There’s something kind of chic about hosting now.
Not in the “perfect tablescape, perfect home, perfect dinner” way. More in the sense that inviting people over feels special again.
So much of our social life happens outside now. We meet at restaurants, cafés, bars, clubs. We book a table, show up, stay for two hours and leave.
Convenient, yes.
Intimate? Not always.
Hosting changes the mood completely.
The music is yours. The food is yours. Nobody is waiting for the table. Nobody is asking for the bill. People sit wherever they want, however they want. Conversations stretch, somebody ends up in the kitchen, someone else is pouring another drink, and suddenly the evening has no real ending.
That’s why I love it. And the knack for it? I probably got that from my family.
My mom has always been someone who makes an occasion feel like one.
When I turned seven, she hosted a “7”-themed birthday for me in our house in Mumbai. Seven colours of the rainbow, seven wonders of the world, seven continents, seven gifts — everything somehow tied back to the theme.
At seven, I obviously cared far more about tearing open those seven gifts than appreciating the effort behind them.
But I think I grew up around that instinct of making things a little more thoughtful than they technically need to be.
Over the years, I’ve hosted Diwali nights, movie nights, birthday parties and those random evenings where the original plan is just “come over for a bit” and somehow nobody leaves for hours.
No reservation time, no one checking if we’re being too loud, no pressure to move somewhere else after dinner.
Just my people, in my space, completely at ease.
Maybe because homes are forgiving. They don’t need everyone to be “on.” You can be overdressed, underdressed, late, tired, loud, quiet. The evening doesn’t have to perform for anyone.
It can just become whatever it becomes.
And weirdly enough, I also LOVE the slightly ridiculous amount of effort that goes into it.
For my dad’s birthday, I made an elaborate grazing table. It had five dips, crackers, cheeses, nuts, chocolates, fruit — basically enough food to suggest I had briefly lost all sense of proportion.
Did anybody specifically ask for five dips?
No.
Did that stop me?
Also no.
I remember finishing it, stepping back and just watching everyone naturally gather around it. Picking at things, talking, going back for more — and I was standing there thinking, yes, this is exactly what I wanted.
Have you ever wondered how hosting is half generosity and half theatre?
Like, yes, I want you to be comfortable, but I also absolutely want someone to walk in and say, “Oh my God, this looks so good.”
I literally had aunties clicking pictures of my grazing table. I will take that as critical acclaim.
It brings out a very specific version of us. Suddenly we act like interior designers, chefs, event planners, bartenders and DJs — choosing what everyone eats, picking the music, moving furniture around unnecessarily.
But underneath all of that is something much simpler.
We’re making room for people.
I think it’s the Monica Geller in me. The obsessive cleaning part comes later, but before that, it’s the part that gets a little too excited about feeding everyone and making the whole thing feel right.
In a world where everything is becoming faster and more convenient, that kind of effort feels oddly meaningful.
Anyone can send a restaurant location.
Hosting says I thought about this before you arrived.
I stand by the fact that good hosting is a skill.
It’s knowing how much food is enough, what actually needs planning and what can happen on its own, along with knowing how to stop fussing once everyone arrives. (Because that might be the biggest lesson in hosting.)
At some point, you have to stop creating the evening and actually join it.
Maybe that’s why hosting is having a return. Not because staying in suddenly became cooler than going out. But because there are some kinds of closeness you can’t reserve a table for.