All the voices in the room

This month, I’m celebrating the anniversary of the first of my ‘salon series,’ a new kind of gathering - for me at least. The event unfolded beyond my expectations. As I take stock of what worked, and what I could do better, I thought it would be useful to examine the elements that may have led to the success. After all, if I want to replicate this, or take it beyond the walls of my home, isn't it better if I’m clear on the recipe?

Have you ever made mayonnaise from scratch? 

Unless you are French, it’s likely that you haven’t. Yet this delicate concoction is a real treat. And I am not just thinking of this because I had beautiful ‘Oeufs Mayonnaise’ at Grande Brasserie in Paris last Saturday. (Fun fact: La Grande Brasserie won the title of best Eggs Mayonnaise in the World in 2023).

Being 75% Gallic (a fact I love to forget daily), I was introduced to the art of the Do It Yourself mayo as a girl. It’s a tricky dish to make. It’s not something you can do ‘au hasard’, or haphazardly. The ingredients need to be fresh, you cannot rush how the oil is added to the egg yolk, and the balance of vinegar and mustard is a delicate one. Try it for yourself. Failing at emulsifying these ingredients successfully can feel very frustrating.

There’s a point to pondering the art of making a good homemade mayonnaise. It is not unlike throwing an event: there are plenty of chances it doesn’t ‘take,’ it’s daunting to prepare, but if you get the balance right, it’s richly satisfying (and good for you, in small doses, or so says the internet). 

 That’s been my experience with a ‘salon’ event I launched a year ago at home. It took three failed attempts between June and October for me to finally roll up my sleeves and start cracking those eggs (to extend the culinary metaphor). Serendipity nudged me (I was ready to give up), but my birthday was coming up, and I figured that would be the perfect excuse to get friends over to my place. 

The concept I’d come up with was simple: introduce a person and a project and have them present for 20 minutes. Then, I’d interview my guest for 20 or so minutes before opening up to the group for a Q&A. After this part, the ‘formal’ part of the evening would be over, and the plan was to invite people to continue to chat over drinks while I got the food ready. I’ve always thought it cheap to gather people without offering them food, so I decided to offer a vegetarian buffet, served family style, in the dining room. 

Feeling like this venture needed a name, I started to play around with numbers (I live at number 31 on my street); but for some reason, I landed on the number 30. It sounds far better in French, so I went with Le Trente. Pondering why I liked the number that much, I took to Google to look it up. Oh, serendipity! You again. I gleefully discovered that the number 30 represents highly creative and social energies. It’s a number that resonates and supports creative expression, even encouraging it in others. 

That sentiment resonated deeply with me because Le Trente is a stab at creating a community: an interesting space to have deep conversations, to hear from people who have projects and ideas they want to share and to do that in a safe and intimate space. A private space with no expectations beyond spending a good time together.

Like one makes homemade mayo, I assembled the following ingredients in the vessel that is my living room: 

- an eclectic group of friendly souls
- an intention to encourage connections in a safe environment
- a guest or theme for each event
- a clear structure 
- a varied selection of homemade dishes and drinks to chat and bond over  

I stirred these elements carefully, keeping my intention close to my heart, hoping the event would ‘take’. 

For my first try, I decided to test-drive the event myself, wearing the multiple hats of cook, host, presenter and facilitator. 

I grew up in the shadow of a consummate hostess. My mother, all French chic herself, was widely considered a talented cook with a delicate taste. Her cuisine was, just like her style, nuanced and refined. I can only describe it as French fare ‘light’, no heavy sauces, no French fries. As early as seven or eight years old, I learned to make myself useful, enjoying the role of being her apprentice. Shuffling around her in our minuscule kitchen, I cleaned the dirty pots and pans, assembled dishes like the divine blanquette de veau (her recipe), a ‘pot au feu de la mer’ (seafood pot au feu). I learned how to whip up a mayonnaise from scratch and make my brother and mine’s favourite pudding: a fancy flan by the name of Reduit de Mont de Marsan (though she substituted the vanilla custard with a coulis of red berries). 

