Nick Grimshaw’s fantasy dinner: Stanley Tucci, Rihanna, Kathy Burke and a karaoke machine

My parents were in their forties when I showed up, my siblings 11 and 13 years older. Deep into their entertaining era, they refused to let me get in the way. The highlight was the monthly girls’ night, which mum and her friends took it in turns to host. She’s 80 this year and the girls are still going strong. I’ve not told my guests, but I’ve every intention of this soirée becoming an equally regular event.

We’re at my house and it’s Sunday, early evening. Endless potential yet low expectations. Those attending have a single thing in common: each is totally at ease in themselves. Years spent in soundproof studios instilled in me an aversion to fakery and awkward silences. On the radio, I could at least pretend to go for a wee while music played to avoid painful small talk. But when hosting a dinner party, there’s only so many times you can hide in your bog.

Some ground rules. Yes, you can smoke inside: a cigarette in the house is — occasionally — chic. Shoes on. Honestly, I don’t love it, but who am I to strip Stanley Tucci down to his socks? He arrives first. No surprise, given I’d told him to come at 7pm and the others later. I said don’t bring anything, but he’s wielding a burrata and I’m thrilled. This one-on-one Tucci time isn’t purely me being selfish. A staggered arrival is an act of service: now all guests will be greeted by the image of Tucci sipping a Negroni at my kitchen island. Bellissimo. We stand together, constructing banderillas: olive, pickled pepper, anchovy and quail’s egg skewered on sticks. I fight every temptation to lock the front door. It seems a bit harsh to leave a pregnant Rihanna out in the cold.

The first time I interviewed RiRi, she was a few hours late. The second, it was three days. I’ve told her tonight’s bash started on Friday, just to be sure. I’m dreading our interaction. I last saw her in a bar, where she asked: “How’s the radio going?” I’d been day-drinking and spent 15 minutes explaining how Radio Joint Audience Research (Rajar) works. I woke up mortified; she’d been so devastatingly bored. To my relief, she has long forgotten who I am.

To my relief, Rihanna has long forgotten who I am

Rihanna, of course, left the front door open. So national treasure Kathy Burke lets herself in, not needing to be told twice about smoking inside. And she’s turned up with my mate, the chef and Dish podcast co-host Angela Hartnett. When Hartnett came round for my birthday party, she walked in, saw a baby and loudly exclaimed: “I thought you said there’d be no kids.” Followed quickly by: “It’s well clean in here, I knew you were uptight.” Burke and Hartnett’s joint arrival ensures the onslaught of abuse from the pair is over quickly.

A martini or two later, seats are taken. There’s a white tablecloth and candles (in sticks, unscented). Grace Jones plays. Hartnett and Tucci talk soffritto. I appear with the starter, tomatoes on toast, and the applause drowns out Hartnett’s snipe about the “poncey” banderillas. Outspoken, politicised, hilarious — Cardi B appears in the hallway. She tries to pick up a banderilla, but her long nails make getting a grip on it impossible.

As I’d hoped, Hartnett is finding my faffing in the kitchen infuriating so has taken over the cooking. She complains about how blunt all my knives are, while putting the final touches to the main of gnocchetti with garlic and peas. To be fair, I tell Cardi, it is Hartnett’s recipe. She smiles, places her hand on mine, and asks me earnestly about Rajar.

There’s bread on the table to mop up leftover sauce. I start to proudly explain how there’s actually a word for this in Italian, before I realise — mid-sentence — I’ve forgotten it. “It’s scarpetta, darling,” Tucci chimes in, before segueing into a charming anecdote about a Florentine ribollita. As conversation flows, I pour myself another martini, content with my selection of natural-born talkers. Cardi’s clanging jewellery mixed with Burke’s swirling cigarette smoke is almost meditative. My own nirvana.

Candle wax has reached the floor; the tablecloth is stained with red wine. Tucci’s shirt is almost entirely unbuttoned. That’s when Burke, having clocked my karaoke machine, bursts into a full-throttle rendition of “Park Life”. Rihanna has lined up “Livin’ on a Prayer” next and has mounted the coffee table in anticipation. In fact, as we glance at the screen, it’s clear she has a long set list prepared and refuses to pass on the mic. For a moment, there’s a real risk of tension: Tucci seems hurt that his rendition of “Moon River” has got the chop. But right before the evening turns, I gently reassure him: “I promise you’ll be first up at next month’s girl’s night, Stan.”

Nick Grimshaw is the co-host of weekly podcast “Dish” by Waitrose & Partners

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