We dined seventies-style and survived

Theme: the ’70s
8 guests plus two cooks
Three courses plus appetizer
Drinks: champagne cocktail, party punch and beer
$11 per head

Guest and longtime friend, Gill, and I dressed authentically for the first dinner party project event—if that’s what you call compressing yourself into clothes you should have thrown out 30 years ago.

She wore the Osti creation she’d worn at her engagement party in 1977, I frocked up in my Form 6 (Year 12) formal dress. Why did we still have these dresses in our wardrobes after three decades, you ask? Because everyone knows that clothes come back into fashion, a theory proven in our dining room last Saturday night.
(Mind you, it was lucky Gill’s long elegant Osti frock was polyester, so it had a bit of give to accommodate the effects of four children. As for me, I didn’t fill the bodice of my dress any more than I did at 17 AND I could only zip it half way up my back. Thank goodness for the all-concealing little cardigan.)
Our six trendy younger guests arrived in varying degrees of  ’70s style. Jocelyn, Chelsea and Michelle had intended to wear bridesmaids dresses from the era borrowed from a friend’s mum, but the 35 degree day and the multi-layers of chiffon were too much when combined. (Why was everything polyester in the ’70s? Were natural fibres banned or something?) Instead, the ladies looked delightful in short dresses in seventies-inspired patterns. So did the cutest granddaughter in the world, complete with a sweet headband around her almost-bald head.
Their partners showed great creativity in capturing the essence of the ’70s, although I hadn’t expected to host Darth Vader. Still, you can’t dispute old hoarse throat was around then; nice look with the black cape and plastic mask, Paul, almost as nice as Martin’s blonde mullet wig.
As for Jordan, he was resplendent in one of his Dad’s  ’70s tops, a dressy mustard-hued polo-shirt affair with embroidered detail. So, men keep clothes for 30 years, too! I’m not sure, though, that the ‘clothes-come-back-into-fashion’ rule applies to baby-poo-coloured polos.
The evening kicked off with champagne cocktails, punch and beer on the pool deck, with French onion dip served in a pottery ramekin (for those who remember: it was from Potters Cottage, Warrandyte). While the guests shovelled in their dip with slices of celery and carrots, to a sound track of ‘70s music (Cat Stevens, Creedence Clearwater Revival among others) I put together the prawn cocktails—shredded lettuce and prawns arranged in wine glasses, topped with a thousand island dressing. I must say that the combination of Worcestershire, tomato and tabasco sauces mixed with cream tasted better than it deserved.
Each glass was garnished with a whole prawn and lemon slice to look exactly like the photograph in the Women’s Weekly cookbook—and entrée was served.
Mains involved another Worcestershire sauce extravaganza, but no tomato sauce this time. No, no, this called for serious tomato input: I added an 810ml tin of condensed tomato soup to the mixture of chopped onion, celery, garlic, brown sugar, sherry and mustard to pour over the lamb chops. They were baked, along with the potatoes topped with plenty of butter and parmesan cheese and served with beans almondine (beans topped with almonds) and carrots vichy (thanks to sous chef Ian).
‘These carrots are yum,’ said Jocelyn, spooning more on her plate. Of course they were, sweetie. Couldn’t you see the butter and sugar dripping off them?
But the piece de resistance was the bombe Alaska. This was a last-minute change to the original menu, thanks to the weather. The idea of a steam pudding bubbling away on the stove for hours was unappealing, so I decided to serve an ice-cream based dessert I’d never cooked and hadn’t eaten since the early ’80s.
In the end, my nerve almost failed me. I’d prepared the ice-cream and raspberry-topped sponge, no worries. But when it came to making the meringue to cover it, I put on a sooky face and enlisted the skills of my domestic-goddess daughter, who whips up that kind of stuff all the time with one hand while with the other she simultaneously vacuums, feeds the baby and posts about her latest business venture on Facebook.

But even she looked concerned when we put the meringue-topped concoction into a 250 degree oven. As soon as that meringue turned golden, we whipped it out and ran to the table, threw brandy over it and lit it for the fabulous flambé effect. Nothing: the match fizzled. But the ever-patient Jordan struck another match and struck gold, or rather blue, as the brandy flamed spectacularly over the meringue. I tell you, I was impressed myself.
But, all good things must come to an end—the ‘70s did, disco music did, Thousand Island dressing did, and so, indeed, did the first dinner party project.
So the quest is on to find the next theme—and group of culinary guinea pigs.