This Year In Paris

- Dorie Greenspan

Since I throw only one big party a year, and since I’ve been throwing it for 20 years, you’d think I’d be more organized. But I’m not. I usually don’t know who’s coming until a couple of days before the party—and I’ve been known to change the menu the day of. New Year’s Eve dinners are like that chez us in Paris.

Our longtime, very Parisian friend, Bernard Collet, a photographer and my Emily Post guide to French customs, says that what always reminds him that I’m American is my habit of inviting strangers home for dinner. Pre-party jitters often have me worrying that this jumble of old friends and new won’t work. But it does. Always. Perhaps it’s the magic of the changing year or maybe it’s the spell of Paris that makes us feel like members of the family we all wish we were born into.

Ever since I was just out of college, I’ve wanted to live in Paris. I didn’t want to just move to Paris, I wanted to be Parisian and live my American dream of a Parisian life: to be able to tie my scarf perfectly; to gracefully negotiate cobblestone streets in heels; and to be the person who always has champagne in the fridge, ready for à la minute frivolity. I wanted to be as close to French as a girl from Brooklyn could be. And if my New Year’s Eve party were the sole measure of my Gallic makeover, I’d score high—it’s a swell party. More than that, it’s a tradition that we treasure.