When I was a kid, I used to read “The Joy of Cooking” and imagine the elaborate parties I would someday throw for the friends I was certain adulthood would bring me.
One friend would debut a play, naturally, and everyone would come back to my apartment afterward for cocktails and canapés on the fire escape. Another would become pregnant with twins, necessitating a baby shower brunch in my garden. Someone else would fall in love and decide to marry quietly at the courthouse, after which we’d repair to my kitchen, where I’d produce a layer cake covered in edible flowers and generous plops of whipped cream. We’d eat it with forks, still dressed in our wedding finery.
The friends were hypothetical. Their milestones, however, had menus.
Then, of course, you grow up. And while I was fortunate enough to eventually find many of the wonderful people I’d imagined celebrating, I discovered that building community — and finding the money to entertain said community — could be considerably trickier than my childhood self anticipated.
Fresh out of graduate school, I wanted desperately to have people over, but I was working with a very limited budget. Soup became my solution. For literal dollars, I could put a couple of enormous pots on the stove, buy some good bread and oyster crackers, and feed a roomful of people until they were comfortably full.
The menus began modestly: my mom’s chicken noodle soup alongside store-bought tomato soup from the Whole Foods hot bar; my dad’s white chicken chili and a simple butternut squash soup scattered with chives. Eventually, I graduated to three soups — one favorite menu included vegan potato-leek, lemony chicken and orzo, and Guinness beef stew — with toasted sourdough, cornbread muffins and little ceramic bowls of parsley and lemon wedges.
The seating arrangements were somewhat less sophisticated. At one party, a neighbor of mine, a tattoo artist who had no tattoos of his own, generously lent me four tufted beanbags in a demure oatmeal color. He called them “poofs,” and my guests contentedly sank into them with bowls of chili. Thankfully, no one spilled.
I’d send invitations by email (yes, email!) with “Soup and Movie Night” at the top, then put on something suitably autumnal: “Hocus Pocus,” “When Harry Met Sally,” “Practical Magic.” Always something familiar enough that people could talk gently over it without feeling rude. Someone could usually be counted on to bring ice cream from the shop down the street, and I encouraged everyone to bring plastic tubs or thermoses for leftovers. It wasn’t fancy, and the furniture situation left something to be desired. But there was plenty of food, everyone had somewhere to settle in, and people went home with another meal for the next day.
Years later, I’ve become a more confident cook and, I think, a smarter host. I’ve learned which things are worth making myself, which are better left to professionals and how much pleasure a few slightly theatrical details can bring to an otherwise ordinary meal.
But I still think the soup party is one of the finest ways to gather people without spending a fortune or exhausting yourself in the process.
Start with the three-soup rule
I like to build a soup party menu around different experiences: think something creamy, something vegetable-forward and perhaps something especially hearty. The idea isn’t to make three versions of roughly the same thing, but to offer a little variety in texture, flavor and heft.
If you were coming to my apartment this weekend, here’s what I’d make:
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Smoky black bean soup: My thick, deeply savory, pantry-friendly favorite, made with vegetable stock to keep it vegan. It practically demands lime, scallions and something crunchy on top. Try the recipe here.
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Chorizo-chicken corn chowder: Rich, cozy and full of sweet corn, chicken and savory chorizo. This would be my creamy offering. Try the recipe here.
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Olive Bar tomato soup: A bright, tangy vegetarian tomato soup with sun-dried tomatoes, marinated garlic and feta. A nice contrast to the other two, especially with good sourdough alongside. Try the recipe here.
I always aim to offer at least one vegan soup, and I strongly recommend choosing varieties that reheat beautifully.
And don’t feel obligated to make three if two — or one — make more sense for your budget, available burners or energy. My original parties were scaled down, and they were wonderful.
Build a toppings cornucopia
Now comes my favorite part.
The soups are the foundation, but the toppings are where the evening can become a little playful. I like to arrange an almost ridiculous assortment of crunchy, creamy, salty, fresh and acidic things, allowing everyone to customize their bowls.
For our imaginary party, I’d put out:
Something crunchy: Ranchy, buttery Saltines; savory Ritz granola; and cacio e pepe oyster crackers — three party-cracker recipes I’ve shared previously, all of which you can find here — alongside tortilla chips, oven-toasted sourdough, cornbread muffins and White Cheddar Cheez-Its.
Yes, White Cheddar Cheez-Its. Trust me.