My mother always each recipe her own.

She would start preparing her menu a good two or three days in advance. Not wanting to be hurried, was very deliberate in her choices. We are very different women. My cooking style is more akin to flying by the seat of my pants.  

I remember my parents’ dinner parties as a highlight of my childhood. The effervescent energy in the room, the smiling adults clinking their crystal glasses to cheerful toasts: “A la tienne, L'Chaim, santé!” We were allowed to stay for aperitif, my brother and I, and would be ushered to bed before the first course would appear on the table. I fell asleep to the satisfying lullaby of the laughter emanating from the dining room. 

My parents stopped having people over when my mother’s depression took hold of her when I was twelve years old. Our house became quiet. The living room turned into the place where we would park ourselves for a daily televisual escape, forgetting reality for a precious few hours of respite. 

I had no clear purpose when I hosted my Parisian get-together, but I did have a big open living and dining area. Echoes of delight from my parents’ dinner parties, though much more intimate in numbers, resonate in my memory. After years of COVID-induced TV consumption, it’s not that strange that I decided to open my doors after all. 

The day after that cocktail party, I got up to find the remainder of the industrial bag of ice cubes melting in my bathtub. I dragged myself from room to room, sighing heavily while picking up abandoned glassware and hoovering the crumbs of my underwhelming canapes from the dining room floor. I moaned (like my mother used to): “God, that was a lot of work.”

The event bore the hallmark of success if success is to be measured by numbers. Yet I felt empty, as if the guests had sucked out my energy as they left the party. 

My Paris and Geneva apartments have this in common: they have a bright, open living room. Seven years passed between the two events, and my life has changed a lot during that time: I left my job, went freelance, started a podcast, became a certified coach, a certified mindfulness teacher, a yoga teacher, etc., all of that and that global pandemic. 

Of course, the salon, though the second biggest event I’d throw in 10 years, would be very different because of all of the above. And also because I would start with a clear intention: to foster connection around interesting ideas and deep conversations, in an intimate space.  

I honoured that intention by using all my learnings and prepared carefully for several days ahead, emulating my mother’s style in doing so.

After the guests arrived that evening, I announced the program and introduced them to guidelines to invite safe, mindful interactions. Heads nodded in agreement.

Then I sat on my piano stool (somehow this felt like the most appropriate seat for my performance) and threw myself into my presentation, iPad in hand. 

An hour later, I wrapped things up, thanking everyone for their attention, before I announced that the ‘formal’ portion of the evening was over and I’d go prepare dinner.

Smiling eyes around the room indicated my plan was agreeable to all present. I walked off, and by the time I’d reached the hob to start stirring the risotto al Barolo — the star dish of the night — I turned round to notice I was in there, solo. No one had followed to lend me a hand. I sneaked a peek into the living room, to see the group in the throws of heated discussions. It hadn’t occurred to even my closest friends to come and help me (admittedly, I didn’t ask anyone to lend me a hand). Indeed, my intention had led to the connections I was hoping for: everyone was still talking, sharing and debating on the topic I’d introduced!

By organising a gathering that went beyond the regular birthday party or dinner format, I created a space for a different kind of interaction. 

The ‘salon mayonnaise’ took. 

Let’s step back for a moment. That evening, I presented a project called Story of You, or how to share your value(s) with the world. My presentation drew on my career and my knowledge as a PR, a communications specialist, a coach and a storyteller. 

But I also shared how I let myself down when I talk about myself. I also, with his permission, talked about my brother, who was diagnosed in his late thirties as being on the spectrum. For him, more than for me, making connections has always been difficult.

After reaching my conclusion, I paused, and opened the floor for questions. I hoped everyone was now primed to open up. 

Success! My guests, gathered as they were around my living room, shared tender stories and personal challenges, one after another. Therein lied the gold. 

We laughed, winced and pondered together as some shared that they cannot bring up their jobs in conversation because they barely understand what they do themselves. 

