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Jane Hammerslough entertains the L.A. elite for two bucks a head.

Photography by Jessica Boone

ON A BEAUTIFUL SUNNY DAY in my close friend Cary’s backyard, I pose this question: “Wouldn’t it be fun to throw a party and spend less than two dollars a person?” Cary athletically dodges a branch laden with Meyer lemons as she moves a suction device around her pool. Though Cary is now a successful screenwriter who lives in a lovely place, she is still one of the thriftiest people I know. The woman cleans her own pool—she says she does a better job than anyone else—and reuses penny nails. Our friendship dates back to the College Ramen Era.

She straightens up and squints at me: “You can’t do that. It’s not possible.”

“Oh, come on,” I say. “It’s a challenge. It’s new. I bet you’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Of course not. This is L.A.”

“Frugal is the new black.”

“Even if it were possible, which it’s not, it’s a huge risk. For the first party you throw in L.A.? Total disaster.”

We’re having this conversation because I’m a recent transplant to Los Angeles from Connecticut, and I’d like to introduce myself to the town, maybe even scare up some work. After all, I am something of an expert on a notion quite familiar to L.A.: materialism. I wrote a book on the subject called Dematerializing , which explored ways to be happier in the material world. And recently, I’ve become more schooled on a related and increasingly interesting subject: thrift. As the author of several essays on the subject of thrift—one for an upcoming book—I’m thinking it might be something to explore in my new city. And I wonder if our current, strange economic times might help me merge those two interests. Say, exploring the concept of finding great value, via a cable show, perhaps?

Since L.A. is the place where The Industry is entertainment, soon after moving here, I start to realize it’s a town that takes its entertaining seriously, good times or bad. Very seriously, it seems. Work blends into socializing and back again, and there always seems to be some sort of get-together going on, from great barbecues to cool cocktail parties to gracious sit-down dinners. I was lucky to have a group of old friends like Cary who welcomed me warmly, and now there are new friends of friends, and business people from film, TV, radio, you name it. For my debut into the entertaining capital of the world, how do I produce something that feels, well, like a big, old-fashioned studio blockbuster but with a low enough budget so I can shell out for other things I love?

Before my conversation with Cary, I had done my research. OK, it involved margaritas. Still, I had attended a party that private chef Gene Gerrard Smith catered, and it was a beautiful evening. The air was scented with jasmine and sea breezes, the hors d’oeuvres and drinks delicious, the décor divine in a cool California way. And after five minutes, I knew I wanted something just like that party. Since Smith and his Pacific Palisades­–based company, Divoon Dining, has catered everything from entire film festivals to intimate celebrity dinners, I figure he is a good person to ask. Just to get some perspective, I ask Smith what it might cost to throw a really high-end Hollywood cocktail party for 50 people.

“In this town, the sky is the limit,” he says. “With heavy hors d’oeuvres, you can easily go over $75 a person, not including drinks.”

Wow. A quick calculation tells me I could spend more than $3,500—and that sum doesn’t include a single beer. Add in libations, and a little drinks party costs something like five grand or more. Which would be about the same price, say, of taking the whole gang to the theater, or a ballgame.

“And if it isn’t quite so elaborate?” I ask.

“Oh, you could do something fabulous for half that,” Smith says.

Now we were talking. But that’s still more than I want to spend at the moment. Actually, a lot more. I decide to cut to the chase: “OK, say, hypothetically. What could I get in L.A. for $15
a head?”

“For real?” Smith asks.

That doesn’t bode well, particularly since Smith is known for providing great value. Then again, the guy needs to make a living.

“Well, hypothetically,” I say. “Let’s say someone wanted to hire a top caterer. What could he get in L.A. for 15 bucks a person?”

There’s a long silence. “Uh…Spam on a Ritz and a bottle of gin?” he says.

It’s time to consider alternatives.

PONDERING catering alternatives got me thinking about relative cost. Sometimes, you do get just what you pay for. Sometimes, even more. But sometimes you get less. Like when you buy something because it’s a really great bargain, but eventually realize that you will never use it. Ever. (Puce Ralph Lauren sweater, 10-amp reciprocating saw, six-pack of car wax.) Or it’s cheap, and it falls apart or breaks or never works right from day one. (Off-brand in-line skates, tummy-trimming gadgets, supermarket flip-flops.) Or when you never use or enjoy something expensive, because it is too “good.” (The wine that goes bad, the fancy candle that gets dusty, the pearls that yellow—really, does anything get more wasteful?) As Warren Buffett once said, “Price is what you pay. Value is what you get.”

But defining “what you get” is tricky. Sure, that well-made, expensive pair of boots may be more comfortable and last longer than a cheaper pair. And if you care about comfort and longevity, they probably are a better value. I once knew a guy who bought the cheapest ski boots he could find, but they made his feet bloody. That’s not good value. I know another guy, starving writer, who buys $300 Filson wool jackets, as opposed to the cheaper catalog-store variety, because they last for 20 years—good value over time. Going out for a sit-down dinner nearly always costs more than cooking something at home, whether it’s Chili’s or Chinois on Main, but you get served by someone else, you might try something new, and hey, you get out of your own kitchen, which can be worth a lot sometimes. Value, I’ve come to realize, goes way beyond simply being cheaper.

