As we arrive at the party, we descend a staircase to a basement apartment where the hostess, who is pulling her head out of an oven, immediately greets us. She appears unfazed by the entrance of seven strangers and follows us into the living room, chattering spryly in a white sequined top.

It takes us a minute to register the enormity of the spread that is laid out in front of us. It's some kind of Easter bounty. There are oysters on the half shell, dolmades, four different types of olives, crudités, and a lot of other food items we can't immediately identify. We nosh and drink presumably nonalcoholic lemonade--though we find out later that it's full of vodka. Everyone who arrives at the party seems to have brought a bottle of wine, but most remain scattered and unopened in favor of the hostess' generosity.

The guests have also brought their kids, and the small ones are getting into trouble underfoot. A sullen 14-year-old reads a book on the couch and a toddler rides a little bike into the wall repeatedly. Some other kids wrestle in a doorway, completely blocking any passage.

The hostess returns from making her rounds with the guests. She offers us more to eat and drink. "When I have a party," she says, "I like to pretend I have everything to give."

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