“I sat next to this woman at dinner and she said…” When you hear a friend giddily retelling the life story of someone they met over a prawn cocktail the night before, you can be sure that the host took great care in deciding who should sit where and deliberated over which of their guests might hit it off – and who, for the sake of everyone’s sanity, should be seated as far away from each other as possible. They had no doubt written place cards to ensure that all of their guests knew their spot and didn’t have to awkwardly find a spare seat with that sad phrase, “Do you mind if I sit here?” There’s a certain amount of plotting and consideration that goes into creating a sense of effortlessness and spontaneity.
Table seating is a skill that I don’t have to stress about in my personal life – a dining table for eight (at a push) requires little in the way of social engineering. This week, however, Monocle hosted a dinner in Zürich for some core readers: our Patrons. In the hours leading up to this fun night, I watched my colleague Hannah inscribe name cards for all of our guests. They were carefully organised so that everyone would meet someone new while never being far from one of our team who could help to anchor conversations and make introductions if needed.
Anyway, I have been retelling the stories from my table neighbours’ lives all week: of the gentleman who, as a teenager, started an olive-exporting business and learnt some important life lessons along the way; of the woman who, with her partner, has bought out a series of companies in the past year in diverse sectors but which share a common trait – one that promises to deliver very healthy returns. We also talked about dogs, the US election, South Tyrol and China, food for children, hospitality, partners and passions. In between, looking down the long table in either direction, I saw that the whole room was alive with jollity and conversation. And those little name cards had played no small part in bringing people together.
I have also been to dinners where things went awry. First, the table can become an enemy of conversation. If it’s too grand and wide, it precludes cross-table banter, leaving you dependent on your neighbours being both fascinating and chatty. Worse is when you find yourself seated between two broad-backed gents who are determined to chat up the women sitting next to them. You are alone in a “meat canyon”, either drinking too fast or wondering if you might be able to nip to the bathroom and, en route, escape into the night. This is where a good host can intervene, circulating the table to save the conversationally isolated, pulling up a chair between courses to refocus the room. And by dessert, I think it’s fair for all bets to be off: swapping is to be encouraged (seats, not partners). What follows is a pleasant unravelling.
Anyway, the morning after our dinner at the Oxen in Küsnacht, I got to thinking about how we have come good on our hope of fostering a community. While Monocle is often the initial host, it’s not a one-way relationship. At that dinner there were readers who have become part of my personal world – who have invited me to their homes, who I have been to dinner with in cities around the globe, who have provided so many good tips for stories. But it was also striking how many of them now have become interconnected too. And it all, perhaps, started with a conversation at one of Monocle’s well-seated dinners that was meaningful enough for them to say to their friends, “You’ll never guess who I met last night…”