Five hosting habits I nicked from my friends

Featuring baths, risotto, crisps, and further tricks of the trade

You really have to hand it to the people who run airports. If the goal is to turn grown adults into gibbering idiots, they’ve succeeded triumphantly. From the dignity-sapping security queue (‘Sir, I said BELTS OFF!’) to the unexplained hours idling on the tarmac (‘Can I buy a sandwich?’, ‘No’), it’s enough to make you pine for the age of steam trains.

All of which is to explain why I recently arrived in Lisbon in a tense and twitchy state. My friend Vanessa and I had endured flight delays and had managed to leave a bottle of duty-free tequila in the overhead compartment. Groan. By the time we reached my friend Nikki B’s apartment for dinner, I was ready to bite somebody.

Nikki, however, is a consummate host. She sat me in a deep armchair, went to grab drinks, and told us to play some music. I flicked through her box of vinyl, put on a Howlin’ Wolf album, and sank into my seat. My eye roved around the living room, a jewel box of cherished art and objects. Scratchy blues music filled my head and soothed my nerves. By the time Nikki sauntered back with a plate of cheese and an ice-cold bottle of Murganheira Malvasia, I was a man transformed. Within two minutes, she had given us somewhere to land, something to do, and a sense that all was well in the world.

Nikki B’s Lisbon den of dreams.

Such is the power of a warm welcome.

When I got back home, a few days later, I retrieved my record player from the attic and installed it in the living room. Because I also want to offer guests the pleasure of picking their own music (albeit from my limited range of albums — I really hope they like Carly Simon).

I also found myself thinking about how many principles of hosting I have ‘borrowed’ from my friends. A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about the role other people’s mothers have played in shaping my hospitality ethos. Today, I want to share five memories that have shaped how I host today.

1. Pamela’s bath

In response to the question ‘How are you?’, Brits are trained to answer ‘Fine, thank you!’. Even if one of their body parts is on fire. A few years ago, I turned up at my friend Pamela’s flat on a scorching hot day, eyes raging with hayfever, and she duly asked ‘How are you?’ I mumbled a platitude, but Pamela wasn’t falling for it. ‘Would you like a bath?’ she asked. I was stumped for a reply. ‘Go on,’ she said, ‘you’ll feel miles better.’ She frogmarched me into her snug little bathroom, gave me a towel, and left me to it.

Reader, I was ELATED. Fifteen minutes later, I emerged, having left the drudgery of my work day behind, and having rediscovered my equanimity.

The lesson I learned was not to offer guests a bath, but to read between the lines. If someone arrives at your home and is clearly exhausted, do they need ten quiet minutes lying on the sofa? Or a pot of tea, rather than a glass of wine? If someone has spilt coffee on their shirt, do they need to put it in the washing machine?

Stubbornly polite people will rarely tell you what they need — you have to deduce it. And once you do, their tightly coiled springs will start to decompress.

2. Sue and Graham’s drinks tray

Another question that brings out my pathetic side is, ‘What would you like to drink?’ My mind goes blank. Especially if the follow-up statement is ‘We’ve got everything!’ Choice only compounds the problem. I glance around, keen to see what other people are drinking, anxious to fit in.

The other day, I turned up for dinner at Sue and Graham’s — my delightful in-laws — and they had placed a variety of drinks on a tray. Wine, water, Coke, and a bottle of gin. This made the question ‘What would you like to drink?’ a lot easier to answer. I saw the Diet Coke and realised it was exactly what I wanted.

The reason I’ve resisted putting together a drinks tray in the past is that I want cold drinks to be really cold — and thus prefer to fetch them from the fridge. I now think it’s more important that guests see what’s on offer. And when I’m really organised, I put out a bowl of ice to chuck into drinks.

An adjacent point: when guests arrive, I always try to shove a glass of water into their hands. I am the child of two actors, and I can attest to the fact that actors are only truly happy when they have a prop to work with. It doesn’t matter what — it can be a pipe, a sheaf of papers, a garden rake — the point is that it anchors them on stage. Guests have a similar reaction to glasses of water. It provides ballast (as well as hydration).

3. Ed’s blackboard

As an insufferably nosy (and greedy) person, I struggle to relax until I know what’s for dinner. I especially want to know if there’s a dessert coming up, so that I can (a) look forward to it, and (b) try to save space in my stomach.

In the rush to get dinner on the table, however, hosts sometimes forget to mention what they’re serving. The food arrives, the conversation burbles on, and the guests play the game of guessing what it is they’re forking into their mouths.

