You are invited to a dinner party – the sort of occasion that demands proper shoes and maybe even a blow-dry. Ironed shirt for spouse. How do you stand on olive oil?
“With difficulty” (boom-tish!) is not the right answer. Apparently, olives are the new grapes and oil is the new wine. But it’s got to be “trendy”.
Any self-respecting hostess in 2024 apparently feels put out if a guest brings wine to her gathering as it places her under pressure to serve it. Entre nous, that’s precisely why I bring my own booze, but I do acknowledge that not everyone has such an animus towards viognier.
Instead of the usual bottle, you are now expected to turn up with something far more unique-and-fabulous. But not flowers (eye roll) as cutting the stems, finding a vase and so forth takes up far too much of the hostess’s valuable time, which could be spent judging you.
Hence the olive oil which should, naturellement, be organic, single estate and more virginal than the first dusting of snow on Mount Olympus. Make it personal with a jar of your own homemade honey or pick up some nibbly things from Fortnum & Mason. Ultra-posh crackers in a presentation box, a Nepalese ceramic colander for serving soft fruit – no need for fuss.
If you are already hating the snooty, ungracious, purely fictional hostess as much as I am, then rest assured you can just come round to mine afterwards with your cringingly nouveau prosecco and we’ll make (up) some cocktails and bitch about everyone.
Incidentally, the Nepalese colander idea came courtesy of Martha Stewart in her 32 Gifts to Bring the Host of a Party listicle from earlier this month, which features items like a handcrafted stoneware pitcher, a miniature olive tree in its own pot and a marble wine chiller at £54.
Quite the investment. But she obviously wanted to go all out to impress. And that’s probably why I don’t get invited to pretentious Upper East Side soirées or Nantucket gatherings.
Don’t get me wrong, I never pitch up empty-handed – but it’s more likely to be a succulent from my alpine garden potted in an ancient blue Petit Filous jar than a monogrammed cheese board. And wine. Always wine. Two bottles (because they have got smaller) and merriment.
When I had the kitchen remodelled in 2019, I fought a battle with the lovely, rather grand designer who insisted I extend outwards so I could seat 18 or 20 at my next dinner party.
I broke the news I did not entertain at scale. Crestfallen, she amended it to a more modest 12 or 16 guests. I shook my head. Eight would be enough. Ten at the absolute outside but really I’d be happier with six.
And so it has come to pass. When my friends arrive, I welcome them with open arms, whatever they bring. I might text them to pick up some lemons or maybe a bunch of basil en route, but I’ve never been handed an unsolicited bottle of olive oil.
But you know, if I ever do, I’ll be more than happy to pour everyone a large glass and insist we drink it. Just saying.