Parties on the Rocks, With a Twist

The best thing about the parties in Sally Quinn’s new book is that no matter what terrible turns of events befall her famous Washington hostesses, everything turns out fabulously in the end.

Hurricanes, blizzards, bad food, not enough food, not enough men, karaoke, war, suicide, whatever. None of these in itself can wreck a party, but each can make for a memorable evening.

According to “The Party: A Guide to Adventurous Entertaining” (Simon & Schuster, $24), when the horrible happens, some parties actually are elevated from the merely dreadful into a sort of social Valhalla where the worst of times becomes in retrospect the very best of times.

Consider the event now recalled by Beltway insiders as “the Vince Foster Party.” It seems that just before dessert on a steamy night in July of 1993, a sit-down dinner for 48 in the Georgetown manse of Quinn and her husband, Washington Post Ubereditor Ben Bradlee, was interrupted dramatically with news that President Clinton’s friend and counsel had shot himself dead.

“A hush fell over the library as one after the other whispered it around and the horror of what had happened began to sink in,” writes Quinn, a former political reporter for the Post. “The dinner was definitely over.”

Which is not to say it was ruined. Au contraire.

“This was just another example of how a party becomes legendary in Washington,” explains Quinn, “not despite, but because of, some catastrophe occurring.”

A more intimate dinner that Quinn gave in the 1980s for author Nora Ephron and Watergate star Carl Bernstein was memorable in a different way.

“Unbeknownst to us, Nora had recently learned that Carl was having an affair. As we began innocently talking about how it was impossible not to know if your spouse was having an affair, Nora stood up, asked for a bottle of red wine (we were drinking white), and poured it over Carl’s head.”

It should be noted here that this is one of the reasons Quinn strongly suggests never serving red wine--because, even if it is not deliberately tossed about, well, “People spill; they just do.” And catastrophes that leave permanent stains on one’s elegant furnishings do not make social history.

But Quinn does recommend serving all brand of transparent spirits. “Without any alcohol at all,” she warns, “you’re not going to have a rollicking good time.” While food is important, it’s not nearly so crucial as booze.

One of Quinn’s favorite parties was the buffet supper she hosted without the buffet. The menu was built around her mother’s famous Johnny Mazetti--a dish of noodles, cheese and tomatoes that requires hours of cooking in an electric pot. At 10 p.m., with a house full of guests, Quinn discovered that she’d never plugged in the cooker. It was the booze that saved the day.

“By this time, people were on their fourth or fifth drink. One well-known TV anchorman was close to passing out and [an ambassador] was in my bedroom trying to make out with [socialite] Barbara Howar. I don’t think anyone ever actually ate the Johnny Mazetti. So much for food.”

Indeed, if not for the booze, many of the parties canonized in “The Party” would have been complete bombs. Such as that midwinter party in a candle-lit but unheated solarium when guests were so cold their teeth chattered and the Israeli ambassador was covered with a thin layer of snow. Or the party in the Hamptons that defied a hurricane. Or the dinner party that Arianna Huffington secretly tape-recorded in hopes of scripting a new talk show.

“As you can imagine,” Quinn recalls, “the [Huffington] dinner was an unmitigated disaster for the hostess, and if she had served mud pies the guests would most likely have thrown them at her. . . .

“And yet, I have to admit it was one of the most entertaining parties I have ever been to in Washington. There’s nothing more riveting than social self-immolation . . . .”