and old, but especially the old.)

Embrace your inner snob. (Because let’s face it, that’s who you are.)

AN OFF DAY AT WORK

She’s lying in bed. Her alarm went off a while ago, but she’s not moving. There is no good reason for her to be wasting this precious time, other than a pressing sense that she need not hurry. People will no doubt be waiting for her at work. She muses over this while she takes a shower, and only then does it occur to her what a late night she had. But as soon as she is outside and on the street, she’s caught up in the rhythm of the crowd. She feels a surge of guilt that makes her run for the bus. During the whole ride, she racks her brain for possible alibis, dismissing the ones she already used the past few weeks. As the minutes pass, a palpable anxiety forms in her stomach. So much so that as she reaches her office door, flushed and out of breath, she has real tears in her eyes. And nobody dreams of asking what might have happened at home to provoke such a tired look so early in the morning. This creates a vicious cycle, for the compassionate looks she inspires make her feel that her soul is truly aching.

Sitting at her desk, she’s working but not really there. Letting her fingers dance over the keyboard, she remembers the face of the man she did not go home with last night, the guy who didn’t even kiss her in the end. She concludes that you can indeed be orphaned by a fantasy and feel abandoned by a perfect stranger. When her colleague comes over with a work-related question, she gives the wrong answer but lands on her feet somehow, ducking the issue. And when the woman across from her points this out, she loses it, which startles everyone, not least herself. For the rest of the day nobody is inclined to approach her. Sobered by her own temper, she buckles down and gets everything done with the drive of a woman determined to prove her worth to the world. She focuses on a difficult negotiation and refuses, as a matter of pride, to back down. When she walks out, chin high, she has the fierce allure of someone who’s emerging from battle … She might even grab a drink on her way home. After all, she deserves it.

HARD TO ADMIT

Date: 2016-01-14; view: 769