My partner is a suspicious guy; he always assumes that most people are motivated solely by the basest self-interest. That’s why when we got an invitation to a dinner party from the friends of a friend he was immediately distrustful. “Why would they invite us?” he asked me. “We only met them once.”
“Well,” I said. “Maybe they thought we were interesting and want to pursue a friendship.”
“Well, I didn’t find them interesting,” he said firmly. “They spent 15 minutes asking me about their cat’s hairballs, and then wanted me to diagnose their dog’s irritable bowel syndrome without seeing the dog,” said my partner, who is a veterinarian. “Most likely they want free advice.”
I ignored this. “Maybe they found us charming, and want to increase their circle of friends.”
“Charming?” said my partner. “Us?“ I have to admit I could not come up with a snappy answer; I hesitated and all was lost.
“We’re not going,” he said.
In the end we went to the dinner party because our friends Carlos and Kenny had been invited too and they were intrigued too. ‘Why would they invite us?” said Kenny. “We only met them once.”
“Maybe they thought you guys were charming,” I said and Kenny and Carlos just stared at me, clearly at a loss for words.
When we arrived at our hosts’ house we were amazed that the very small back porch was crammed with about 30 people who were drinking wine and munching on Fritos. Inside the house, all the furniture in the smallish living room had been removed and uniformed servers were setting the many card tables that filled the room. Carlos and Kenny and my partner and I looked at the room, at the crowd and at each other. “What the fuck?” said Carlos.
As we milled around a server came by and asked our names; when we identified ourselves we were each handed an envelope on which our names were written in Olde English script. Inside the envelope we found a sheet thanking us for coming to dinner and mentioning that the “suggested donation” was $40. Per person. This did not include the “suggested gratuity” of $10. Per person.
I was confused and, refusing to look at my apoplectic partner, whose worst suspicions had just been surpassed, I called the server over. “What are we donating to? Is this a political fundraiser? A charitable cause?”
She smiled brightly. “Oh no,” she said. “It’s to pay for the food and wine. Tenderloin is not cheap,” she added.
Carlos came by holding a plastic glass of red wine. “Tenderloin may not be cheap,” he said, “but this wine sure is.”
Kenny chimed in. “I’m sorry,” he told the server, ” but I don’t carry cash.”
The server nodded sympathetically. “There’s an ATM down the street,” she said.
Carlos and Kenny, outraged, were ready to bolt and my partner’s glare clearly indicated he was holding me responsible, but I have to admit I was enchanted at the idea of inviting a group of strangers to a dinner party with a cover charge, so I persuaded my charming little group to stay, mainly because the server told me the hosts accepted American Express. I handed her my card.
“Do you have an ID?” she asked.
Within about 30 minutes we became uncomfortably aware that not only was our meal wildly overpriced but it wasn’t very good. Accompanying the cheap wine was a stringy roast, ice cold mashed potatoes and some kimd of boiled brussel sprout and okra concoction that was just as vile as it sounds.
After dessert (biscotti, clearly purchased from Costco,) the four of us were in surly moods as we prepared to make our exit. On the way out our host made a beeline for my partner.
“Thanks so much for coming!” he said. “Since you’re here, would you mind taking a look at our cat? She isn’t feeling well.”
“Sure,” said my partner. “The suggested donation is $200. And I don’t take Amex.”