The Art of Setting the Table

It was clear that a maturation of some sort had occurred. What was less obvious was whether it was an evolution or a surrender. It was fun and delicious, yet worried me ever so slightly that I was mindlessly capitulating to the culture’s demands of a newly married woman: that she host and entertain and serve rather than adorn herself. Could it be that my copy of Martha Stewart’s Entertaining was no longer on my shelves solely for research purposes? Or, I mean, was I just getting old?

My newfound obsession with tableware could have been chalked up to that, sure, but it was more likely a result of making friends in a new city during the ongoing pandemic. I wanted to make a generous impression. While we were lacking both occasion and spontaneous gathering, I would make the most of the conditions by creating elaborate feasts that reflected not just my palate, but my style. I’m a food writer, so people expect my meals to be good—the aesthetic should match, I figured.

This isn’t a new concept, but I have noticed a new seriousness around it by paying attention to the home-focused enterprises of some of my favorite fashion folks who are bringing their sensibilities to a decidedly more Gourmet than Vogue audience. It’s been clear that I’m not the only one seeking self-expression and fulfillment in a beautiful table presentation lined with thoughtfully sourced food and reflecting deep care—not just a visual or cultural perspective. The tablescape tone on social media has shifted to reflect this, with shadowy Dutch realist-style photos where sliced fruit and a stirred coffee are elevated to fine art by popping out from darkness. There are also new trends featuring mess, with half-drunk glasses and bottles strewn about; the account @tables_tables_tables curates it all, from sausage cakes to radish-covered terrines. I’ve noted particular parallels between my tropical environs and those of Puglia, Italy, via @everyoneatthetable, which have made me embrace the beauty of our Spanish archways and naturally distressed white walls.

Where I live in San Juan, Puerto Rico, I’ve been seeing local designers and vintage sellers getting into the housewares game, bolstering my theory. YAYI by Yayi Pérez teamed with bakery Panoteca San Miguel to launch a line of tablecloths, bread bags, and a market tote all made locally with her signature tropical minimalism—think airy, light, and fiercely precise. AIDA, a treasure trove of secondhand clothing and jewelry, now offers a home section in Casa Iris, which popped up at natural wine bar El Vino Crudo with a massive glassware selection to be perused while sipping, seeking out new bottles, and chatting over marinated olives and artichokes. AIDA proprietor Maru Aldea paired up with textile designer Jay Rodríguez, whose handwoven table runner I have been eyeing so lustfully. Its pattern of brick red, black, blue, and white cotton threads calls to mind a classic picnic gingham, yet switches up every few inches for something more whimsical.

Through the looking glass of Instagram, I watch the feeds of grocer and caterer Alimentari Flaneur in New York and photographer Sam Youkilis in Italy. Both make the ordinary scenes of everyday eating and drinking seem absolutely paramount to a life well-lived. Long tables covered in grapes and oysters, baskets overflowing with produce, even the stirring of one’s morning espresso take on uncharted heights of drama and pleasure in their work. They give me something to aspire to, in a way most food magazines no longer deliver, favoring as they do a more bombastic approach. I don’t want bright colors and perfection; I want the joy and conversation that a well-prepared meal promises. I want the intimacy that sitting at a table provides, followed by the post-eating time of sobremesa, when lingering is welcome.

Another reason I’ve gotten so into setting my dining table is that I’ve stopped buying clothes at the same rate as I once did, always thinking the next item would be the start of a whole new way of being that would finally fulfill me. (In my escape from this mindset, yes, perhaps I have just gotten old, and thank God for that.) We have to eat every day, but it’s neither feasible nor sustainable to cycle through fashion at the same rate. Adding ramekins to my shelves and switching out my table’s textiles every couple of months helps me see the same old dining room with new eyes, and that in turn inspires the food I set atop it.

New outlooks are key to developing new recipes, even as I live in a tropical climate where the seasonal shifts in produce exist but aren’t quite as extreme as those of my home in New York. Here, I must do more with less reliable variety. I tend to be a bit sneaky, using regular aperitivo hours and dinners with friends as space for trying out my ideas, gauging responses and watching to see how quickly a bowl or platter empties. I like to set out little dishes, too—usually recovered oyster shells my mom paints—with flaky salt, red pepper flakes, or tiny wedges of lemon and lime, just to ensure everyone can eat to their taste.

These events have also recharged my love of film photography. I capture hands cutting into a cheese board, spreading a mushroom pâté on a toasted piece of baguette, or pouring a second glass of wine. These are the party shots I seek now—evidence of afternoons and evenings gathered around my liquidation finds dotted by more exciting wares, like a Serax
Black Passe-Partout Tray and Felt+Fat ceramics.

It doesn’t have to be a party to enjoy a beautiful meal, of course. I plate my morning oatmeal with the same care, sectioning off the sliced banana from the dollop of peanut butter, then plopping the oats in their own spot before sprinkling on cinnamon and a bit of salt. Often, I take a quick iPhone photo of it before I stir it all together, admiring how something so simple can be the pleasurable foundation of my day. The bowl comes to the patio with me so I can enjoy a bit of sunshine before the day gets too hot and I have to retreat to the bedroom, the only air-conditioned room in the house, to spend the day writing beside my napping dog. The care I bring to the table is for me, as well as for everyone I invite over. If I didn’t love to set the table, why would I cook? Why would I write about food? Through cooking, I bring in the natural world. At the table, I cultivate community—in both the designers’ work that covers it and the people gathered around it.

Alicia Kennedy is a writer from Long Island based in San Juan, Puerto Rico. She has a weekly newsletter on food culture, media, and politics called “From the Desk of Alicia Kennedy,” and her book Meatless will be out from Beacon Press in summer 2023.