I know I don’t get out much, and I’m getting older, but I sure do find myself shaking my head and saying, “Who are these people?” an awful lot these days.

Who are these people who don’t like riding bikes? Who are these people who don’t really care what they eat? Who are these people who like living in back-of-beyond New Mexico?

I sound like I know best, but at least in the case of dinner parties, I do.

Here’s what made me realize: I was composing a glowing little note about myself on the self-promotion machine that is AmazonConnect (have you bought my book? Now I can email you, whether you like it or not!), and there was this tip for how to write a note:

When posting, we suggest observing “dinner party” etiquette. Engage in conversation with your readers using thoughtful, interesting or amusing dialogue while avoiding profanity and insulting comments.

Well, no wonder some people think dinner parties are dull and grownup and a sign of utter lameness! No wonder they don’t realize a good dinner party, like the ones we have at Tamara’s, with 20 peopled wedged in the living room eating all of spring’s green treats and yelling to be heard, is the pinnacle of human interaction. Because if I had to sit and observe any etiquette at all, and not swear, and always be interesting, well, I’d probably rather just go do bong hits too.

Also, I was catching up on New York Times food sections, and I was reading another one of those utterly weird columns that this woman (man?) named Alex Witchel occasionally writes, in which s/he moans about the perils of dining in NYC’s upper stratosphere—in this case, about political discussions at dinner. That was when I started saying, “Who are these people?!” out loud.

(On a side note, I’m not sure why Witchel writes these things. It’s hard to muster sympathy for someone whose whole purpose seems to be complaining about the very thing they spend all of their time doing, which is eating annoying meals with annoying people who are most likely very rich. And why does the Times publish it? It’s this creeping Styles-section-ification of the rest of the paper.)

Anyway, what was particularly gruesome about this essay was…well, lots of things. First, this, describing guests opining on current events:

The men, as a rule, will have Big Opinions to match their Big Jobs: War is bad. War is good. Their wives take a different tack. They read the fine print, those girls, in between Pilates and collagen shots. Their strategy to near the end of every relevant article in the morning papers, memorize a telling quote, then recite it.

If two of these ladies happen to cite the same quote, well, heavens, it’s “the conversational equivalent of wearing the same dress.”

I’m not relating—are you? What’s extra gross about this is the knowing, catty tone in which it’s written, that implies I, the reader, know exactly what Witchel is talking about.

Well, thank god I don’t. Yes, at my dinner parties, there may be some loud guys with opinions, but whatever—they’re drunk. And they’re probably saying something offensive, but so are the “girls,” and we’ve all read the same story in the New Yorker. There are no salad forks or finger bowls (a previous meaty topic of a Witchel column), and seconds and thirds are the norm. Eating great food that we thought a lot about and took the day preparing is part of the conversation, but so are a million other topics. Sharing food can bring together the most disparate group of people, not just as a pretext for meeting, but as a source of pleasure that everyone can have in common. People who don’t get this are missing out.

What also annoys me about Witchel’s essay, and the Amazon advice, and every other commonly accepted rule for dinner-party socializing, is the implication that you shouldn’t be talking about politics at dinner. (Of course, if you know jack about politics, as Witchel implies these would-be wonk socialites do[n’t], then I guess you’re screwed any time of day.) Dinner is exactly when you get to know people, and what they think about things, not some enforced period of civility and stultification.

I know not everyone can or wants to dine the way I do, but I’m deeply relieved and grateful that I can. I’d also be happy if I never had to read another Witchel bitch-fest. Maybe the fastest way to that is to get him/her off the social circuit: Hey, Alex, wanna come over to dinner at my place? I promise no one has collagen-injected lips, and there will be lots of profanity.

To commemmorate the beginning of the third year of Roving Gastronome, I’m going to run a Best Of series for the next week or so.

It’s just like in the old sitcoms, when all the actors were too burned out to do anything at the end of the season, and they put together this cheesy montage of the most hilarious moments, all stuck awkwardly in some kind of shaky frame story that got all the actors sitting around the same diner table and reminiscing…

“Hey, Chachi, remember the time…that was sooooo funny…”

And then the people at the diner table go all wiggly, and presto, you’re back in some gem of a moment involving striped socks, a case of mistaken identity, and a monkey.

Or, in the case of Roving Gastronome, a hare-brained scheme, a 50-gallon drum, and two animal carcasses:

January 12, 2004:
If It’s Worth Doing, It’s Worth Overdoing, or It Takes a Village to Roast a Pig (and a Lamb)

Who knew roasting a whole pig—plus a whole lamb, just for the heck of it—could be so easy? Well, aside from the creeping anxiety of spectacular failure beforehand, and the running around collecting weird bits of metal, and the blinding, acrid mesquite smoke the night of…it was pretty easy.

