If I could host a dinner where anyone I invited was guaranteed to show up, I wouldn’t waste a second on red carpets or royalty. I wouldn’t stress over table settings or chase down Michelin stars. I’d simply clear the dining table (currently piled with books, crystals, and an empty chai cup), light some candles, open the windows just enough to let the city hum through, and wait. Because what I’d be curating that evening wouldn’t just be a meal—it would be magic.
At the head of the table, I’d seat Julia Child, all 6-foot-2 of her, with that hearty laugh that fills rooms and hearts. I’d want to hear her say “Bon appétit!” in person and watch her tear into roast chicken with childlike glee. She’d bring butter, of course—pounds of it—and I’d let her take over the kitchen if she wanted to. She’s earned it. I imagine her delighting in my South Indian mango pickle or maybe stuffing one into a croissant just to see what happens. A risk-taker like me.
Next to her, I’d place Midge Maisel, still in full makeup and heels, recounting tales from her stand-up tour. We’d have brisket and latkes on the table for her, and maybe French puffs too, because a girl’s got to indulge while she’s slaying the patriarchy with punchlines. Midge would gossip, I’d laugh, and we’d all pretend we weren’t crying when she talked about leaving her kids to chase a dream.
On the other side, I’d save a seat for James Beard, the godfather of American food, who’d walk in with a basket of the best fried chicken this side of heaven. He’d tell stories about his time in San Francisco, and I’d chime in with my own from those foggy Mission mornings and late nights in North Beach—where I’ve devoured Italian lasagna so soulful it practically kissed me on the lips, and licked mustard off my fingers at a tiny hot dog stand hidden between a record store and a dive bar. He’d understand.
Across from him would sit my mother, in a sari that still smells faintly of sandalwood and turmeric. She’d laugh at the fancy French names, then show Julia how to flip a perfect dosa on cast iron. They’d get along famously, united by their love of butter and discipline. The lamb curry she makes would sit proudly beside the coq au vin—two worlds colliding, in the best way possible.
And then I’d invite me—not the hostess, but the real me. The me who often hides in the kitchen, fussing over burnt toast and people-pleasing. But tonight, I’d take my seat, I’d laugh freely, I’d lick my fingers, and I’d talk as much as I listened. I’d look around the table—at this wild, strange, glorious mix of women and men who’ve shaped how I think, eat, love, and create—and I’d think: This is it. This is life, served hot, unapologetic, and without reservation.
There’d be coq au vin and bagels, bavarian cream pie and ghee-laced parathas, fish in lemon butter next to coconut chutney, and somehow, it would all make sense. Because food has always had a way of doing that—of making space for contrast, of softening sharp edges, of turning strangers into kin.
So if I could host a dinner and anyone I invite was sure to come, I’d serve stories alongside seconds, I’d season everything with laughter, and I’d remind every single guest at the table—including myself—that the best meals aren’t just cooked—they’re felt.
And after everyone left, I’d sit quietly at the messy, sauce-splattered table, sipping leftover chai and smiling into the night, full in all the right ways.
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