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I hated dinner parties. But I decided to give them another shot because I'm in London. And my friend Mallery invited me. And because dinner parties in London are very different from those back in New York. There, “I'm having a dinner party” means “I'm booking a table for 12 at a restaurant you can't afford and we'll be sharing the cheque evenly, no matter what you eat.”
Worse, in Manhattan there is always someone who leaves before the bill arrives. They'll throw down cash, half of what they owe, and then people like me, who don't drink, end up paying even more. But if I try to use the same trick, the hostess will shout “Where are you going?” And it's not like I can say I have somewhere to go: everyone knows I have nowhere to go.
But in London, dinner parties are in people's homes. Not only that, the guests are an interesting mix. The last time I went to one, the guests were from France, India, Denmark and Nigeria; it was like a gathering at the United Nations. In New York, the mix is less striking. It's like a gathering at Bloomingdale's, a well-known department store.
For New Yorkers, talking about other parts of the world means Brooklyn and Queens in New York. But at Mallery's, when I said that I had been to Myanmar recently, people knew where it was. In New York people would think it was a usual new club.
