Orange You Glad We Threw This Party?

Real question: why not? The inspiration came from two unlikely places—my Spotify Year-End Wrapped and a weekend trip to an unexpected Tokyo cafe.

The first inspiration: There's such anticipatory buzz in those few days in December when everyone decides to share their Spotify Wrapped. I was equally anxious when mine dropped, and imagine my surprise when I saw my Spotify Listening Age: 76.

I knew I was old, but not that old. I don't deny that most of my listening choices are older songs, probably from a generation before mine. I think as we get older, we're entitled to like what we like—why should I have to defend my love for the soft rock of physician waiting rooms? At this point, there's no hiding from it. Might as well lean into the whole vibe… and throw a party around it.

The second inspiration: an unexpected cafe in Meguro that was both strange and kind of wonderful. Onibus Coffee has the hybrid energy of an architecture studio, coworking space, and cafe all at once. Once you enter, there's a giant stone slab that leaves you unsure whether to stand around it, beside it, or just wait outside until the barista summons you. A tad confusing.

Once you get your order, you descend into a recessed basement that feels like a meeting room. Polished concrete and wood dominate—except for this thread of orange rope tying it all together. My friend Sara (also a co-host of this dinner) sat on a bench where a rock hung suspended in mid-air, held by that same orange rope. There's no way that stone is structurally anchoring anything, but there it was, just hanging out.

Something about that orange thread screamed 70s to me. Combined with my geriatric Spotify playlist, the theme was set.

But color alone can't carry a theme—the food needs to be the anchor.

And the food of the 70s? Let's just say it's quite different from what you see in recipes today. We're talking jello molds, Watergate Pistachio Salad, Hamburger Helper, and the arrival of the very first Happy Meal. As one X user perfectly put it: every recipe now is "butter bean harissa miso gochujang pasta." He said it in jest, but honestly, that sounds pretty solid.

What we did was take elements of 70s cuisine and attempt more "modern" versions. One thing I had to explicitly clarify: the 70s theme here is what Americans ate back then. I don't know what Asians in 70s Asia were eating—probably the same food we'd eaten for hundreds of years—but I'm going to guess Watergate salad wasn't on the menu.

So without further ado: the menu.

There was a strange fascination with Jell-O in 70s America—"middle-class fancy," as they say. On a small online quest to find the origins of this gelatin obsession, I discovered that aspic was the real inspiration behind the Jell-O fervor. Aspic is a savory jelly made from clarified meat stock (consommé), naturally thickened with collagen to give it that signature bounce.

I wasn't about to make aspic for this dinner party—far too weird—so we settled for Jell-O shots instead. It was a particularly strong batch, and while Jell-O shots weren't exactly a fixture at 70s dinner parties, they definitely reminded us of college fraternity basement parties. Close enough.

A lovely spring-ish dip: technically a whipped ricotta with spring vegetables. Paired with really good bread, it's the perfect refresher. Chips and dip were the iconic casual, cocktail-style entertaining staple of that decade—that, plus the introduction of television in living rooms. I mean, that's a solid weekend den setup right there.

Not named after a person called Lorraine, but after the Lorraine region in northeastern France that borders Germany. A quiche Lorraine is quite simple: an open-faced savory custard of eggs, heavy cream, and bacon. Sara made the crust, and even though she insisted it wasn't that good, I thought it was solid.

In the 1970s, Americans shifted away from formal dinner parties toward casual brunches, and quiche made its way to the foreground. Then in the 80s came the backlash, epitomized by the book Real Men Don't Eat Quiche—which alluded to the supposed "softening" of traditional masculinity.

But what am I going to do, not eat a dish with eggs and bacon as protein? I don't know, man—seems pretty unmasculine to reject protein if you ask me.

The original dish was supposed to be Steak Diane, but alas, we didn't have steak. We pivoted to a creamy, mustardy Chicken Diane (thanks, Ina). The sauce back then was rich and savory, often featuring sautéed mushrooms, Dijon mustard, and parsley.

Also, not named after someone called Diane, but after Diana, the Roman goddess of the hunt. Traditionally, dishes described as "à la Diane" were made with wild game, specifically venison. We swapped in chicken thighs since I don't hunt—and that's how Chicken Diane landed on this dinner party table.

Dinner ended with the one and only pineapple upside-down cake. Our friends weren't American, so flipping the pan and revealing those pineapple rings with maraschino cherries had the wow factor every dinner party host hopes for.

Thanks to the Dole company's heavy promotion in the 70s, this candied, bottom-crusted dessert could be made from just a box of cake mix and a few cans of pineapple. Accessible glamour.

I almost forgot to mention: we had place settings featuring rocks found on hikes, each tied neatly with orange string—a callback to that suspended stone at Onibus Coffee. Orange is the color that runs through the decade, and through this very memorable, quirky, and surprisingly appetizing dinner party.

I hope this inspires you to create your own themed dinner party. You never know what random trivia you'll uncover in your research—and honestly, that was the best part.

Savoring this moment with you,

Kevin L