Mr. Alpenglow spends his afternoons in the kitchen — sometimes pressing anise-scented breadcrumbs into halved oysters, sometimes slicing bright yellow tomatoes, always with a glass of Lillet, a ball of ice, and an orange slice. He wears a selvedge denim apron over a cream linen pullover. A 1967 album by The Velvet Underground and Nico plays. The guests will arrive soon. They’ll be greeted with a platter of French 75s.


This is closer to the truth, as of late: Mr. Alpenglow gets home from work at 9:53 too tired to cook. There’s some leftover chicken tikka and naan in the fridge. Two minutes in the microwave. Scarf it down. Wash it down with a Peroni. Go for a swim. Briefly catch up on a world of misery, injustice, violence (NYTimes), and a potpourri of frivolity (NYTimes). Sleep.

So when I say “Dinner Parties as a Way of Life,” I know it’s a big ask. It’s not like I don’t empathize with the 9-to-5 crowd. I’m right there with you, dude. I work a desk job. I’m not throwing rando’ dinner parties on Wednesdays. The thing is, this blog is aspirational for me too. I use it to inspire myself to break out of routinized dullness. So tonight I summoned all I had. I sliced a handful of ripe figs and tucked them into the forgiving folds of prosciutto.



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