I don’t get invited to that many dinner parties. I hope it’s not a problem with me, although I can’t rule it out. Instead, I have a feeling that the era of nibbles, laying the table and stressing about the starters is over. When I asked my friends how many invites they get, there was a reasonably consistent answer: roughly one every few months.
I’m not talking here about spag bol with pals. A dinner party is a sit-down affair, with multiple courses and, ideally, a few people you don’t know for company. In their twenties, my parents were apparently having a dinner party every week. My mum has three smartly bound journals, all with the title ‘Guest & Menu Book’. Inside each is an assortment of table plans and wine notes, entries on roast lamb and claret, as well as occasional thoughts about the conversation: ‘This is the last time I cook for people who claim to be struggling on £100,000.