Perhaps foolishly, I did think it would be easy when Tamara first called to ask if she could delegate the pig-roasting duties for her second-annual overkill New Year’s Eve party, this time bearing a luau theme. Although Astoria has its suburban charms, Tamara doesn’t have a yard where you can dig a pit and pile in a pig, so we would have to rig up something—surely we could find some instructions on the Internet. Tamara is the quintessential hostess, and I can’t think of a better person to have as a patron of such a dodgy, expensive enterprise. “Don’t worry—if it doesn’t work, there’s always booze,” she airily assured me.

Peter was immediately deputized. When I notified him that he’d been tapped for large-animal-roasting duty, he said, “No problem. But if we’re going to all this trouble, we should roast a lamb too. My people have always roasted lambs.” Peter has some wicked strong Greek roots, which seemed irrelevant to a Hawaiian theme party, but as it happens, he does seem genetically predisposed to cranking a spit for five hours.

The other thing, aside from Peter’s Greekness, that made him want to roast a lamb, was our proximity to the not-telling-the-whole-truth Astoria Live Poultry, just down the block from me. This fabulous storefront traffics not just in chickens, capons, geese, quail, turkeys, ducks, guinea hens, pigeon, and rabbits, but also, just lounging casually in a back room, cows, lambs, and goats. It’s like a petting zoo, but not. I’ve gotten all manner of poultry there before, and was just working my way up to rabbits (they weigh everything in front of you, squawking and squirming, so you have to really look them in the eye; and the bag of meat they give you is still warm, which is weirdly comforting). But Peter was all for jumping straight to the head of the class.

But first we put aside the meat details to focus on engineering. Four days later, and plenty of URLs about smokin’ hawgs and trussing little lambies swapped, we really hadn’t decided anything or purchased any materials or even agreed on just how much meat we’d be dealing with. Over lunch, we could only mutter tersely at each other: “Let’s not talk about it.” “OK. Yeah, later.” We had only two days left.

But lo, on Tuesday, the day before Spit-Crankin’ Day, everything fell into place: Peter found a 50-gallon-drum at a scrap yard, as well as a hefty iron I-beam to support the barrel and keep it off the patio surface (which was also the roof of Tamara’s downstairs neighbors’ apartment–a small fire code infraction). We bought about a hundred pounds of mesquite at Home Despot, as charcoal seemed to be out of season. Our metalworking friend Joel made a spit and sawed the barrel in half. And Ali, world’s greatest chef and all-around generous guy, let us borrow his car to haul all the crap around.

Wednesday morning dawned late and too brightly. We’d all been at Ali’s place, the Kabab Cafe, too late, celebrating our triumphant requisition of supplies with buckets of wine. Peter asked if I’d nip down to the corner and order the lamb, but I demurred—my eyes were too bleary to face a little lamb. But it’s a full-service establishment, with delivery, and took him seriously when he requested $120 worth of meat by phone, with no deposit.

Meanwhile, Tamara picked up the pig, which she’d ordered through Prune. It had been boned, so it was like a big sausage with a head–I think it was about 25 or 30 pounds of pure meat. We had to do a mucky but fun maneuver of removing the too-short wooden stake the pig had been trussed on and ramming a longer one in–an operation that took three people and inspired Deb to comment, “This is kind of sexy, actually.”

The lamb required a little more attention. None of our Internet- and Ali-derived information on lamb trussing seemed particularly helpful, and we couldn’t get the spit to lodge tightly anywhere in the lamb, so Peter just resorted to a lot of kitchen twine and plenty of special sliding boat knots. At one point I had to hold the lamb’s head down while Peter tied it in place–its small skull fit nicely in my hand, and there was a little tuft of fur still left on its forehead, which I couldn’t help rubbing a little.

Meanwhile, we’d also gotten our fire going in our spit setup: the I-beam was just long enough to support and stabilize both barrel halves, set next to each other (lucky–we’d been a little optimistic about fitting both animals in one barrel half). Cinder blocks were propped at the ends of each of the barrels, coincidentally just the right height for resting the spits on.

We hoisted the pig into place around 5:30 p.m., and the lamb went on a half-hour later. The pig had been stuffed by the butcher with assorted herbs and prosciutto. The lamb got garlic cloves stuck under its skin and doused in a mixture of citrus juice (mostly lemon, but also grapefruit and several other things Peter had at home) and at least a cup of ground spices–cinnamon, turmeric, pepper, paprika, cayenne, nutmeg, cumin, black pepper. Peter probably added lots more red chile.

