Reading the New York Times Book Review section last night, the interviewer asked the featured author: Who would attend your dream literary dinner party?
I guess we’ve all thought about it: Who would grace my Dream Dinner Party? But also, maybe lingering with it: Where would it be, and what would be served? The mind reels.
Ultimately, it’s a simple thing: a memorable venue, an inviting table, good food, and hopefully, some great conversation. So, while you’re mulling over who’s on your dream dinner party invite list, I’ll set the scene of the where, what and who, of mine.
The Where:
There’s a long wood farmer’s table covered in flowers, comfortable place settings and candles that seats seven on each side, along with two more at the ends. Sixteen will be served. The setting is outside, cozy and welcoming, set amid the vast rolling golden brown hills of Tuscany on a warm late-summer evening, clouds of lavender and rosemary, with but a hint of tarragon, wafting over the landscape. It is approaching twilight. Scores of candles flicker under a classically convivial bougainvillea trellis setting. There are many glasses per setting: tall white wine glasses, bulbus red wine glasses, heavy water glasses, and delicate aperitif glasses. A glowing fire pit with twin Adirondack chairs awaits nearby for the smokers. The soft echoes of smooth West Coast jazz can be faintly heard among the last of the evening bird’s chatter in the nearby olive and pencil cypress trees. It is idyllic.
The What:
My dream dinner party guests would be served, soup-to-nuts, my so-called Death Row dinner—my infamous last meal before I am a dead man walking towards my demise. The affair would be catered by Wolfgang Puck, and Tokyo’s Jiro Ono, who have forsaken Emily Post’s etiquette order this evening.
Before we are seated, appetizer trays full of tangy crab knuckles and sweet Pacific Kumamoto oysters with horseradish on the side, are served. Then we are seated for dinner, that opens with a crock of bistro-style French Onion soup covered with browned gruyere. An insalata caprese of fresh heirloom tomatoes, sliced buffalo mozzarella and sweet basil, garnished with olive oil, balsamic and kosher salt, comes next. Rustic crusty bread waiting to be dipped.
A choice of lobster ravioli in a pink sauce or porcini mushroom risotto with grated parmesan, will be the primo offerings, with a crisp Pinot Grigio. Our quests will then have entrée choices to consider: either a succulent Thai steak salad (filet mignon, avocado, mango, cherry tomatoes, lettuce, lo mein noodles, chives, cilantro, peanuts) and a kick ass spicy dressing, served with a bold Barolo; or they may indulge in a 20-piece Jiro’s choice assortment of sushi/sashimi, served with cold Otokoyama Junmai sake.
Later, for dessert, there are espressos, dulce de leche gelato and biscotti. An assortment of ports, hard cheeses, nuts and fruits, awaits the truly hungry later on.
Nobody said it had to be easy to prepare, be healthy, or light—not me! It is my frickin last meal, right?
The Who:
Now the fun begins. Who should I invite? Many may want to theme out their guest list with their version of the best and brightest: eye-candy beauties, billionaires, power couples, creative types, or maybe even one’s own personal heroes. Maybe add rivals for fireworks? Some may want to bask in celebrity, inviting entertainers or sports stars. Fair enough, that could be fun, or for some, just another Thursday night in Santa Monica. It’s fun ruminating on though…
Originally, my Dream Dinner Party (I pondered this in 2008) featured sitting knee-to-knee with: friends Lennon and McCartney; a couple smarty pants in Einstein and Newton; two powerful women Queen Elizabeth I and Cleopatra; a famous literary duo Shakespeare and Woody Allen; famous travelers Phineas Fogg and Redmond O’Hanlon; two revolutionary politicos in Obama and Malcolm X; baseball dudes Billy Martin and George Steinbrenner; and for kicks and giggles Robin Williams and Hitler.
But then…I saw the endless Beatles documentary Get Back and disinvited Lennon and McCartney as tiresome. Obviously, Woody had to go, along with his old-school chauvinistic NY pals Steinbrenner and Martin. And when I heard how Newton suffered from irritability, depression and didn’t eat much…well, life is too short—Newton had to go. I thought of replacing him with Stephen Hawking—but then I met him in real life, and decided not to. Cleopatra was too much of a killjoy prima donna it seems, so I started looking for replacements. And despite how wonderful it would have been to watch Robin taunt, mock and ridicule der Fhrer relentlessly, for hours on end—we all know Robin’s talk-listen ratio was a tad out of whack—so, they were both 86ed!
In the end, here’s who made my Dream Dinner Party guest list—minus sadly, a few of my wife’s edits apparently:
And yet…after but a few courses of delicious cuisine and pleasantries, my well-planned out magical evening of food and conversation turned into the dinner-party-from-hell. Blake Edwards’ The Party had nothing on us!
It was a shambles in between the sipping and nibbling, too many talkers, with everyone’s talk-listen ratios seriously out of whack. I was surprised that Salma Hayek and Grace Kelly were no-shows—my wife seemingly interrupting my dream differently than I!? Although it was good to see my old friend Hillary—always the smartest person in any room. But then my Dream Dinner Party got really weird, in a Hunter Thompson-like way: The Queen was surely from the onset—no one bowed or curtsied before Her Royal Highness, she was also miffed at not being seated center stage—nor did she like Malcolm X’s constant monarchy and Irish suppression badgering. Vidal pissed off everyone with his ruthless sniper-like sarcastic verbal assaults. Einstein and Curie quibbled bitterly about Heisenberg’s uncertainty theory and quantum physics. Einstein grew increasingly moody, brooding the evening away. Mrs. Childs took Bourdain to task repeatedly for his irreverence; the frenemies then argued about vichyssoise, and Julia’s apparent guilty pleasure: fast-food—who knew?! Oscar and Bowie got into a nasty cat fight about androgyny and queerness. Jon Stewart meanwhile continually pilloried my seatmate Hillary about her failed 2016 campaign and what it cost America’s democracy—and who was I to argue? And no matter how much wisdom, truly incisive declarations on life, love and politics that Marcus Aurelius articulated, Mindy—the only guest with allergies du jour by the way—wouldn’t get off her goddamn iPhone while dismissively sipping green tea; Marcus was also a tad miffed with her Ok boomer attitude in between all his gorging and purging. In the end, Bowie was disappointed we didn’t have a karaoke set up—thought it would be the great equalizer; and Dorothy was upstaged constantly by Oscar’s bon mots, so she sulked drinking martini after martini—four to be exact—and my wife was not happy about that! It was surreal mayhem. Surrendering before dessert, my wife and I retired to the fire pit and smoked a joint. So much for dream scenarios!
How did your Dream Dinner Party turnout?
Thanks for giving me your attention for a few moments, it is the most precious thing you have, and I appreciate it. Be well.
William D. Chalmers © 2022 GreatEscape Adventures, Inc. All Rights Reserved.
Yes, I see your wife's edits and would love to be a fly on the wall!