A freelancer talked about how it was easy to talk about her work when she was part of a company. But now, she felt she had to ‘sell herself’ and hated discussing her career.

Others told us how personal stories relayed at work were exploited against them by coworkers — raising the question of why would anyone talk about themselves if this can happen? 

Several women pointed out that their gender, identity and even training are regularly used to objectify them, rendering them so uncomfortable that, powerful as they were, they’d turn into wallflowers at networking events. 

Ouch. The breadth of the difficulties most of our group had experienced shocked me. My gut had told me this was an important subject to bring to a gathering. Nevertheless, I wasn’t expecting the powerful resonance of the words that were spoken that evening. 

Each of the stories I heard that evening is etched in my heart to this day. I learned so much, not because a single person offered insight into their experience but because, with each person offering up their vulnerabilities to be seen and heard by the group, trust was built. Another opened up and told their story. And another. 

My heart feels tender just thinking about it.

Later, I laid out the food on the dining room table and merriment ensued. We ate and drank and laughed; the energy in the room sparkled, very much reminiscent of my parents' dinner parties. 

At midnight, I was back on my own in the kitchen, looking at the work ahead. The early days of cleaning beside my mother paid off: I organised the washing up, gulped down a glass of water and collapsed in my bed. 

The next day, I strolled around the apartment, putting things back in their place (I love a good tidy). Full of energy (a surprise) I cleaned the apartment with unexpected efficiency. A big grin appeared on my face, as my memory travelled back to choice moments from the night before. My mind and heart were buzzing. I ran to my desk, inspired, excited even, for the work ahead of me.

Months later, I found myself putting a word to the magic that happened that evening. 

All the voices in the room. 

When we make room to listen to each other’s stories, magic - or let’s call it ‘connection’ ensues. But to make that happen, we need a safe container. And a binding agent. And when all the ingredients come together, magic happens. 

That evening was magic, and if I were to replicate the recipe, I thought it would be worth retracing my steps. What was it that made my ‘salon mayo’ to take? 

The ingredients were good - check.

The recipient (and boundaries aka guidelines) clear - check

The space was appropriate. 

My intention matched the above - check. 

The presentation was… 

I started to examine the content of what I had shared. 

I had been honest by telling people all the ways in which I got things wrong when it came to talking about myself. I used to think I was bad at telling stories and spent most of my life thinking it would be best if I just shut up (being enthusiastic, it’s hard to stay quiet at times). Not this time. 

My brother had also given me the okay to share some of his experiences (and failings) in connection and communication, as someone who was diagnosed on the spectrum (think a little bit more sociable than someone with Asperger).

In showing and sharing our struggles, I created a safe opening for others to do the same. This wasn’t a talk about lofty concepts. I’d gone digging and exposed my own authentic and unvarnished truth.

Given the kind of intention I had, I could have failed had I not opened up using the technique of personal storytelling. I showed my vulnerabilities, making it safe for others to join me in this space.

You can emulsify mustard, vinegar and oil to make a vinaigrette, but it will never take quite like a mayonnaise. The egg acts as a binding agent and it creates the smooth and creamy texture that makes us love the taste of mayo the world over. 

Ditto with authentic storytelling: showing ourselves as who we are (within the limits of the container), our stories act as a binding agent with our audience. 

This human life is so rich and so complex. We can get so caught up with our own situations, thinking that we are alone in our struggles. 

Stories remind us of our humanity. They power connection, rekindle our bonds and in so doing, remind us that we are not alone.  

One could say, however deliberate you are, the mayonnaise will never quite taste the same again (Heinz and my chef friends may disagree with this metaphor).

Every gathering, every connection, is a unique treasure if we only turn to it with presence and intention. 

My one sheet for intention: as a coach, I’ve devised a list of questions to help uncover our deepest intentions. If you are curious about it, you can download it here. 

Priya Parker, the Art of Gathering: a couple of weeks ago, I (finally) started reading this title, famous among those who are intentional about creating interesting events. I’m only three chapters in, but I have already learned a few things I will consider for my next meetings and events. I highly recommend you get it.