A budget of $10mn plus, a host of A-listers with a Venetian backdrop all bode well for a great party.
I wasn’t invited to that one, but fortunately, I’ve attended many other
great parties.
Some stand out. Obviously, a cool venue, preferably with a view,
impeccable catering, and a band. Just as they hit the chorus of the
Spandau Ballet hit, “Gold”, Tony Hadley (the lead singer) strolls in and
takes the mic. That was a great night!
If you’re hosting at home, lavish entertaining requires a marquee, event
caterers, a Britain’s Got Talent winning magician and more fizz than Epernay’s cellars, served by uniformed youths who look like they’ve just stepped off a beach volleyball court without breaking sweat.
There might even be a glamorous, roving host — elegantly dressed in a
custom frame gown, gracefully offering pre-poured champagne as part of
the evening’s immersive experience. Add dry ice for drama, floral arches
at every turn, chandeliers swinging from trees, and enough festoon
lighting to rival Glastonbury. And of course, fireworks to signify the
end of the night. Or start the complaints if you forgot to invite the
neighbours.
Portable toilets may be common. However, they’re better than having your
plumbing destroyed or guests rooting through your airing cupboard in
search of a towel. Hire the posh ones: wood-panelled,
eucalyptus-scented, softly lit like a Soho House convenience, and just
as likely to be occupied for 20 minutes by someone “freshening up”.
Catering provision should be straightforward. Canapés? Abundant.
Ceviche, rare beef on rösti, seared tuna, smoked salmon blinis. The
mains? A heroic spread grilled or barbecued to perfection. Pudding? A
full-scale production featuring deconstructed Eton mess, sculptural
chocolate somethings, and a regiment of macarons. Job done.
Or go silver service, if you’re willing to spend a gazillion.
There must be a way to throw a great party without such expenditure. Once upon a simpler time, when you had to phone people to invite them, a party meant a few chairs in the garden, a bucket of cold lager, and your mate, probably called Dave or Nick, overcooking sausages on a barbecue that hadn’t been cleaned since the last Ice Age. And that was fine. You’d
whip up a barbecue sauce from all the fridge condiments and feel like
celebrity chef Nigella . . . if Nigella lived in a semi and drank Fosters.
Music? A stereo wheeled out from the living room and a carefully curated
mixtape that always cut out halfway through “Mr Brightside”. If you really
pushed the boat out and didn’t want to cheat with M&S party food, you
bought a Jamie Oliver cookbook, ignored most of it, and made something
called Pukka Chicken, which was probably a grilled lemon chicken. Maybe a dusting of chilli flakes. Perhaps a sprig of something green that wasn’t meant to be eaten, all served with a false sense of achievement on a wooden chopping board.
Now? According to social media, if your party doesn’t feature a grazing
table arranged by Pantone shade, smashed beef sliders, Korean barbecue tacos and cocktails involving blowtorches and rosemary, it isn’t a party. It’s
just dinner with witnesses.
Of course, social media is full of easy hacks. But are there things you
can nick from Instagram that are worth the faff?
Can’t you just serve crisps in a bowl alongside a dip? And are Aldi’s
knock-off Hula Hoops as good as the original? Yes. Suitable for an
impromptu sun-drenched gathering. Not for a proper party.
Recently, I tried the crisp smorgasbord I saw online: posh ridged
ready-salted crisps, bresaola, brie or blue cheese, spring onions, olive
oil and honey. Shoved in the oven until the cheese melts. It’s
indulgent, salty, gooey, different and vaguely European. I regret
nothing.
The great con of the 2020s is the idea that using social media recipes
is somehow less cheating than buying chicken goujons or profiteroles and
claiming you made them. It’s the same deceit, just hashtagged.
Take the viral ice cream served with olive oil and sea salt. It’s all over
Instagram, promising sophistication, surprise, and a touch of Tuscany. It
tastes like your Cornetto fell into a Pret salad. But it looks good in a
ramekin, and no one knows how it’s meant to taste, so everyone nods in
pretend appreciation and says things like “ooh, complex”.
Great for a dinner party. Terrible for a crowd. Too fiddly. Too weird.
Much better to buy excellent brownies from a deli, chop them into cubes,
pile them high on a plate, and give them a dusting of icing sugar for
that “just made” look. Done. Applause.
And here’s an actual tip that will change everything. Buy a JBL Partybox
710. It’s about the size of a small fridge, glows like Studio 54, and
for £699, turns your patio into Ibiza. For the price of hiring a DJ,
here’s something you can use again and again. Just remember, a gadget is
only as good as the playlist you pump through it. No one ever remembered
a party for the quality of the napkins.
They remember the volume, the bangers, and the laughs. The perfect party
isn’t about chandeliers, grazing boards, whether your Negroni was
stirred by a man with tattoos and a top knot, or how much you spent.
It’s about good times and human chemistry, with music loud enough to
make the neighbours twitch, food disappearing in minutes, fizz flowing
freely and someone inevitably barefoot on the lawn doing the Macarena
with a traffic cone. And that’s before they fall into the hedges on the
way home.
Feel free to borrow the Instagram recipes and staging if you want. But
the parties you’ll remember? They never made it online. Because the best
moments are the ones too brilliant or too badly behaved to share.
James Max is a broadcaster on TV and radio and a property expert. The views expressed are personal. X, Instagram and Threads @thejamesmax