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Where do you rank in the social pecking order? The answer depends on where you sit.<\/strong><\/p>\n By Barbara Guggenheim<\/strong><\/p>\n My last dinner party had barely begun, and my actor friend (let’s call him Sam) was already unhappy. “I’m out of here right now if you don’t change my seat,” he threatened as the cocktail hour got underway. My husband, Bert, had carefully seated Sam who, God knows, needs a new film, next to a key director who might just do him some good. But, no, Sam insisted on being seated next to his wife, violating age-old rules of placement, or the art of table seating. While it’s become quite common at Hollywood dinner parties to seat husbands and wives together, I find the resulting flirting deficit usually makes for dull events.<\/p>\n For Sam, however, the issue was domestic peace: Sotto voce, he confided\u00a0that wherever he was seated, his wife would automatically think he’d gotten a\u00a0better table assignment and she’d torture him all the way home.<\/p>\n It seemed a bit silly, but I was the hostess, and “to invite a person to your house,” as the famous gastronome Brillat-Savarin had it, “is to take charge of\u00a0his happiness as long as he is beneath your roof.” It went with the territory.<\/p>\n So, I put on my game face and tried to figure out which woman to move.\u00a0A simple two-party swap was out of the question – the delicate balance my\u00a0husband and I had achieved after nights of fretting was far too complex for\u00a0that. I actually had to move three women to avoid any further mishaps. By\u00a0the time I figured out the new plan, they’d all picked up their seating assignments,\u00a0so I went on a desperate search for them in the crowded room, leaving\u00a0me precious little time to acknowledge arriving guests, who must have\u00a0found me extremely rude.<\/p>\n The party, in honor of a pal visiting from London, was in a restaurant, and\u00a0100 friends and acquaintances were invited. I’d begun planning the seating a\u00a0week in advance, and was then forced to continuously revise the scheme as more\u00a0RSVPs trickled in. The night before, I melted down. I’d been staring at my\u00a0friends’ names for so long, they’d lost all meaning. I gave up. Fortunately, Bert\u00a0came to the rescue, cutting out rounds of paper, writing names on strips, and\u00a0shuffling people and tables around for hours. His idea was to approach the problem\u00a0like a movie producer, casting each table with guests who might have a little\u00a0chemistry. He grouped people according to common interests, such as business,\u00a0politics and favorite vacation spots. I interrupted only once, with the suggestion\u00a0that we put everyone who’s been married three times or more at one table. He\u00a0didn’t think that was funny, since that was his category<\/p>\n “Then how about seating everyone alphabetically?” I asked, giggling maniacally.\u00a0“Or by age?”<\/p>\n I was raving, to be sure, but such a random plan is not really as far-fetched\u00a0as it sounds. As it happens, the 1815 Congress of Vienna established seating\u00a0protocols designed to put an end to the fiery disputes that arose between\u00a0diplomats angling for prestigious spots at table. The rule, which still applies,\u00a0states that ambassadors are to be ranked according to how long they’ve held\u00a0their posts – whether they represent a world\u00a0<\/strong>superpower or a piddling\u00a0<\/strong>principality.\u00a0After I excitedly imparted this historical<\/strong>\u00a0nugget, which I picked up in\u00a0Margaret Visser’s invaluable book, The Rituals of Dinner<\/em>, Bert sent me to bed,\u00a0assuring me he had it under control. I slept like\u00a0<\/strong>a baby.<\/p>\n But at the party, Bert’s carefully constructed house of (place) cards came tumbling down. Immediately after dealing with the Sam emergency, I was\u00a0faced with still another problem. “If Sam can sit next to his wife, why can’t I?”asked another friend “Shut up and go back to your table, or I’ll seat you below\u00a0the salt,” I told him, using an old phrase for an undesirable table placement.