Another reject..............

The Cocktail Party

A typical, fifties cocktail party.

The tinned, smoked oysters were the best.  That’s what my cousins and I would sneak and devour when we were in the kitchen preparing canapés for our parents’ cocktail parties in the fifties.  Not too many made it out of the kitchen, having survived our “help”.  

Remember those?  The elegant, neighbourhood cocktail party when friends would gather from six to eight to laugh, chat, drink, smoke and gossip?  Whatever happened to those?  I think they died out in the late sixties, for some reason?  In the neighbourhood I grew up in, they were ubiquitous.  Almost every weekend, one of the neighbours would host a cocktail party.  

What distinguished the cocktail party from other gatherings was the fact that everyone stood; no one sat.  The other feature was the dress code – always formal and elegant.  The women wore what used to be called a “cocktail dress”, while the men sported suits and ties.  No one arrived in slacks or an open-necked shirt, let alone – heaven forbid! -- jeans.  For us, it was always, “Mr. or Mrs.”  Never first name greetings for our elders.

The cocktail party heyday was in the fifties, just after the war, when no one had any money.  Back then I remember eating a lot of cabbage and potato dinners.  Salad in February?  Forget about it.  Root vegetables figured prominently in the dark, winter months and fruit came only in cans.  Unless something was in season, we didn’t eat it.

One-income families were the norm, which meant expensive dinners parties and family gatherings were luxuries reserved for feast days, such as Christmas or Easter.  The cocktail party, however, was an easier and more thrifty way to entertain with the fare being readily available and limited to bite-sized morsels.  

Along with the oysters, typical canapés would include Cheez Whiz-stuffed celery sticks or ordinary nuts.  I knew a cocktail party was coming up when my mother cooked extra bacon.  Bits would be placed on top of cheese crusts, broiled and cut into little squares the night of the party.  These were on a par with the oysters, but usually it was nothing fancy made with ingredients found in the average fridge.  

Along with preparing the snacks, we also circulated and served them.  At our house, they were always presented on a silver platter, which served to elevate even the most modest cracker and cheese.  Drinks were always measured properly with a shot glass and poured in the kitchen before my father would transfer them to the silver tray and take them out.  Even a drink for only one person would be served on that tray.  

With my father in sole charge of the kitchen bar, no one got drunk because no one helped themselves.  As I recall, everyone except my parents smoked, filling the whole house with cigarette smoke which would linger for days.  I even have vivid memories of pregnant wives -- highball in one hand and cigarette in the other – laughing and enjoying themselves like everyone else.  No soft drinks for them.  Feature that now! 

A scientist and non-smoker, my Dad had devised a way to keep cigarettes fresh for the weeks between parties when it would again be my parents’ turn to host.  He taped a water-soaked paper towel to the underside of a glass cigarette holder, soaked it regularly and stored them away until the next party.  Cigarette dishes were always set out beside the nuts for guests to help themselves and with my father’s storage method, the former were always fresh.  I mean, nothing was worse than a stale cigarette.   

For Christmas parties, guests would arrive suitably attired in festive garb, with seasonal corsages and fancy hairdos.  Back then, a respectable wife went to the hairdresser every week to have her hair done for the weekend.  Without a lot of money, my mother and aunts would give each other perms – short for “permanent waves”.  I can still smell the pungent odour of the solution applied before the paper wrappers and curlers were set.  What a production, but essential for any respectable matron.

In the fifties, there were few artificial Christmas trees.  But often the real ones were lopsided, or missing branches, so to create the perfect tree, my mother would take home extra branches to cover the bare spots.  I can still see my father lying under the tree, tying branches onto empty limbs while my mother gave directions.  “No, tie that one a little higher, Tommy.  That spot needs another branch,” she would say.

The small Ottawa neighbourhood in which I grew up was the first planned community in the country.  Bounded by four through streets, its winding, narrow roads, circles, crescents and dead ends protected it from commuter traffic.  The only cars you saw were those of the residents.  Lindenlea, as it was called, also featured a community centre and playground.  Ballet, Brownies, Cubs Scouts and Guides were held there, as were ballet classes.  There were winter and summer carnivals, with parents pitching in to make costumes and floats.

But the mainstay in those years was the ubiquitous, moveable cocktail party – the glue that held a wonderful group of friends and neighbours together through thick and thin.  Instead of noisy barbeques and expensive dinner parties, maybe I’ll host one this Christmas.  Why not?  Maybe it’ll catch on again?