And the quandary of defining and finding value seemed especially complex in L.A. Take cars, a citywide obsession. From big Bimmers to little Smart Cars zipping down the freeways, the number of brand new cars I saw blew my mind. In a Connecticut carpool, the stained Subaru scented by a long-ago-spilled milkshake worked just fine. On the other hand, perhaps value is also about context. But how well would it work if I were, say, a realtor showing a Bel Air mansion? It’s hard to know whether a modest motor says, “Pathetic Loser” or “Quirky Individual,” or when that big, gold-trimmed luxury auto says “Incredibly Successful” versus “Compensating for Erectile Dysfunction.” And considering the massive amount of time spent driving in L.A., a car becomes a sort of second living room. So maybe paying big bucks for those nice new cars actually improves one’s quality of life. Even old Ben Franklin, that arbiter of saving and thrift, once said, “Wealth is not his that has it, but his that enjoys it.”

Which was fine, but I still needed to throw a party and frankly, it was going to cut into my enjoyment—not to mention my budget—if I spent too much. I wanted it to be, well, Epicurean—I’m thinking of the ancient Greek philosopher Epicurus, namesake to a lot of ’90s-era fancy food joints. I vaguely recalled that the common belief that Epicurus built a school around eating, drinking, and spending lavishly as a path towards getting the most pleasure out of life. Ah, abundance, the old-fashioned way! OK, I wanted it to be Epicurean—why not party like it was 1999?—without busting the bank. How could I give a great party—and still get the best value?

Not long after I encountered my first cashmere-clad Chihuahua, the answer came to me. As I drove down a busy stretch of Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood, it appeared: The bright fuchsia and green sign of the 99 Cents Only Store gleamed like a beacon in the distance. I was about to pass right by, when I remembered hearing that the 99 Cents Only Stores, though now found elsewhere, began in California and have become an L.A. institution. They’ve even inspired a cookbook author, a theater company, and artists, including German photographer Andreas Gursky. His huge, colorful “99 Cent II,” depicting row upon row of stocked shelves in that very store, has been exhibited at the Museum of Modern Art in New York and museums in Europe. And remarkably, when Gursky’s photo of the 99 Cents Only Store sold at a Sotheby’s auction in 2007 for more than $3.3 million, it broke all records as the most expensive photograph sold at auction in the world. I decided then to go by for a look.

When the automatic doors parted and I entered the clean, brightly fluorescent-lit emporium, I suddenly and immediately understood why it served as so much inspiration to so many. Row upon orderly row of merchandise, some even name-brand. Its gleaming floors—smelling vaguely, not unpleasantly, of cleaning fluid—and aisles filled with bright packages seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see. I found the array to be extraordinary: food and decorative and household items, from stuff for the car (naturally) to pet products to pharmacy items. This being California, it even had actual wine and five kinds of peppers and big avocados and bags of limes and blueberries and strawberries, too.

How do they do it? I learn that half of the stores’ merchandise comes from closeouts: products whose labels are the wrong colors, new items that didn’t fly in other stores, and overstocks. Other offerings are a result of the chain’s long-standing relationships with vendors, buying huge quantities, and buying seasonally. One rule governs: To be in the store, an item must be an “Extreme Value.”

Over the store loudspeakers, a chipper female voice offered suggestions on how to make dinner for four with a mere $5. That’s when it hit me. I would create my own work of art: an entire party, food, décor, and beverages, from the 99 Cents Only Store! Here was the perfect experiment in my quest for value-clarification, a personal research project on the nature of getting the best buys in times that demanded them. Plus, it would be an amazing challenge! A conversation starter! A fun invite! Instead of hiding behind the low budget of my entertaining debut in Los Angeles, I would proudly celebrate it.

Which, as noted earlier, did not go over very well with my screenwriter friend Cary. So what? I had a great idea. But I realized I needed an expert. A few days, a lot of research, and many, many phone calls later, I called Cary again.

“Update on the party. You’re going to love it,” I said.

“You found a caterer?”

“Better. Ingrid Hoffmann. From the Food Network.” Hey, it’s Hollywood. Plus, Ingrid is a top entertaining expert and cookbook author who is known for beautiful party ideas and getting good value. So if anyone will know what I can do with dollar-store ingredients, it’s her.

“No!” Cary is impressed, big-time. And the best is yet to come.

“Ingrid is coming with me to the 99 Cents Only Store to tell me what to do.”

“I really can’t believe you’re going to do this.”

“I’m going to learn about the true meaning of value. And you have to admit, a party where every ingredient is under a buck is different.”

“OK,” she says, then a big, dramatic pause. “It’s high concept. I like that. But it has to be done right, or it’ll be a disaster. Cheap is hard to pull off.”

“Not cheap. Good value.”

“Whatever. For this to work, you need to throw a fabulous party. Otherwise, it’s a bad joke.”

  She is nothing if not honest, that Cary.

