Guess Who's Not Coming to Dinner

I can say with some confidence that I’m a good hostess. 12-person dinners were a common occurrence at every place I lived in San Francisco, and it still surprises me that so many people came to the sushi parties I threw in that dump on Divisadero. The bathroom alone should have been enough to scare them off, and even I wouldn’t have trusted myself to prepare raw fish in that kitchen. Luckily, no stomachs were harmed.

Once, when I’d announced that I’d be making a vat of red beans and rice, 20 people showed up. Being Chinese-American, I’m usually hyper-cautious when it comes to making sure that people have enough to eat, but this had caught me unawares. Even after scraping the bottom of the pot, I didn’t have enough for the last guest. I had no choice but to offer him my half-eaten plate of beans, which, unbelievably, he accepted. That was the first and only time a person has literally taken the food from my mouth, but I took it in stride and did what any self-respecting hostess would do: I just poured myself another glass of wine, raided the fridge and started making smoked salmon and cheese crostini.

Hosting dinner parties has always come naturally for me, but it’s not easy for everyone. I have attended parties where I’ve been asked, upon arrival, to prepare whole dishes. I have watched a male host offer my husband a beer but leave my glass empty. I have waited three hours for food, without being given a single thing to nibble on or a drink to nurse. I have strained to make conversation in a cold and silent room. I have been poisoned.

To throw a successful party, you don’t have to be a great cook or have fancy digs. What you do need, however, is preparation.

We’d planned to have dinner with Oskari and Saya on Saturday, and because coordinating the schedules of four busy people in Tokyo can be a trick, we’d set this date back in August. I was smack in the middle of two hectic weeks so wanted to do as much ahead of time as possible. By Friday night, we’d bought all the food, made the soupe au pistou, blitzed the anchovy dressing, and had pork shoulder marinating in brine. Saturday morning was spent giving our apartment a much-needed cleaning, before I ran out to pick up a bottle of Les Hauts de Poupille Rose. Beers were chilling in the fridge, vegetables were on the grill, and I was whipping together a dip of avocado, blue cheese and fromage frais, when JP called out from the other room.

“I think you’re getting a text,” he said.

I glanced at my cell phone. “It’s the Finn,” I chuckled. “No!”

“What?”

“Oskari’s got the flu and can’t make it!”

“You’re kidding me. It’s like 3:00.” We stared at each other in disbelief. I looked at all the food on the table and shook my head.

“Well,” I shrugged, “I know him and he’s not a flake. He was probably just being optimistic this morning.”

“True, it’s better for him to stay home, especially if he has swine flu,” JP nodded.

“Nobody said anything about swine flu. Why would you curse him like that?”

“Well, we made all this food…” JP started. “But you’re right, we’d be furious if he made us sick.”

“Plus, we really needed to clean the house.”

“Now we can have a quiet dinner alone. And be lazy. Wanna beer?”

“Why not?” I smiled. This was not such a bad thing after all.

We spent the rest of the afternoon drinking and watching episodes of Hell’s Kitchen (my secret vice) in our pajamas. Dinner was laughably large. After a bowl of vegetable soup with home made pesto, we moved on to a salad of grilled mushrooms, peppers, eggplant and zucchini tossed with a bright anchovy-lemon dressing and feta. Both of these dishes fared very well with the Rose; it was forthrightly cheerful with fresh strawberry and raspberry flavors, pomegranate acidity and a touch of sweetness.

We were both nearing fullness, but we couldn’t neglect our roast pork with spicy yuzu-kosho sour cream (an idea I’d filched from Two Rooms) and green beans with crispy pancetta. Again, the wine was a star, and the sweetness offset the bite of the yuzu-kosho nicely.

JP raised his glass, “To Oskari’s health.”

“May he recover soon,” I added.

“And to a tasty dinner at home alone.”

Sorry, no pix this time - guess you'll all just have to come over for dinner sometime.