Here we parted ways: Peter settled himself into a chair with a big bottle of retsina and a big bunch of dill for swabbing the marinade on periodically. He maintained that the lamb required constant turning, and he was probably right. And he was glad to do it, the picture of Greek village manliness in a long, blood-smeared apron and a big furry hat. As for the pig, Joel and Deb took turns cranking it, but after a while, when the mesquite smoke reached toxic levels and the fun wore off (it was only the manufactured Tom-Sawyer-getting-his-friends-to-whitewash-the-fence kind of fun anyway), I made an executive decision that it didn’t have to be turned constantly, as it was balanced better on its spit and didn’t flop the way the lamb did. I’m really surprised that the neighbors didn’t call the fire department–there was seldom any visible flame, but the smoke was incredibly sharp, thick and almost oily.

After about 4.5 hours, I made another executive decision: the pig was done. I was wrong–or partially. We just chopped it up bit by bit, putting the cooked pieces on a serving platter and chucking the others into a hotel pan to finish in the oven. What made it a little tricky was that the smoke had made a lot of the outer layer of meat turn pink and look (and feel) a little raw, which had to be explained to guests. Nobody really bought my declaration that “trichinosis is sooo over.” The skin had also gotten seriously charred, though we did end up with a few good chunks of crispy chicharron. The meat was delicious, though not mind-blowingly succulent–the fire had been too hot for that, I think, and too much moisture lost. Some guests objected to the display of the head along with the meat, so it was covered with a napkin and sunglasses. Deep apologies, pig—we really meant no disrespect.

About an hour later, the lamb was deemed done, or maybe Peter just got tired of cranking. Again, about half of the meat had to be finished in the oven. But the meat was stupendously delicious—a little smoky, a little tangy, very moist, with no single spice predominating. The strongest endorsement came from Barbara, a surprise guest who really got into the primal fun of breaking down the meat (a business so messy that Tamara wailed, “There’s lamb in my bed!” the next day). With the carcass splayed out on a bench behind her, Barbara happily gnawed on a greasy rib bone and rolled her eyes: “I can’t believe I was a vegetarian for eight years!”

Enterprising young Tamara–here’s her recent Craigslist posting:

Are you planning a party in your home but need a little help with the cooking, plating, presentation, hosting and cleanup? I am your Mrs. Dalloway… without the suicide!

I can help you plan, shop, cook, plate, serve, strategize, host, and/or clean up, so you can enjoy your party. I can be as hands on or off as you wish, depending on your level of comfort. I can also take over the dinner/party entirely if you would like, and cook and/or serve the whole thing for you. (and you can feel free to pass it off as your own genius if you please).

I have excellent references and culinary/cocktail knowledge. Feel free to contact me for further information. Rates are negotiable depending on how much help you need.

Email me if you’re in the NYC area and need her oh-so-capable services, or follow the link for her email address.

And, oh yeah, after all the typical gluttony of Thanksgiving, we roasted a lamb. This was Sunday, which had allowed a couple of days for digestion, but I still was not all that hungry. Adding to the dilemma was the lavish spread of pot-luck goodies from all over, including some “Nigerian Magic” and some extremely tasty Turkish stuffed grape leaves (the lamb roast was for Peter’s foreign students).

And as I gripe over on Peter’s blog, the lamb didn’t really get seared on the outside, so even when it came off the spit, it wasn’t very appetizing (to me, anyway). I’m sure it was delicious. (Heresy! I don’t think I’ve eaten any of the lamb yet. Well, I ate some of the saffron-pomegranate-molasses-preserved-lemon-stewed shanks. That was wicked good.) But you can picture me, looking a little blase, yawning, in fact, as 50 pounds of lamb are toted into the kitchen on a spit, and Karvin’ Karl is sharpening his knives.

I did find it in my heart/gut to eat quite a lot of these “magic bars,” which didn’t have hash in them, but were filled with sugar, as well as coconut. (Tamara called them Congo bars, which when she says it, sounds very un-PC, somehow.)

But enough of my bad attitude: here are pictures from Peter, and from pumpkin-soup-making, camera-phone-having DJ Prince (who has also managed to capture some of Tamara’s most iconic decorating choices–good eye).

Todd ‘n’ Sarah, the superheroes of weddings, had their third and final celebration a couple of weeks ago, just as you would hope, in a moody basement on a side street in Williamsburg. They asked me to cook up a mess of food in the Mid East vein–which to me means hella garlic, and that Turkish eggplant deeeeee-light, courtesy of Ciya, the super-delicious restaurant in Istanbul.

And for such a crowd, it also means Human Salad Bar.

It’s exactly what you think it is, people. (But not what you think it is, cannibal people.) To make your buffet dinner that much more appetizing, a yummy-looking human being is splayed out amid the cornucopia.

