The other morning, my husband told me: ‘I adore your chicken liver pâté. But once this year is over, I never want to see it again.’
I can hardly blame him. He has eaten it 17 times in 12 months, always on a Thursday, alongside Peking duck, pecan and watermelon salad, followed by coconut rice with mango.
This wasn’t some strangely restrictive meal plan. It was the centrepiece of my year-long bid to win the title of best wife ever.
Anthony turned 60 last November. The prospect of a huge birthday party filled him with dread, so I promised to organise a series of smaller dinner parties instead.
That way, he could spend proper time with everyone we might otherwise have invited to one enormous celebration — and do so in the comfort of our own home.
We convinced ourselves it would be a much more enjoyable arrangement. How wrong I was. With the final — and 18th — dinner approaching, squeezed in just before his 61st birthday next week, I occasionally regret ever suggesting it.
Instead of a lavish party, Susannah Jowitt has hosted 18 birthday dinners for her husband Anthony’s 60th
Rather than leaving me feeling festive, the experience has made me utterly exhausted and, at times, almost murderous.
My growing dislike of entertaining has surprised me. We have always been sociable and host a large party at home every summer. For Anthony’s 40th, we took 40 friends to Amsterdam for a long weekend, while 150 guests danced to a live band at my 50th.
As Anthony’s 60th approached, we drew up a list of 180 people he wanted to see — he is a popular man — and sent out a ‘save the date’ notice.
I began investigating venues near our home in west London, but was stunned by the prices. Once venue hire, food and drinks were included, the bill would have been at least £10,000.
You only turn 60 once, so we were willing to absorb the expense. But by October, with no venue booked, Anthony finally broke down.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t want a party,’ he pleaded. ‘I’ve realised I hate big parties. I always end up cornered by the one person I didn’t want to invite and never speak to the people I actually came to see. They’re expensive and impossible to remember. Can we just cancel it?’
The couple entertained 18 groups of between eight and 12 guests, at an estimated total cost of £4,000
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That was when I had my Eureka moment — or, as we later called it, my ‘eek’ moment.
‘You enjoy dinner parties, so why don’t we invite all those people for dinner, spreading it across the year so it won’t be so overwhelming?’
Anthony declared me a genius, I basked in the praise and the plan was born: 18 dinner parties for eight to 12 guests, costing roughly £4,000 in total.
The savings were considerable. The amount of work was not.
The first dinner took place on his 60th birthday itself. We began with close family, treating the evening as a trial run to work out how to make the dinners feel more special than ordinary meals. We had already agreed that 18 birthday cakes and renditions of ‘Happy Birthday’ were beyond endurance.
After completing the first dinner, we decided to postpone the remaining events until February: too many guests were unavailable in December, while too many others were dieting in January.
Our first rule was to combine different friendship circles, from university friends to former colleagues. We created what we thought were 18 ideal groups.
Naturally, the plan descended into chaos as guest after guest announced they could not make their allocated date. The administration required to rearrange everything made me yearn for the simplicity of one large party.
For the sake of convenience, I decided to serve the same menu every time — including that now-dreaded pâté. A year later, my arms are marked with burns from ovens and steaming pans, while both my taste buds and my sanity have taken a beating.
By the time we had finished the first run of dinners before pausing for the summer, Anthony and I were thoroughly tired of hearing variations on: ‘Wow, so you’re 60 now.’ Guests at a large party might not assume presents were expected, but our dinner guests all felt compelled to bring something, despite my repeated insistence that their presence was enough. When my daughter saw the table overflowing with gifts, she asked mildly: ‘Are you running a bookshop as a side hustle?’
Seventeen dinners are over. Next week, I will prepare the final batch of chicken livers with resignation and put on my most convincing party smile. Anthony insists he has enjoyed every single evening and has been unfailingly sweet in thanking me as each group leaves. I suspect he would happily do it all again.
I, however, am finished with entertaining, dinner-party conversation, cooking, pre-party cleaning, decorating and the aftermath. Increasingly, I dream of spending a month alone in a hotel.
My own 60th birthday is not until 2028. Will I expect Anthony to return the favour? Honestly, I would prefer a medal ceremony — assuming the King is available.
I feel I deserve an OBE for Outstandingly Brilliant Entertaining. But I would settle for one big party, loud music and no conversation, held anywhere but our house.