<\/p>\n This stopped him cold, as he had no idea what I was talking about (In the\u00a0Middle Ages, the VIPs sat at a raised table with the salt; everyone else was\u00a0below.) He slunk away. Score one for the hostess.<\/p>\n At that point, Susan, the wife of a film star, came charging over. “How\u00a0could you sit me with Shirley? We’re\u00a0<\/strong>not speaking.”<\/p>\n Refraining from telling Susan that Shirley had specifically requested\u00a0being placed with her, I began looking around for another seat. Meanwhile,\u00a0Susan gave me the lowdown on how Shirley had introduced her to an interior\u00a0designer and had secretly taken a kickback on the deal: “Can you believe she\u00a0made money off me?”<\/p>\n I made a mental note to stop seeing the massage therapist Shirley had introduced\u00a0me to, and executed another switcheroo. Just as I was about to auto-combust,\u00a0an old friend quietly offered to take on a suicide mission and be\u00a0seated next to a socially challenged guest. What are friends for?<\/p>\n Before I could take her up on the deal, our most eligible bachelor friend,\u00a0David, came over\u00a0to complain that his seat was next to a woman who’d been\u00a0his dinner partner the night before. “I had nothing to say to her then,” he complained,\u00a0“and less now.”<\/p>\n “You aren’t trying hard enough,” I replied, turning him by the shoulders\u00a0back toward the table (Brillat-Savarin be damned). Just then, Mary Beth,\u00a0recently divorced and on the prowl, pulled a battered magazine clipping out\u00a0of her handbag and waved it in my face. It was a “top 10 eligible bachelors”\u00a0list. Were any of them coming? I shook my bead but immediately pointed out\u00a0David. “He’s not married?” she asked, before dropping her hors d’oeuvre,\u00a0popping a breath mint and making a beeline for him. Just then a waiter came\u00a0by with a tray of martinis. I grabbed two.<\/p>\n Meanwhile, the restaurant’s manager had been patiently waiting to speak\u00a0to me. Looking a bit distressed, he continued to wait while I downed one of\u00a0the drinks. “Mr. Carsten just called,” be finally told me. “He regrets he can’t\u00a0come. But the good news” – and at this I detected an ever-so-slight roll of the\u00a0eyes-“is that Mrs. Carsten, will be here shortly.”<\/p>\n Ugh. This meant I had to take a place away from one table, and find two\u00a0women somewhere, so enlightened – or gay? – they wouldn’t mind sitting\u00a0next to each other. Mrs. Carsten, a well-connected and somewhat intimidating\u00a0philanthropic powerhouse, wasn’t going to be one of them. I looked\u00a0at my watch. In Jane Austen’s day, I would\u00a0have called upon a quatorzieme -a professional\u00a0“extra man.” Unfortunately,\u00a0there aren’t any listed in the LA yellow\u00a0pages.<\/p>\n Bad turned to worse when Frank and\u00a0Lila arrived. I like them both, but they\u00a0hadn’t RSVP’ d. Luckily, I had extra place\u00a0cards and a pen in my handbag. I got waiters\u00a0to set two new places. “Hadn’t I just taken\u00a0a place away?” one of them asked me. I smiled.<\/p>\n “If you’re not careful,” I hissed, “I’ll seat you\u00a0next to Mrs. Carston.”<\/p>\n As I turned around, I nearly bumped into\u00a0Melanie, whom I knew from a spirituality\u00a0class. Melanie was pointing at her husband’s\u00a0table and hyperventilating. Here was the time\u00a0to apply those breathing techniques we’d\u00a0learned in class, I thought. “You know how shy\u00a0Fred is,” she stammered. “How could you\u00a0have him at a table where he doesn’t know a\u00a0soul?” I’d always thought that the fun of a\u00a0seated dinner was in meeting strangers and,\u00a0sure that you’ll never see them again, sharing\u00a0intimacies. Melanie didn’t seem to\u00a0agree, but I convinced her he could handle himself just fine.