Dinner parties hosted by my family are a curious thing. I grew up with a Mom who prepared for them with the same enthusiasm that sportsmen would train for the Olympics. She would spend weeks planning and revising elaborate menus with no less than six or seven courses to be served. Because we had a restaurant, it was easy for her to borrow some of the cooks to help out. She would set up “stations” at different areas of the house. One time there could be a grilling section where steaks were cooked to order for the guests. Another station could be the carving station where she would serve maybe a suckling pig, or a turkey and a ham. Inevitably, the night would also end with a post-dinner commentary among ourselves about how the dinner went. The assessment would go at length about whether the guests enjoyed the food, who went back for seconds (or thirds), who wore what, and god forbid, who didn’t show up when they said they would. Then the wrap-up would end with a critique on what could be improved on for the next party.