How to Run an EMBASSY

In Washington it’s at parties that the power is mongered, the pork barreled, the horses traded. And it’s the wives who run the parties. SONDRA GOTLIEB, Washington Post columnist, author of a recent book, and "wife of” the Canadian ambassador, has grown adept at juggling protocol and fresh shrimp

Before I went to Washington,” a predecessor told me in shocked tones, ‘‘the embassy was actually using typed instead of handwritten place cards.” Until that moment, my mind had not dwelt upon place cards, because I had never been the wife of an ambassador. This was the first hint of what was in store.

To begin with, I knew nothing about seating or protocol. My husband and I had lived for twenty-four years in Ottawa, where I had three children, became bored, and eventually established my career as a writer. When I gave a party, two or three times a year, people sat on the stairs eating food that I had cooked myself. I never worried about placement or who sat on the highest step, even if the prime minister came.

Now I spend hours making up seating plans. I have learned that it is wise to read the newspapers first. Then you can try not to seat at the same table the Cabinet secretary and the columnist who has written something nasty about him that morning. Inevitably, however, a couple of senators will drop out at the last moment (a time-honored Washington custom) and, willy-nilly, the enemy place cards will find themselves together. There are only two rules about making up a seating plan in Washington: If you follow protocol, the party will be too stiff. If you don’t, someone will be miffed.

I have also found that round tables of six to eight people create a more informal atmosphere than one of those long embassy tables, which usually has a deadening effect on the conversation. Some embassies leave their seating to social secretaries who rely upon State Department protocol. When this happens, too many Important Jobs are lumped together, and little attention is paid to the personality of each guest. It’s not surprising that people at the ends of the long table or at the other round tables become glum and resentful.

On my arrival in Washington, I was greeted by my staff: a

Spanish-speaking butler (mournful and nervous), a chef (a phlegmatic two-hundred-pound Turk), a Portuguese houseman (it took me three years to figure out what his duties were), two curious and giggling maids (Honduran and Philippine), and a social secretary who immediately asked me if she could possibly type out the place cards. My immediate instinct was to return to Ottawa, but they were all waiting for orders from Madam, and I quickly discovered that I was the unpaid manager of a small hotel. I also discovered how distressing it could be to hear one of the embassy’s longtime servants announce, an hour before the arrival of guests, that there weren’t enough tablecloths. And I soon ceased to be amused by the surprised look on the face of our butler when he glanced down as he passed the platters of food around the table and discovered there were no dinner plates. The butler found our pace too hectic, and Madam a little hysterical. In fact, most of our original staff left us within eighteen months. Which brings me to the anomalous position of the wife of an ambassador.

We live in the world of modem diplomacy: every embassy employee—the ambassador, the press attache, and the downstairs maid—has a job description and bureaucratic classification. Butlers are not butlers; they are house managers, WS4. But nobody quite knows what to do with that quaint, old-fashioned figure, the wife of the ambassador. She is the only person in the embassy without a job description. Yet somehow the ‘‘wife of” is supposed to assert her authority over those who are legitimately employed. This paradoxical situation says a great deal about Washington, where married women are identified as wives of important jobs or countries. Some wives may have their own jobs, but that doesn’t make much difference unless you are Sandra Day O’Connor or Elizabeth Dole. Shortly after I arrived, I went to a luncheon for fifty ladies, each of whom stood up and was introduced as wife of the Nuclear Regulatory Commission, wife of the air force, etc. I was presented as wife of Canada, coming just after wife of Peru.

With more than 130 embassies in Washington, an ambassador must keep a high profile if he doesn’t want to be left on the diplomatic dung heap.

Anyway, there she is, this “wife of,” this diplomatic remnant from the Congress of Vienna, powerless because she doesn’t control the purse strings, ignorant because she doesn’t understand bureaucracy, trying to find out from shadowy administrators—who may or may not tell her—how much money there is to pay the butler, maids, chef, and social secretary. She is expected to run a residence that functions as something between a private house and a public drinking place, to hire staff, redecorate, make up menus (chefs have a tendency to serve hot food on hot days and iced gazpacho in November), find out who plants flowers and removes rotten trees, settle disputes among the domestic staff, and wonder why there are no tablecloths.

Early on, my husband warned me that I hadn’t yet got a grip on things, because of this to-do I had had with our former chef, Mustafa, when I insisted on fresh shrimp.