<\/p>\n The next morning, when Fred’s dinner partner – Antonia, a leggy, newly\u00a0separated blond -called to thank me, I learned just how right I was. It turns\u00a0out that Mr. Shy opened up to Antonia with such charming intimacies that\u00a0they’d agreed to meet again for lunch on the terrace of Geoffrey’s in Malibu.<\/p>\n Sorry, Melanie!<\/p>\n If seating brings out the worst in people, it’s probably because it’s one of\u00a0those times in life when we perceive that there is a pecking order – and feel\u00a0desperate to come out on top. Things were no easier in biblical times. “When\u00a0thou art invited, go, sit down in the lowest place,” Jesus advised in that classic\u00a0book of etiquette known as Luke, “that when be who invited thee cometh, he\u00a0may say to thee: Friend, go up higher. Then shalt thou have glory before them\u00a0that sit at table with thee.” (They didn’t call him a martyr for nothing.) The\u00a0problem abated somewhat during the courtly era, when a strict social hierarchy\u00a0dictated who sat where, and there was little room for error. But Thomas\u00a0Jefferson blew that neat system out of the water. Eager to distinguish the\u00a0United States from all those snobby countries across the pond, be declared\u00a0that “when brought together in society, all are perfectly equal, whether foreign\u00a0or domestic, titled or untitled, in or out of office.” Then again, he never\u00a0had to seat a studio chief or an insecure former A-list actress, did he?<\/p>\n As for my own hostessing nightmare, my spirituality teacher would probably\u00a0say I brought it on myself. When I was single, on the rare occasion I was invited\u00a0to a dinner party (really, who wants an unmarried woman around?), I never gave\u00a0a second thought to moving my place card to the other side of the table or across\u00a0the room – usually to sit next to a cute guy. Did I stop to think that the hostess\u00a0had another woman in mind for him? Or that I was committing the Murder\u00a0One of etiquette? Of course not. No wonder no one invited me back.<\/p>\n I finally learned my lesson when, at a friend’s party, I moved my place\u00a0card next to that of the host, the only person I knew. But the card I switched\u00a0was that of the woman seated on his right – the place reserved for the guest\u00a0of honor. The woman, now at the far end of the very long table, shot me\u00a0nasty looks the entire night. The next day, I called the host to complain\u00a0about her. When be explained what had happened, I was mortified.<\/p>\n It’s 20 years later, and the woman is still angry with me.<\/p>\n Frankly, I don’t blame her.<\/p>\n I never switched place cards again.. until recently. But\u00a0it wasn’t mine I switched, I swear. My husband and I\u00a0were among the first to arrive at a friend’s 50th birthday\u00a0party – a giant extravaganza for 300 of his closest friends.<\/p>\n The place card next to me, at a divine table adjoining the\u00a0dance floor, bore the name of my best girlfriend’s ex-beau,\u00a0a man who’d cruelly dumped her. Without hesitation, I moved him out to Siberia, near the kitchen door, where he’d\u00a0be dining with the two teenage nannies and the host’s\u00a0unpleasant mother and three children from a former marriage.\u00a0The guy deserved it. But I still feel bad for the nannies.\u00a0Anyway, despite the fact that I had to reseat nearly half\u00a0the guests at my recent party, it turned out to be a lovely\u00a0evening, or so I gather. My friend from London enjoyed\u00a0himself, and numerous guests\u00a0called the next day thanking me\u00a0for a great time.<\/p>\n I’m glad someone\u00a0had fun.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Where do you rank in the social pecking order? The answer depends on where you sit. By Barbara Guggenheim My last dinner party had barely begun, and my actor friend (let’s call him Sam) was already unhappy. “I’m out of … Continue reading ![\"\"](\"https:\/\/barbaraguggenheim.com\/bg\/wp-content\/uploads\/2012\/02\/Screen-Shot-2012-02-25-at-2.15.22-PM.png\" "\\"Screen")
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