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7.22.07 Let me entertain you by Jon Worley When you are "with child" (as in, you have kids), getting out can be difficult. At the very least, it can be expensive, especially when babysitters expect ten bucks an hour--or more. So it only makes sense to do things like invite people over to your place. Entertaining at your place has its advantages. You can kick the kids off to bed when they get unbearable (unless, of course, they're playing with the children of your guests) and, perhaps more importantly, drinking beer at home is a lot cheaper. Miss Manners is a big advocate of that social animal known as the dinner party. She ought to be, as she has been part of the high-powered D.C. dinner scene for decades (or so I am told). She's got some serious rules for these affairs. I skipped over most of them, but I kept a few. And added some of my own. Welcome to my shindig. Jon's dinner party rules:
This may sound harsh, but I'm not hanging out with a couple that doesn't imbibe. If I'm throwing a party with lots of guests, I don't care if people drink or smoke (outside, anyway) or snort or whatever. Just don't pee in the street or wreck your car on the way home. But I like to hang out with a beer or few, and when I've had said beer or few I can get somewhat annoying. People who are drinking with me either don't notice this or, because they're drinking about as much as I am, simply don't care. I'm don't care which is true, except to say that a teetotaler would not want to be in my exclusive company after I've had a couple Troegenators.
The practical reason for this is that our kitchen is tiny. I'm not against folks bringing a dish to share, even if final prep is required. But I'm not sharing my kitchen space for any extended time with anyone. It pisses me off (for better or worse), and I've learned that it is easier to avoid situations that piss me off than it is to convince myself not to get pissed off in the first place. You say denial, I say common sense.
I'm not a rude host. If someone offers me a six of Bud, I smile graciously. There is a good friend of ours who only drinks Corona (such a sad story, really). I've even put my own money out so that this friend may drink that swill. I am a good friend, after all. But some fool brought a case of Bud to a party we threw years ago in St. Pete. No one drank any--even the jerk who brought it. It stayed in our back yard for a month, and then I tossed it out by the dumpster, where teenagers claimed it within minutes. You want to bring me a case a Bud, just toss it by curb and leave a notice on the neighborhood listserv. Free Bud, first come first served. Or something like that. Just don't carry it cross my threshhold.
I have nothing against vegetarians. In fact, my son Max is pretty much a vegetarian (other than the odd tuna steak or hot dog), and I ate very little meat before Barbara went on a high-protein diet when she was pregnant with Max (which might well explain his aversion). But if I'm grilling (and my dinner parties are best when I'm grilling), then there's gonna be some critter out there. I'm happy to braise some squash or roast some eggplant (eggplant is particularly good on the grill), but I'm likely to throw out some burgers as well. And you should know: my burgers have converted hard-core vegetarians--for the night, anyway. They smell really fucking good. They'd better: I imported the barbecue sauce that goes in them.
Some friends of ours who have hosted a Kentucky Derby party for 15 years (and have had kids for five) told me that they had to stock twice the amount of booze once their crowd became parent-heavy. Parents drink hard for a reason: If they didn't, no children would reach adulthood. Even teetotalers numb themselves one way or another, whether we're talking network TV or copious reading of the Bible. If I didn't drink, I'd simply ram my head into the wall about a hundred times a day. That would probably work just as well.
I'm a firm believer that kids will find you if there's a big problem. Now, if one of your kids is two, there will be a lot of shouting, screaming and crying. You hear something like that, reach for your drink. Sip. Sip again. Count to ten. Most likely, the screaming will have ended. If you don't see any of the kids, then there's no problem. Sip again--in celebration. The little bastards can take care of themselves pretty well. And if they can't, threaten to kill them. There's nothing like the sight of a drunken, enraged parent to scare the shit out of a toddler. Works every time. Any other rules I might think of are merely bits of advice. After all, when you're hanging out with your friends, who wants rules? Just throw on another Meat Puppets album and pop open another Belgian 750ml. Delerium Tremens is always nice, though it's hard to go wrong with most any Belgian. The Flemish may talk funny, but they make damn fine beer.
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