Edition: U.S. / Global

The Supper Club

By Molly O'Neill
Published: April 13, 1997

Entertainment angst: it came on in the 90's like a contagion. People who had been giving dinner parties and formal lunches for decades -- those who had mastered minceur and nouvelle and even Tex-Mex and Thai, who knew what to do with infused oils and lemongrass -- all these people realized like a bolt that for them the joy had gone out of cooking for company.

They knew the reasons: work, health fads, health nuts, presentation anxiety. Inspiration faltered. Lapsed party givers sought support. Groups formed. I monitored the rehabilitation process of one such group. (So raw were their deliberations that the participants asked to have their names changed.) The members reflected a broad swath of New York overachievers: Johanna, a documentary film maker and recovering perfectionist; Mrs. J., an Upper East Side dowager with notions straight from an Edith Wharton novel, a woman who personified a fading order; Elizabeth, a tax lawyer who followed recipes out the window, and Nan, a medical researcher obsessed with the leanness of foods. They were joined by a professional, Mr. D. As an overweening caterer who analyzed the leftovers on his clients' plates with the intention of anticipating trends, he could offer objectivity to the group.

What they shared was the desire to put on elegant dinner parties that didn't make them or their guests crazy. They wanted to regain what they thought had been lost -- a sense of pleasure, of unhurried delight.

Over time, with mutual support and much self-examination, each member designed a blueprint for entertaining that worked for her. And Mr. D. could bank some useful tidbits while encouraging the use of a little creme fraiche here and there. This is how their breakthrough came about:

I. The day the party died Mr. D., the famous caterer for le tout New York, realized that the expectations for drop-dead dinners were out of control. He also noted, as he was standing in Mrs. J.'s kitchen, that the preference for fine food had peaked as health concerns became paramount. He sensed the tide turning toward simple food and do-it-yourself parties. He had been around long enough to spot the signs, especially when a platter that went out with potatoes returned empty. If the rich are eating potatoes, Mr. D. surmised, his salad days were over.

He could only begin to imagine the effect of this turn of events on his bottom line. His life passed before him -- the years of quiche, the days of grilled fish and mesclun, the summers of pasta. He had prided himself on his ability to stay ahead of the curve. And then he saw it: the future. And it was stew! He immediately reported his revelation to the Page 10 gossip column, which ran an item under the headline: They're Eating Potatoes on Park Avenue!

II. Mostest scuttles hostess Johanna, the film maker, phoned Mr. D. as soon as she read the paper. She saw in the story a comment on pathological dietary concerns among a certain group of New Yorkers. She knew immediately that she wanted to do a film on the contemporary dinner party. What she did not know was how personally affected she was by the subject. Despite the fact that Johanna was as acclaimed a hostess as she was a film maker, she did not know that underneath it all she had a problem.

This became evident one morning when, scanning the remains in the kitchen of the six-course dinner she had spent three weeks whipping up, she admitted she had a hostess disorder. Johanna wanted more than anything now to surrender to simplicity, to the occasional loaf of store-bought bread. Her penchant for lavish productions was no longer compatible with the time available. When she called to interview Mr. D. for her film, he suggested she consider the dinner party as an example of how American society had drifted from conspicuous consumption to what the writer Margaret Visser called conspicuous competence -- or showing off. He also suggested they have lunch with his favorite client, Mrs. J.

III. Three is a crowd pleaser Over lunch at Le Bernardin, Mr. D.'s friend, Mrs. J., suggested that the younger generation was responsible for the sorry state of party giving. Johanna countered.

''I think that every generation needs to distinguish itself from its parents' style of entertaining,'' she said. ''Do you recall in 'The Group' how Mary McCarthy made the case for casseroles and canned food? How it was much more democratic than the tired old roasts their mothers had ordered from the caterer?''

As the waiter boned the turbot and napped it with a basil-infused jus, Mrs. J. beamed. The composition in front of her, despite its modern touches, still showed care and infinite respect. She felt hopeful.

''What I see happening today in all this slop and hurry is a fundamental disregard,'' Mrs J. announced. ''I may have stroked my own ego through entertaining, but I also learned a great deal about giving. My daughters don't give, they provide. It's a different thing altogether.''

Mr. D. then piped up with his stew theory, and Mrs. J. proclaimed that stew was ugly and brown. Indeed, Mr. D. said, stew is not without esthetic problems. ''But it seems to me entirely possible,'' he added, ''to frame a one-pot dish with an elaborate first course and dessert and have a heck of a party.''