DINNER PARTIES -- Vol. 1, Issue 7, July 6, 2002

Dear Etiquetteer:

What should one do with a finger bowl after dipping one's fingers?

Dear Fingered: You should take a moment to thank, silently, the Deity of Your Choice, for ensuring that you still get invited to functions luxurious enough for the use of finger bowls. Back in the day, finger bowls were filled with pleasingly warm (sometimes perfumed) water, garnished with something fragrant and floral, and brought to each place by the footman before dessert was served. Of course, this was back in the day when every home had a footman in tight knee breeches to handle all this, or at least a maid-of-all-work. Now we have the pre-moistened Towelette. Sic transit gloria mundi.

After dipping the fingers, refrain from offering your hand to your dinner partner as if ready for that second coat of Jungle Red from the manicurist. And please, no cries of “Dishwashing liquid?! It’s all right, it’s Palmolive!” Dry your hands on your napkin, take a debonair sip of your wine, and throw some wicked witticism out to the table. It will distract your companions from trying to figure out how to dry their fingers. The footman will take the bowls away and then bring dessert.

Etiquetteer believes this is an area where the West can borrow something from the manners of what is possibly the most polite society left on Earth, that of Japan. The place of the tightly rolled hot washcloth, offered with tongs from a wooden tray for the refreshment of the hands and the spirit, could appear at many an informal table when something messy or aggressive is served, like pizza or lobster. And of course you can have your maid Towelette serve them . . .

Dear Etiquetteer: We were eating lunch at a friends house (informal: sandwiches and soup) and I noticed that on the hostess’s bread there was mold. I didn't know whether it was proper to tell her and risk offending her as the hostess or to just let her eat it and risk having her get sick (she has a new baby, so I was worried). Help, what should I have done (I told her)??

Dear Distressed: Not having enough time at the luncheon table to phone Dr. Spock to determine the level of health risk for an infant whose mother has eaten moldy bread, Etiquetteer thinks you did the compassionate thing by whispering quietly into your hostess’s ear. But there is rarely so delicate a manners operation as that of telling a hostess that something horribly wrong is taking place at -- or on -- her table. Etiquetteer hopes that your hostess’s undoubted embarrassment was tempered by your sincere concern for her baby.

Dear Etiquetteer: If you are dining at a friend’s home and you look at your watch in the middle of the meal and you realize it has taken longer than expected, and that you will have to leave at the end of the meal. How is the best way to handle that situation? Dear Hurried: Well, you know your reputation will be destroyed as soon as you leave. Look what happened to poor Lily Bart in Edith Wharton’s “The House of Mirth.” Once the door closes behind you the collective eyebrows of the assembled will rise as one to speculate into whose arms you’re rushing for illicit embraces. That’s why the best way to handle this is not to overbook yourself. And yet, finding yourself in this predicament, Etiquetteer thinks you must crawl on the floor like a worm begging for the forgiveness and indulgence of your hosts. No, no, get up -- Etiquetteer means figuratively, not literally. You do this by groveling, because you must absolutely avoid giving the impression that you prefer other entertainment to theirs.

Dear Etiquetteer: When I host a gathering, whether a Summer barbecue or a dinner party, I like to plan ahead thoughtfully for my vegetarian guests. Two out of the ten people I plan to invite are vegetarians and at the barbecue I will be reserving a non-meat section of the grill for garden burgers and the like. However, these healthy little patties will take up a significant amount of space, and although I can get past this inefficiency, I have to grill twice to get the rest of the food prepared for us carnivores. What would you generally advise others to do in this situation? Now we're getting ready for my dinner party. Again, two of the ten guests are vegetarians, but as it is a more formal setting I think I have fewer options. I usually prepare an entirely vegetarian dinner that is acceptable for all but since these close friends come to all of my gatherings all of my dinner parties have become meat-free. At other gatherings they sometimes have to make do without a main course but I think that is rude and completely thoughtless. What do you think about simply creating a smaller, more suitable main course for the vegetarians while the rest of us have a meaty main course? This seems like segregation to me and perhaps may be a little embarrassing to the vegetarians, but the rest of us really want roast beef.

Dear Carnivorously Challenged Hostess: It's only embarrassing if you make it embarrassing by calling attention to it. If you bring out their plates first and say "Here's your 'special meal'" in front of everyone as though they were Queens for a Day, you'll make the vegetarians self-conscious and the other guests wishing they could have placed entree orders with you earlier. Just serve them their portobello mushrooms and the roast to everyone else without even one little reference, and all shall be well. At the barbecue, you have three options: a) grill twice, as you observe, b) get a bigger grill, or c) reduce the number of guests. As for segregation, nobody is forcing your vegetarians to forswear meat (except possibly their doctors), so don't blame yourself for the choices your guests make. Etiquetteer suspects that many vegetarians are weary of accepting invitations to a function which is as unashamedly carnivorous as a barbecue. You could shake up the mix completely and hold a garden party instead, complete with dainty sandwiches, cookies, Waldorf salad, and ice cream, none of which involve meat. Indeed, why don't you? Etiquetteer is sure there are lots of ladies and gentlemen out there just waiting for an excuse to break out their light summer frocks, picture hats, lace sunshades, and seersucker suits! Copyright 2002 by Robert B. Dimmick