My friend Ed has a charming solution to this predicament. A small blackboard hangs in his kitchen, on which he writes the evening’s menu. The moment I walk into his flat, I glance at the blackboard and start drooling. Especially when I clap eyes on the pudding.

I don’t have a blackboard, but I do like to leave out the cookbooks I’ve been using — to signal what’s on offer. And one day, when I truly level up, I aspire to create handwritten menus, like the ones I see in Skye McAlpine’s cookbooks. But that would mean writing in legible English, which I struggle with.

4. Nicki’s risotto

I have always been quick to internalise a rule. And one of the rules I learned, early on, was that you never, ever cook a risotto for a crowd. Risotto is a labour-intensive, time-sensitive dish, guaranteed to drive a host into a state of clenched anxiety.

Try telling that to my friend Nicki*. For I have seen her, at her stove, preparing risotto AND TALKING TO HER GUESTS AT THE SAME TIME.

It was like watching a lion tamer put her head between the jaws of the beast.

My route to being a relaxed host is to get every scrap of work done in advance. For Nicki, I suspect it’s the opposite. A bit of light manual labour gives the evening a touch of theatre. The food is conjured before our eyes. And for that, we are purringly grateful.

The moral of this story is: do whatever puts yourself in a welcoming frame of mind. If whisking egg whites helps to calm your jitters, serve souffles and be damned. If cooking-to-order makes you want a prescription of beta-blockers, tell everyone you’re going to order a pizza. Whatever it takes to give yourself a fighting chance of enjoying the occasion.

5. Suzie’s side table

I grew up in a house where food was plonked on the dining table and we all tucked in — a merry mess of forks, fingers and elbows. It never occurred to me that there was another way to serve dinner — until I spent a Christmas evening at my friend Suzie’s. Instead of loading the table with food, it all went on a small side table. As such, we were able to help ourselves to exactly what we wanted — without being watched.

Another bonus was that the dining table remained an orderly place for plates, candles and wine glasses. So often, after everyone’s taken food, the table looks like the aftermath of a car crash.

Suzie’s solution leads me back to the magic word: relaxed. It helped the evening feel easy. It created a sense of flow (nipping over to grab some seconds). And it’s how I’ve served dinner ever since.

Suzie’s side table (food cooked by the extremely talented Chris). Don’t you just want to dive in?

These five memories are all seared into my mind. These hosts make hospitality look effortless, but the truth, I suspect, is that they've simply spent years paying attention to what makes their guests comfortable. So here’s to embracing our inner magpies and shamelessly stealing good ideas.

* I have five friends called, variously, Nikki, Nicki and Nicky. It’s all very confusing.

The ‘welcome tray’ of dreams

While we’re on the subject of drinks and snacks, here are three things I would want to see on my platonic ideal of a welcome tray.

A jug of Poinsettia

I’ve been devoted to Nigella Lawson’s Feast since it was published in 2004. That means I’ve been making Nigella’s Poinsettia cocktail for 22 years. A mix of fizzy wine, Grand Marnier (or any orange-flavoured liqueur) and cranberry juice, it manages to be fruity but not sickly. A big jug of this, rattling with ice cubes, is just the thing I want to see on a welcome tray. It sings of ‘party’, but won’t knock you out like a Negroni. It’s also a very good way to use up a bottle of lesser Prosecco.

Good non-alcoholic options

Much as I love a Poinsettia, I have, for various reasons, not been drinking much booze this year. As such, my fridge has become a testing ground for various low and no-alcohol options. Three firm favourites are Collider ‘Mood Boosting’ Beer, Botivo, and Mother Root cordial. But the point, again, is about the visibility of options. If a guest sees non-alcoholic drinks on offer, they feel less pressure to drink (if they don’t want to).

A bowl of basic crisps

Crisps are my culture. They go in my sandwiches, they go in my bag, they go in my car’s glove compartment. I do not, however, believe in fancy crisps (looking at you, Torres fried egg crisps at £4.99 a bag). I want crisps that taste of nostalgia. Fake-bacon-tasting Frazzles. Eye-wateringly sharp Chipsticks. Powder-coated Nik Naks. Leave the artisan offerings in the deli, I want Tangy Cheese Doritos and a jar of hot salsa. Just one word of warning. When I was researching the subject of hosting, my friend Glyn said ‘I don’t want to see too many crisps in bowls, cos I eat them all and spoil my dinner. See also bread.’

There you have it. A small bowl for Glyn. A big bowl for the rest of us.

All that’s missing is the hot salsa dip.