Something fresh: Little bowls of chopped scallions, cilantro, parsley, basil and chives, plus plenty of lemon and lime wedges.
Something creamy: Sour cream, shredded white cheddar, cotija and feta. I’d also include a good vegan sour cream, (like Kite Hill) or a tangy coconut yogurt (I like the plain variety from Cocojune) clearly labeled.
Something punchy: Small bottles of white balsamic and red wine vinegar, hot sauce, good olive oil and soy sauce. Add salt and pepper grinders and red pepper flakes.
You can see how quickly this becomes a splendid spread without requiring much actual cooking.
Someone might finish the black bean soup with lime, cotija, cilantro and tortilla chips. Someone else might try the tomato soup with basil, olive oil, feta and a handful of savory Ritz granola. Somebody will discover the Cheez-Its and develop a whole new soup personality around them.
And if this sounds like too much, please remember that the full cornucopia is entirely optional. A few thoughtful garnishes are plenty. We’ve also spent the past few weeks of Soup School discussing crunchy toppings, bright sauces and edible confetti, if you’d like a little extra inspiration.
As for dessert, I recommend keeping things almost aggressively simple. A beautiful arrangement of cheeses, fruit, crackers, honey and jam requires very little effort and gives people something to pick at while the evening unfolds; if you want a place to start, my conversation with “Cheese Magic” author Erica Kubick may be helpful! Include something sweet for guests who don’t eat dairy, or let somebody bring the (non-dairy) ice cream.
Let the soup be the centerpiece
I’m increasingly fond of decorating a table with the food itself.
A beautiful Dutch oven on a trivet? Wonderful. A rustic stew pot nestled beside a little clutch of flowers? Also wonderful. A secondhand soup tureen shaped like a cabbage? Possibly one of the finest things I’ve ever seen.
The spread already offers plenty of visual interest: bread piled high, bowls of herbs, cheerful wedges of citrus, golden cornbread, glossy bottles of oil and vinegar. Give these things room to shine.
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For this kind of gathering, my decorating instincts tend toward three descriptors: Short, fat and fall-colored. Think squat, unscented candles in autumn shades. Fat mums and hydrangeas, perhaps punctuated with a sunflower or two, arranged in short vases that don’t interrupt conversation. Whatever Trader Joe’s or your local florist has on sale will do nicely.
Lately I’ve also been lining glass vases with cabbage leaves before adding flowers. It’s a surprisingly pretty way to make an ordinary arrangement look seasonal, and just whimsical enough for a soup party.
If moving the soups off the stove isn’t practical, don’t worry! Group the pots neatly, set out some attractive ladles and arrange the garnishes nearby. Guests will happily serve themselves from the stovetop.
And please, feel free to go mismatched. I’ve never thought a table needed 12 identical bowls to be beautiful. If you’re inclined to invest in your entertaining collection, I’d recommend looking for a secondhand tureen with personality, a few bowls in different sizes and more spoons than you think you need. Smaller bowls encourage sampling; larger ones let guests settle in with their favorites.
My favorite trick for making mismatched serving pieces look intentional is to keep them loosely within one color story. Be generous with napkins, too, and pro tip: tuck a bus tub — which you can buy online or from a restaurant supply store — somewhere discreet for used dishes. You’ll thank yourself later.
Soup and sparkles
For drinks, I love serving something cold, dry and bubbly alongside rich soups. Champagne, Cava or Crémant are all excellent choices, their bright acidity making them particularly agreeable partners for creamy chowders and hearty stews. In the realm of THC-infused beverages, I was at a taco joint recently and had a Choom Lite, a sparkling lemon-lime beverage infused with 3 milligrams of THC and CBD, and it was quite lovely paired with big, spice-forward flavors.
And for non-drinkers, I’d make a sparkling citrus “punch” with good sparkling water, fresh juice and oversized ice cubes containing frozen citrus rounds. It’s festive, refreshing and can be mostly prepared ahead. Add the sparkling water just before serving.
Make the rules delightfully clear
I believe that clarity is wonderful hospitality.
This starts with the invitation, which can be mailed, emailed or texted. Snail mail is particularly charming, but absolutely nobody needs to design an engraved invitation to eat chili in somebody’s living room.
Include the date, time, address and menu, noting vegan, vegetarian or nonalcoholic options. You can describe the toppings in magnificent detail or simply promise “lots of toppings!” if you’d prefer not to commit to a particular spread.
And then, most importantly, explain the choreography.
Soup’s on at 7 p.m.