“No fresh shrimp in Washington, madam,” Mustafa informed me. “Nonsense,” I said firmly. Someone had told me they sold fresh shrimp down by the wharf. “No fresh shrimp down by the wharf, madam.”

I made the chauffeur drive me and the silent Mustafa to the wharf, where we saw shrimp piled high in front of the vendors. There were even fishing boats behind the stalls. I was triumphant. Mustafa poked a few fish uninterestedly while I spoke to a vendor. “Give me three pounds of fresh shrimp.”

“Lady, we don’t have fresh shrimp.”

“What’s that in front of me?”

“Defrosted shrimp. They freeze them on the boats in Carolina.”

Mustafa spoke only once on our way home. “No fresh shrimp in Washington, madam.”

Aside from asserting authority, running an embassy means that you have to deal with invitations. We may get fifty or sixty a week, and they must be answered, one way or the other. My husband and I sit down together on a weekend afternoon and consult. It sounds calculating and snobbish to say that we analyze which is the best party to attend. But an embassy’s business is to promote the good of its country, whether by increasing the chances of the sale of light-armored trucks from Ontario or by finding out if anything is happening in arms control. So if we know that administration officials, White House people, or congressmen concerned with these subjects will be attending a specific event, it will be our first choice, despite a previous invitation to a gala or even a quiet dinner with charming people who couldn’t care less about light-armored trucks. With more than 130 embassies in Washington, an ambassador must keep a high profile

if he doesn’t want to be left on the diplomatic dung heap.

It is hard to find out which is the right party, who is going to be there, and even who your hosts might be. Say, for instance, that a Dr. and Mrs. Garbfut from the Global Institute have asked the Canadian ambassador and “wife of” to a dinner at the Washington Hilton, whose ballroom seats three thousand people. Nobody in the embassy has ever heard of Dr. Garbfut or the Global Institute. My social secretary finds out that everyone, from the president on down, is on the list of patrons, but that the patrons are not necessarily going to the party. I put a hold note on the invitation, which means that all of us, except of course the Garbfuts, will forget about it.

Above all, running an embassy means giving parties. This is the single most useful activity an embassy can engage in to promote its country’s interests.

Here are the kinds of parties we have given: breakfast briefings (no “wives of”), midmorning coffee parties (“wives of”), working lunches (no “wives of”), visitingcultural-figure lunches (mixed), classic full-silver-service tea parties, cocktail parties, cocktail buffets, midnight aftertheater buffets, and, of course, dinner parties.

It’s not a good idea to do all these things on one day if you want to keep your staff.

Fashion shows are another category of entertainment that embassies seem to favor; it’s considered worthwhile as well as chic to promote your country’s designers. Fashion shows are usually held with lunches or teas for “wives of,” but on one occasion we combined the show with a dinner party. We were completely dishonest and wrote on the invitations that it was a dinner dance, since none of the men would have come if we had written “fashion show.” Some of the Powerful Jobs were dismayed to see beautiful girls passing among them between the soup and the meat, but they did cease their political chitchat for twenty minutes.

Each event has its difficulties. My husband usually comes upstairs after a breakfast briefing to tell me the rolls were stale. Sometimes the lunches will be held outside if it’s fine, and that’s when the chef decides to serve a hot cream soup and creamed sweetbreads. All menus should be planned with an eye on the weather. The chef and Madam should have their standoff over the hot cream menu versus grilled fish and gazpacho a couple of days beforehand.

Cocktail parties are dangerous because those invited do not find it necessary to tell their hostess whether they are actually coming or not. Either there are too many people (guests bring relatives, etc.) or nobody comes at all. There’s nothing more depressing than receiving guests you do not know and then waiting for someone else to arrive and talk to them.

The dinner party is a subject fraught with so many categories and ensuing anxieties that only a Ph.D. thesis can do justice to it. Nevertheless, I have developed a few rules about dinner parties.

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1. Seating. Guests should have either an Important Job or a very charming person on their left or right. It’s hard to perfect both sides.

2. Timing. Everyone in Washington wants to be in bed by eleven. We never keep the guests waiting for late arrivals, and we serve only three courses, salad on the side. There’s nothing more devastating to the success of a dinner party than a long wait before and after a few leaves of lettuce.

3. When to Serve Coffee. By the time dessert is finished, many guests have run out of conversation with their partners and want to have a word with those at other tables. Coffee should be served in another room so everyone can mingle. This is sometimes impossible because one or two tables won’t get up. How do you get people to move? Should you disturb the people who remain sitting? Do they really want to remain sitting or are they being polite, merely pretending they’re having a grand time? We never get the coffee business quite right. I am usually the first to rise (because of my bad back) and I wander about the tables muttering something about coffee being served somewhere out there. My two dinner companions follow me obediently into the drawing room, where we are together again—alone.

