A Report From Wine Explorer Diego Samper
Paris, France
This week, friends abroad seemed more worried about Paris than I was.
Then I tried cycling to lunch.
I ran into a protest, a little tear gas, and arrived late. Paris had decided to contribute to the conversation before I got there.
The messages asking whether I was all right and the experience of being here felt some distance apart. Lunch went ahead.
Paris is used to protest. It can feel as if there is always a march somewhere. The French do not need a special occasion to disagree in public.
They have turned it into something between a right, a habit, and a national sport.
This one, as you may have noticed, was bigger than usual.
I was meeting a young American woman I’d met last week at a party. She worked in fashion and the influencer world, and had thought I did too.
I don’t work in fashion.
But she was interested in spending more time in Paris. So over lunch, somewhere between the tear gas and the wine list, I tried to explain what I could about France, protest, and the strange talent of this country for making disruption feel almost ordinary.
She was easy company. Something of the all-American girl about her, in the best sense.
At some point, I told her that whenever she was in Paris, she could come to dinner with us at home.
Dinner at home apparently required further investigation.
I meant it.
Come over. We’ll eat something. Open a bottle. Talk.
No application. No references.
She said she would next time she was in town.
There is a difference between asking someone what they do and making them do it all evening. At our table, I’d rather nobody had to keep being somebody.
Dinner Became a Small Wedding
Later, I read a piece in the Guardian about people becoming reluctant to host at home. The cooking, the cleaning, the cost. Whether the house looked good enough.
Somewhere along the way, having people over acquired a production budget.
Dinner became a small wedding, minus the presents.
You need a menu. A theme. Flowers that suggest you have been casually gathering flowers all your life. A table that looks accidental, after three hours of arranging it.
By the time the guests arrive, you resent them. They have no idea how much work went into making this look like no work.
In my memory, the great domestic emergency was having the boss over for dinner.
Fair enough. That sounds stressful.
But when did we start treating our friends like the boss?
I like a well-set table. I like good food and a host who has thought about what to pour. If you enjoy spending all afternoon cooking, please do.
Invite me.
But it is the postponement I recognize.
The apartment needs work. The recipe needs practice. The glasses don’t match. Perhaps next month, when things settle down.
Meanwhile, we could have had dinner.
You are feeding a few people. You are not defending your doctoral thesis on the potato.
Make something you know how to cook. Buy part of the meal. Put bread on the table and something worth putting on it.
If someone asks what the concept is, tell them dinner.
In my version, somebody can cut the bread while I finish the food. Someone else can open the bottle.
And yes, our guests will see toys. They will see a playpen. They may see evidence that a child lives here and that the adults have not fully recovered.
Good.
That is the house.
Nobody needs to stand in the doorway pretending not to notice that life is being lived in it.
A restaurant can be wonderful. But the waiter comes, the plates leave, and eventually someone else needs the table.
At home, you get up to find another fork. Someone follows you into the kitchen. A conversation starts there and continues while you finish the food. Nobody has ordered it. Nobody can put it on the bill.
For me, that is the good part.
The evening gets better when people stop introducing themselves and start talking.
We have enough places to perform. I don’t particularly want my kitchen to become another one.
Keep Champagne in the Fridge
Of course, I do have one rule. Members know this already because I have said it many times.
Always keep Champagne in the fridge. Cold.
Keep wine within reach, and hosting gets lighter.
You do not have to turn every visit into an event. The bottle does some of the work. It gives the evening somewhere to begin.
Someone has good news. Someone is passing through Paris and finally takes you up on dinner.
A warm bottle, in any of these circumstances, is a very handsome paperweight.
Cold Champagne buys you time. Pour a glass. Put something salty on a plate. Suddenly nobody is particularly worried about when the food will be ready.
To me, France has protest and wine running through its veins.
Both belong at the table, and in the argument.
Wine doesn’t need to turn dinner into an exam. Nobody has to identify the soil before being allowed a second glass.
Open it. Taste it. See what happens with the food.
There are nights when going out is exactly right. Let the stove have the night off.
But my friends could be waiting a while if they had to wait for my home, my menu and my life to be presentable.
Mine will have to take me as I am.
The boss isn’t coming.
Your friends are.
The door is open. The Champagne is cold.
Diego Samper
The Wine Explorer