Movie starts at 7:30 p.m.
[Address]
On the menu: Smoky black bean soup (vegan), chorizo-chicken corn chowder and Olive Bar tomato soup (vegetarian), plus plenty of bread, crackers and toppings!
Sparkling wine, infused seltzers, non-alcoholic citrus punch and dessert provided.
Come for a cozy evening of soup and fall movies. There will be plenty to sample, top and try. Serve yourself (then serve yourself again!) and settle in for the night.
I can’t wait to see you — and send you home with a jar for the next day.
Little uncertainties have a way of making people uncomfortable. Is it rude to have seconds? Am I supposed to try each soup? Am I allowed to get up during the movie?
A friendly invitation can answer most of these questions before anybody has to ask.
Once guests arrive, keep that same generosity of spirit. Label the soups and any dietary accommodations. Make the bowls and spoons easy to find. Let people know they’re welcome to try everything, then return for more.
And if you’re sending people home with leftovers, keep deli tubs or cute jars ready to fill.
As for the movie, I still favor familiar fall classics like “Hocus Pocus” or “Coraline.” Something with enough seasonal charm to set the atmosphere, but familiar enough that nobody feels obligated to sit in reverent silence. For music before the screening, the “Over the Garden Wall” soundtrack is an excellent place to start.
Your soup party, without the Saturday panic
Of course, an inexpensive spread can still become a fairly ambitious undertaking if you try to prepare everything the afternoon of the party.
Which brings me to perhaps my most important piece of practical advice: Do the cooking before anyone arrives.
Many soups — particularly stews, chilis and deeply simmered vegetable soups — taste even better after a night in the refrigerator. Some creamy or pasta-based varieties need a little extra attention when reheating, but the principle remains the same: The day of the party should involve substantially more arranging than cooking.
Here’s how I’d handle a Saturday gathering.
Wednesday: The big shop. Order or pick up your soup ingredients, toppings, drinks and dessert components. Check your supply of bowls, spoons, napkins and serving utensils.
Thursday: The easy simmerers. Make the black bean and Olive Bar tomato soups. Both involve relatively straightforward assembly and simmering. Cool promptly in shallow containers, label and refrigerate.
Friday: The slightly more involved cooking. Make the chorizo-chicken corn chowder. I’d almost certainly have a bowl for dinner. Prepare any homemade party crackers, too.
Saturday morning: The pleasant errands. Visit a bakery or supermarket for good bread and cornbread muffins. Pick up flowers and anything you’ve forgotten.
Saturday afternoon: The little things. Chop herbs, grate cheese, cut citrus wedges and assemble any salads, keeping the greens and dressing separate. Arrange flowers, prepare a simple dessert spread and refrigerate anything perishable. Check that your chosen movie is still streaming where you thought it was or that you know where the DVD is.
And leave yourself time to shower, get dressed and enjoy a little quiet before everyone arrives.
One hour before: Begin reheating the soups. Set out bowls, spoons, napkins and decorations.
Thirty minutes before: Toast the sourdough, warm the muffins and arrange the shelf-stable crunchy toppings.
Fifteen minutes before: Put out the remaining garnishes, dressed salads and dessert. Get drinks on ice, arrange the soups for serving, light the candles and start the music.
One practical note: Cool and refrigerate cooked soups promptly, reheat them thoroughly and keep them safely hot during the party. If your beautiful vintage tureen doesn’t have a heat source, fill it in smaller batches and replenish from soup held hot on the stove.
The party you want to have again
And one final reminder, as much for myself as anybody else: A beautiful party and a photographable party aren’t necessarily the same thing. Soup parties have the potential to be extraordinarily brown affairs. Chili, stew, crackers, bread, beans! A tremendous amount of beige, all of it delicious.
I’m not anti-photo. But I’m increasingly trying to separate how I imagine a gathering will look from how I hope it will feel.
The candles are meant to burn down. The toppings are meant to be eaten. The tureen is meant to be used, not admired from a respectful distance.
When I think back on those original soup parties, I don’t remember how many of the bowls matched, or precisely how the table looked. I remember people curled up on borrowed beanbags, eating second helpings of soup and talking over a movie they’d all seen before.
And I remember that, when the evening was over, there were people carrying leftovers out the door.
Which is a pretty lovely way for a party to end.
This story originally appeared in The Bite, my weekly food newsletter for Salon. If you enjoyed it and would like more essays, entertaining guides and recipes sent straight to your inbox, subscribe here.
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