Marie Le Conte’s fantasy dinner party: Casanova, Eve Babitz and Ncuti Gatwa

I used to live with a friend in a house in Hackney. We had a terrace that was within earshot of a nearby beer garden, meaning that we could sit there and enjoy the sounds of life without having to join in. It has long struck me as the ideal setting for a dinner party on a warm evening.

The first guest to arrive is Giacomo Casanova, a man who will always be punctual if he knows there is company to be found. “He wants nothing more than the genial warmth of enjoyment,” Stefan Zweig once wrote about him, “the sparkling delight of the game; adventures, adventures, adventures, ever varying.” (Zweig was also considered for this dinner but, ultimately, found to be a more natural daytime companion.)

While we wait for the others, I offer Casanova some moeche, a delicacy from his native Venice. They are small crabs caught when their shells are still soft, meaning that they can be deep-fried and eaten whole. As we lick the grease from our fingers, the doorbell rings and Eve Babitz makes her way up.

As a teenager, Babitz wrote to Catch-22’s author Joseph Heller: “Dear Joseph Heller, I am a stacked eighteen-year-old blonde on Sunset Boulevard. I am also a writer.” She was a writer of tremendous short stories and novels. Socialite extraordinaire, she bedded and befriended anyone worth knowing in LA in the 1960s and 1970s and wrote about it all. Few people are good at both living and putting that living into prose. Babitz and Casanova are worthy exceptions.

As is often the way, the next two guests arrive at the same time. “Blasted with sighs and surrounded with tears, hither I come to seek the spring . . . ”, says John Donne, reaching for the doorbell. “Oh, stop it,” Ncuti Gatwa says with a laugh, knocking instead. I hand them Margaritas and bring them upstairs.

The secret to a good dinner party? Making sure that at least two people will not be going home alone

With everyone sitting at the table, we tuck into some milk-fed lamb kidneys, straight from Barrafina. Donne and Casanova compare notes on their grand tours of Europe. Babitz and Gatwa revel in the joys of being young, adored and beautiful.

Some bottles of Crémant de Loire appear on the table. The cork is popped and, as if summoned by fizz, Emily Thornberry, MP for Islington South and Finsbury, turns up. The main can be served. A large clay amphora is brought out of the kitchen.

It is a tangia, from my mother’s hometown of Marrakech. Cuts of meat are cooked with spices and preserved lemons at low heat for hours. It is best eaten with one’s fingers. It is filling and ideal for nights of heavy drinking.

As they tuck in, Thornberry and Donne compare experiences of serving in the Commons. Babitz and Casanova share notes on their writing and past exploits, with a noticeable glint in their eyes. That is the secret to a good dinner party; making sure that at least two people will not be going home alone.

My guests are talking about politics and memoirs but really they could be talking about anything. I have gathered them here because they are people to whom joy comes easily. They find joy in flesh and words, in their own intellect, the intellect of others, and the very fact of being alive. Thornberry smirks on Newsnight and Gatwa bursts out laughing in Sex Education and will soon do the same in the Tardis. Babitz delights in being indiscreet and Casanova gambles and drinks and loves, at least until the morning.

Donne is tortured but that is fine. His mournfulness brings some gravity to the table, and no evening can be truly charming if it is entirely weightless. Speaking of which, the tangia was a delight but it was heavy so there is no need for a real dessert. The guests are handed glasses of tequila, lime and soda as well as a large bowl of cherries. Cherries are an underrated fruit; when ripe and large and so dark that they are nearly black, they are one of the best things in the world.

The guests help themselves, tipsily, talking about everything and nothing. Silence falls for a moment and we realise that the pub nearby has closed. There is no crowd anymore, distant or not. It is time to call it a night. Gatwa and Thornberry share a sly cackle observing what is going on at the other end of the table. They decide to head to Soho for a nightcap.

The trio, meanwhile, leave together arm in arm, destination uncertain, intentions clear. I drink a pint of water and head to bed. It is late and, well, I did promise Zweig I’d see him for lunch tomorrow.

Marie Le Conte is a French-Moroccan journalist and author based in London

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