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About Parties, or The Last Charge
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 WHEN YOU HAVE an accumulation of friends, whether they number two or twenty, you've grounds for a party. The dictionary says that a party is a body of persons united for a common purpose, social or political, and, to me, that means drinks, conversation, sining, dancing, and food.
If this book doesn't accomplish anything else I hope it leaves you with this thought at least — to hell with the conventional, the right fork, the right goblet, the fashionable flower arrangement. You can have more real fun with a flower behind your ear, a sparerib in one hand, and a drink in the other than you ever will all swaddled in damask, sterling, and cut crystal. Just one thing is needed to complete the scene — good companionship.
Thinking over my own experiences, it seems to me that too many hostesses spend time and care on the preparations for a party and completely miss on the selection of guests. Where particular people are invited with or without a particular purpose in mind, it is mighty important that you invite people who you know will like one another and whose personalities will bud and flower together in the warmth of your hospitality.
Let me give you some examples of whom not to invite. We were invited to a dinner party not long ago — about twenty couples of nice people with the exception of one domineering old biddy and her unfortunate husband. The party was going along smoothly; the cocktails were being consumed according to plan; dinner was announced and we sat down to a truly marvelous meal. The hostess had really blown her top on that dinner.
In the middle of the
main course there was conversational commotion at the other end of the table
that gathered volume and momentum fast and just about jarred the table from
its moorings. The domineering dame had let go at her old man with a blast
that would shrivel a jellyfish. Right in the middle of that gorgeous dinner
party she launched into what was strictly a family beef. The poor guy got
red in the face, sputtered like a wet firecracker, and tried vainly to shush
her, but she was free-wheeling and nothing could stop her. Everyone squirmed,
felt embarrased, and tried to retreat their conversations, but the air was
out of the tire and by the time the old girl regained control and realized
what an ass she'd made of herself dinner was about over. All of her smirkings
and tittery apologies couln't recapture the gaiety and good fellowship which
had been lost because of her bad manners.
There's another type of party pest to watch out for — the wolf past his prime. He's the guy who, after a few drinks, picks out a tender young thing and proceeds to pat her on the you-know-where till she damn near ends up in the punch bowl. He's the frustrated old goat who punctuates all his remarks with personal pats and pinches on any feminine guest who has the misfortune to be seated near him.
His counterpart on the distaff side is usually on hand too. She's the gal
with the V for Victory job which fits her like the skin on a grape, and
when she sits down there's no place for her dress to go but up. So what
gives? The wives get into a huddle and pan the girl for fancy display; the
men get sore at the broken-down wolves for making passes at their old ladies
and the party is flat at one end.
There's another nice deal where every guest is a stranger in thought, deed,
and dress. The hostess, of course, is just cleaning up on odds and ends
of courtesies but if she thinks her guest aren't smart to it she sould hear
what they have to say on the way home! Everybody wonders what it's all about
until they have a chance to think it over, and then you can bet your tights
she's in for a terrific shellacking.
It's a pretty stinking trick, also, to invite two couples who are having
a little Martin and Coy deal on between themselves. It's absolutely guaranteed
to put the quick freeze on any otherwise friendly group of people. It's
human nature for people to take sides, so the party is soon divided into
two camps. With all the neighborhood and club gossip, women know what's
going on and should be able to make their guest lists from the peace table
instead of a war map.
 The windbag who, self-launched or with the aid of a few quickies, will orate on religion, politics, or behaviorism and who is an authority on any subject mentioned, will also put the squitch on your festivities if you don't discover him and nip his oratorical tendencies in the bud. If you find yourself saddled with one of these, try putting him to work. Ask him to help you with drinks or get some chairs down from upstairs — anything to keep him busy and quiet.
Another thing that gets my goat is the hostess who invites her guests with a discerning eye for their usefulness. I'm talking for myself now, and I might be a harmonica player, or a pianist, or a violinist, but I'm just a fair saloonkeeper. One evening some patronizing old bag says to me, "Trader, we think you're wonderful. We love you and your charming wife (gush, gush). We just think you're regular people. Won't you come to our house for cocktails next Sunday at four? Now please come early!" So I consult my better half and we know some friends who will be there and ew think maybe it will be fun so we get there — and early, dammit — and is the old bag full of soft soap! She's got quite a crowd so it's "Trader, you know how to make such wonderful drinks! We've got everything. Puleeze!" So I'm stuck, and if I played the piano I'd be stuck, and if I played the harmonica I bet they'd have a harmonica! I mix drinks from four to eight-thirty for free, and I've been finagled. I am also pretty hot about it and it's never going to happen again.
The average hostess is guilty of a few other party crimes, one being the
lack of organization. As with anything else in life, forethought and planning
oil the wheels of any festivity. You can't spend hours on the guest list,
days ordering and preparing the food, deck yourself in your best bib and
tucker, and after you've herded your guests into the living room leave them
entierly to their own devidces. You can but you'll be sorry. If you don't
steer things from the beginning you'll find everyone falling back on your
liquor supply and the first thing you know you'll have a knockdown, drag-out
bacchanalia on the premises.
Now I don't mean, heaven forbid, that you should provide cards, vaudeville
acts, or paid entertainment, nor do I suggest that you move your guests
around like pawns on a chessboard, but you alone set the tempo of your party.
If you make a mental schedule and stick to it you'll find everyone imbibing
a certain number of drinks and at a designated time partaking of your food.
You should have one or two ideas stowed away for after-dinner activities
and, with a few well-directed suggestions or hints to the outstanding personalities
at your gatherings, things will move forward.
It may be guessing games, community singing, or storytelling, depending
upon the preferences and caliber of your friends, but it shouldn't be forced.
Nothing is more asinine than a hostess standing in the middle of a group
of adults, clapping her hands and exclaiming, "Now let's all play charades.
Donald dear, you be first."
Record playing has its drawbacks, too, unless the suggestion is practically
unanimous. I'll never forget one of the goddamnedest evenings I ever spent.
My wife and I were invited to dinner and arrived per schedule. I don't think
we'd had more than two cocktails when wham! a mechanical record player came
to life. We listened to Tchaikovsky, we listened to Brahms, we listened
to everything from Chopin to Wagner and we couldn't drink or talk Our hostess
had it boiled up so you couldn't hear your own vice much less anyone else's
and when the maid came in with "dinner is served" I said to myself
"It's a good thing."
Well, we trooped into the dining room and I'll be damned if our music-loving
hostess didn't put on a stack of operas and stuff, set the gimmick, and
feed us music with dinner. It wouldn't have been so bad if she'd just let
the thing play softly. Then we could have talked among ourselves. But no,
she had to give us a play-by-play description and we couldn't talk while
she was talking so we withered and died and fell in our soup. The evening
finally petered out and we made excuses to leave early but by then I had
such a case of the jitters that I lost my two cocktails and dinner on the
way home.
And while I'm dishing out the advice, a little Dorothy Dix to those who
have to entertain the boss. If he's a nice guy you're lucky, but if he's
a stinkeroo it's brutal. Whichever he is, don't chase around putting on
the flash, because he's smart to it or if he isn't his old lady is and she'll
nail you to the cross later. If you have a maid, O.K., you have a maid.
If you haven't, to hell with a maid. Give them your sincere best, in your
natural way, because that's the reason they're coming to your home in the
first place and not for a load of chi-chi and phony-baloney.
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All text taken from
Trader Vic's Book of Food and Drink
by Trader Vic
Drawings by William F. M. Kay
(originally published 1946 by Doubleday & Company, Inc.)
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