The Venue Was the Star—Until Dinner Was Served and Everything Changed

I honestly believed that the remainder of the evening would be a formality when I first entered the ballroom. A marble floor that had obviously been polished that morning was illuminated by the soft amber light cast by the heavy clusters of chandeliers. Every table had tall arrangements of white peonies, the kind that appear almost impolite in their profusion. A fountain flowed continuously outside the tall windows. It’s the type of space that causes you to sit up a bit straighter in your chair.

When dinner was finally served, all I had assumed quietly crumbled.

The soup was lukewarm when it arrived. The bread resembled the soft, papery rolls found in airline lounges. You could tell that the chicken—and there is always chicken—had been rested for an extended period of time because the skin had changed from crisp to that peculiar in-between state that indicates a kitchen running behind. It was all edible. It was simply unmemorable, which is worse in some respects. Near me, a patron set down his fork and whispered if the bar was still open. It was the evening’s most candid review.

That night has been on my mind for weeks. After enough milestone birthdays, corporate dinners, and weddings, there’s a feeling that the industry’s priorities are a little off. There is a lot of talk about venues, such as the views, the pillars, and the staircase you go down at the entrance, but much less about what attendees will actually put inside their bodies for the next two hours. It’s an odd omission. As you watch this repeatedly, you begin to notice that the room fades as soon as the first plate touches down.

We might have been measuring the wrong thing all along. Research indicates that guests remember the meal long before they remember the architecture, some of it informal but consistent. More than 75% of attendees say that the food is the most memorable aspect of a celebration—more so than the décor, the playlist, or even the speeches, according to a survey cited by event planners and food writers. Anyone who has waited in line at a buffet at 9:40 p.m. while a hotel manager discreetly shuts down a second counter to send employees home early understands why. Being forced to wait in line for a cold piece of fish in a room decorated for royalty is almost offensive.

In this way, the location turns into a sort of pledge. It is either retained or not by the food. I’ve attended weddings in unremarkable country halls with beige carpet and low ceilings, where the caterer served simple fare like slow-braised lamb, a crisp green salad, and freshly baked bread that arrived warm. The guests stayed late, refilling each other’s wine without being asked. I’ve also attended glitzy rooftop events where the dessert tasted like a hotel minibar, and the view was stunning. You can guess which ones are still discussed.

Naturally, there is a cultural component to this. One of the earliest welcoming customs we have is sharing a meal; it predates both architecture and design. Even a small amount of thoughtfulness in the food is interpreted as care by the patrons. No amount of marble can make up for it when it isn’t. The younger generation of caterers appears to be aware of this, as evidenced by their preference for interactive stations, family-style platters, and live cooking—partly because it’s entertaining, but primarily because it makes guests feel cared for rather than processed. When someone is plating your taco in front of you, it’s more difficult to feel alienated.

Although it’s still unclear if the industry as a whole will completely shift its focus from the visual to the edible, the most astute hosts appear to already know. Spend less on the space. Invest more in the kitchen. Or at the very least, keep an eye on the money’s destination. The magnificent location serves as a lovely invitation. The conversation itself is the meal.

And conversations are what people remember, as anyone who has thrown a dinner will attest.