The Human Salad Bar is a gambit I learned from the late, great Barton Rouse, King of Terrace Flaming Club, to whom we all owe the simple yet essential wisdom of Food=Love. I feel like I should describe Barton in detail, but I’ve never tried–it’s hard. Handlebar mustache. Eyes full of glee, especially when saying, “I’m so proud [about the orgy].” Skinny, with checked chef’s pants flapping. Chain-smoking. Then just dipping, but hanging out with Chris in Jim’s room smoking joints and brainstorming party menus. Wallpapered office full of tattered cookbooks like White Trash Cooking. Writing out the menu board every day, mulling ecstatic adjectives and chalk colors. Advising Peter to trim his pubes–it makes your cock look huge. Making fun of the skim-milk-loving girls, who incidentally always had giant breasts. Generally teaching uptight college-age overachievers to get over themselves–perhaps with a dining-room floor full of raw chicken feet. And helping misfit college-age chain-smokers feel at home. He cared about us all so much. And we loved him for it.

Barton definitely rounded my sense of theatrical food presentation. Sure, when I was little we had a Halloween party where we made a corpse out of food (pasta salad for the guts), but Barton put a real, live person up there, covered in slices of deli meat or chocolate pudding (but Saran wrap first, of course–no one wants hair in their food). He pushed the cornucopia vision wherever possible–whether at home, which overflowed with wallpaper samples, tchotchkes and Pekingese dogs, or at a party, where there was always way too much cheese, booze, and Barbies stuck in theme cakes.

Anyway, there I was planning for Todd ‘n’ Sarah’s, and I realized…there was Karine, a veteran of these events. Here’s the proof:

That’s me on the left; Karine on the right. We’re both wrapped in colored Saran wrap (I don’t think they sell that anymore–too bad, as it was a great easy costume item), and I believe that’s Queen Helene Peppermint Mud Mask acting as pasties on our breasts. We’re mermaids, in case that’s not clear, and there’s a raw bar that’s going to be set up in front of us.

So Karine, it’s like I only have to mention I’m catering this party and that it’s kind of a costume-y crowd, and I swear she volunteers to be the HSB. OK, maybe I propose it, but we’re definitely on the same page. The best part is that really, all I have to say to her is “Cleopatra’s Barge,” and she’s on the case, costume-wise. Some people need a little more micro-management when they go shopping the post-Halloween sales at Ricky’s, but Karine has it all under control.

Tamara is my lovely assistant that day, and Karine shows up around 5pm, and gamely chops up cabbage and pops seeds out of pomegranates, for, like, 800 famished diners. (When, oh when will I be able to look at a cabbage and realize that it takes a good 20 people to eat one, especially when there are ten other dishes on the buffet?)

But soon she dashes off to effect the transformation. Tamara does the eyeliner. We arrive with the food; Karine is wearing a trenchcoat. Guests are champing at the bit, fondling their plates and asking what the food is–it’s like a freakin’ yard sale, where people are bargaining with you before you even wake up. But food cannot be served until the HSB is in place. Et voila:

Classy, right? She’s even got an asp on her breast.

What the heck, here’s another angle:

Karine is probably the best person for this job, and I’m not just talking about her svelte figure and willingness to wear nothing in public. She’s also extremely stoic about pain induced by lying in one position for a long stretch, and she’s pleasant to strangers–she was happy to distinguish the meat and the veggie versions of the eggplant stew for the guests.

But after everyone had eaten, and Tamara had fed Karine a few dates soaked in Jack Daniel’s, the HSB could just chill a little…

(That’s Sean K. jammin’ on the laptop in the background. Cleopatra’s Pleasure Barge never sounded so good.)

Tamara was so inspired by the pasties that she wore them (I mean, a brand-new set–Karine tore hers off and tossed them out the car window when we were going over the Williamsburg bridge) just a couple of days later, to a big benefit for The Moth.

And oh yeah–the food (labneh with mint and garlic, hummus with lots of lemon, baba ghannoush, cabbage slaw with pomegranate seeds, The Eggplant Business, rice pilaf with currants and vermicelli, and some awesome Greek pitas from Poseidon) turned out deliciously, and I wasn’t so exhausted I wanted to cry when it was all over, which is a vast improvement over some of my previous ginormous catering endeavors. I think it was the love I felt Todd ‘n’ Sarah, a lovely couple if I ever saw one, and from cooking the rice over a restaurant-level flame at the kitchen where we staged the last prep phase. And of course, the love of Barton. When he sees a woman in pasties with some pomegranates balanced on her thighs, I know he comes running, from wherever he is.