4. The Toast. There is always champagne and a toast at embassy parties. The most senior American official invited must be warned about the toast a couple of days beforehand. He will feel obliged to respond and won’t want to be embarrassed at the last moment by not knowing which embassy he is in. If we have more than thirtytwo people, we give the toast after, instead of during, dinner. That’s because our dining room won’t hold more than that number and the tables have to be scattered throughout the house. The toast, if my husband can manage to get people’s attention, will be in the drawing room, during coffee, with everyone standing up, having left their champagne glasses at the table.

Parties in Washington are an extension of work, and people will go to an embassy party if they think they might see someone they have missed during the day. They particularly like to see Powerful Jobs. Power in Washington

is divided among the White House, the Cabinet, Congress, lobbyists, and, of course, the president. One ambassador told my husband that if anyone says he knows where a decision has been made, he’s either a liar or a fool. People come to parties to gather information, make a contact, and try to influence those who they think influence those who make the decisions.

The system works quite well. At one large and noisy party, I asked a prominent senator why he didn’t stay home and put his feet up. He said, “Little lady, there’s some fellows here I’ve been trying to see for weeks, and I’ve already made three deals this evening.” Everyone, especially an ambassador, has to touch base with the different power structures, from the Heritage Foundation to organized labor to the outs who may soon be in. An embassy takes a certain risk mixing these disparate elements. We nearly had an incident when I unwittingly sat the wife of a former administration official (Democrat) next to a Republican official who had once publicly called her husband a traitor. They hadn’t spoken for years. She told me afterward, “I was going to make a scene and walk out, but my husband said, ‘Have a large whiskey instead, and give the man your views at the dinner table.’ ” This sort of thing does perk up a party.

Who was it who said that God is in the details? Running an embassy is all details. We have handwritten menus on every table and like to serve a Canadian specialty during the meal. The buffalo meat was not a success, but I discovered a vodka from Alberta which we serve with Manitoba and New Brunswick caviar. After three years, I asked my butler, Teodora, if we needed to reorder our much admired Alberta vodka. “It’s not necessary, madam,” she replied, and showed me three empty bottles of the Alberta stuff. “We just take the Smirnoff and pour it into the bottles. Nobody knows the difference.”

Along with the vodka, a lot of wine is consumed—and spilled—at these parties, and “wife of” has to keep the cellar stocked with respectable drink, something between a Chateau Petrus and a Gallo Burgundy. I finally solved the tablecloth problem by ordering lots of burgundy-colored paisley cloths. I tell myself they add warmth to the rooms,

and the red-wine stains don’t show.

I used to fuss about other details— the flowers, for instance. Once I bought violets, which I thought were understated and chic. They all shriveled up before dinner; only little green stems with elastics were left. I have finally learned to assert my authority by delegating the flowers to my butler, who never makes mistakes like buying shrinking violets.

It takes time to master some of the finer points of running an embassy. It took me a year to figure out how many people we could actually seat for dinner at the residence. If we remove most of the downstairs furniture and use every room except the kitchen and drawing room, there is space for sixty. What’s best, of course, is to hold the party outside and not worry about numbers, just about the weather. Last spring we gave a dinner in honor of the wife of our prime minister and decided to have it on the patio because the dogwoods were in bloom and for three days running the temperature had been eighty degrees at nine in the evening. So we went beyond our maximum indoor figure and invited seventy-six people. I called up a special weather office that the White House uses and was assured that the weather would remain stable. At four in the afternoon a wind came in from the north, and at six the temperature dropped twenty-five degrees. It was either shawls or pneumonia. My secretary called the guests, warning them about our alfresco dinner, and we dug out every shawl I owned, including my husband’s baby shawl, which had been given to me by my mother-in-law as a sacred relic.

Nobody complained about the cold, although seventy-six people rose as one from the tables when my husband announced that coffee would be served—indoors.

My views on running an embassy will be of no use to any other ambassador, least of all the couple who will take our place. There is no way to learn the job in advance; it takes onthe-job training. Each ambassador develops his own style, and “wives of” will have different strengths and weaknesses. Anyhow, you know what they say in the diplomatic business: Every ambassador looks upon his predecessor as an incompetent and his replacement as a traitor.