THE NEXT WEEKEND I find myself in the aisles of a 99 Cents Only Store, racing to keep up with Ingrid Hoffmann, Food Network’s Simply Delicioso star, who is in town from Miami. Slim and pretty, dressed in jeans, with sun-streaked hair pulled back in a ponytail, she may dress laid-back, but her energy is high. Even in the early hours of Sunday morning, she’s moving and talking rapidly, tossing out a ton of ideas.

Before she became a TV star, Ingrid created fancy boutiques and an upscale restaurant, and clearly knows her way around the high end of entertaining. But what is most impressive and interesting at the moment is her zeal about a place where nothing costs more than a buck. With the intensity of an eagle, she studies a selection of five different types of chili, smiling and nodding approval.

I watch her zoom through the aisles and realize I’ve just learned something: Creativity is creativity, with lots of money or without. And creativity, an open-mindedness to seeing new and different possibilities, is a crucial ingredient in getting the best value. Ingrid and I begin to brainstorm: I suddenly see the pack of 10, loose-woven, unbleached-cotton cloths (meant for polishing cars) as so many cool-looking napkins. She grabs a ball of twine and tells me to save cans and wrap them in it, for great eco-friendly containers. The 10-pack of pita bread, she says, cut into strips, toasted with cinnamon sugar, transforms Middle Eastern into mock churros, the tasty Central American sweet. No, they’re not traditional. But who cares? Somehow I know they will work.

“You can create a whole cool scene,” Ingrid is saying, “and people don’t even realize you’re doing something inexpensive. Try making things people don’t see all the time—it’s the excitement of the unexpected. Like tapas. Create a sense of abundance with lots of dishes—people love that. Buy seasonally, that’s key. Use rice, potatoes, eggs—cheap and filling, and they can be elegant. Sangria—it’s great with inexpensive wine. ”

Ingrid has clever ideas on everything from cooking shortcuts to tabletop decorations. “Cover the table with newspapers to create a taverna-like environment,” she says, striding through the aisles. “Use lots and lots of candles and plants—no need to match things. Make edible centerpieces with fresh vegetables….” But it is her philosophy of entertaining—which could apply as much to life as to throwing a cocktail party—that’s really intriguing.

“These days, it’s all about originality, not going over the top,” she tells me. “In the past, entertaining was about impressing people with how much you spent, about money and time.” Much as I was a fan of Martha Stewart’s sense of style—hey, she hailed from my old neck of the woods—spending hours, not to mention big bucks, on gilding the servants and stuffing the peas got old pretty fast, and seems, all of a sudden, to belong very much to another era.

And while Ingrid may not be the anti-Martha Stewart, she’s giving me some food for thought about that old gilded age—and about today. “It’s not about caviar and lobster any more. Now we need to offer people a sense of abundance and community, which gives people a way to have fun and get away from thinking or worrying about money.”

This reminds me again of Epicurus, that ancient Greek. A little more research revealed that he actually wasn’t all about gluttony or big bucks. It turns out Epicurus has been largely misinterpreted all these years. In fact, he particularly valued friendship. He believed that enjoyment and pleasure were good because they came as the result of an absence of pain: “Simple flavors provide a pleasure equal to that of an extravagant lifestyle when all pain from want is removed.” In other words, there was more than one great way to throw a party—whether the cake is a gilded, ’80s-era extravaganza or cool cupcakes for the new millennium, each serves the same purpose, as long as it tastes and looks good, and satisfies a sweet tooth.

And then there is the absence of mental and emotional pain. Aha! Pleasure—and real value—comes from not worrying that you’re spending too much. Rather than viewing my party as a cheap trick, I could think about it as passing that good feeling along to my guests. I love it; it’s certainly a side of value that I hadn’t considered. Since money talk dominates these days, it’s time to take a vacation from worry and have some fun with friends, without worrying about the price.

First step is to Evite (great value! No postage!) a bunch of people—friends and friends of friends who all seem to be involved in The Industry—producers, art people, writers, actors, directors. (I can’t name names, or I’d never eat lunch in this town again, much less get my own cable show.) Over the next few weeks, 50 people say yes to the 99-cent party. Yikes! But there is a nice roundness to that figure: I shoot to entertain all of them for less than $100.

Cary calls. “Your party is getting a lot of buzz. People think it’s sort of clever. They actually want to come and see what you’re going to do.”

She gets it! It’s a minor triumph, but still, it feels like the stakes have been raised. What started off as a fun idea and a little personal experiment in value now feels a little like an audition. For what, I’m not sure. Social survival? Future invitations? Or just for a good show?

It’s unclear whether Cary is taking pity, taking charge, or just fulfilling the Epicurean ideal of a good friend, but when the day of the party comes, Cary insists on helping, and I’m grateful. (My husband, wisely, is working on the yard all day.) And I have other help: my 16-year-old son, Zach, and his friend Andrew. Since Andrew did a couple episodes of a cable cooking show when he was in middle school, that practically puts him on a par with Emeril in our house. Though Zach tends to be heavy on the microwaving and I’m still unclear about Andrew’s actual kitchen skills, their price (free) and enthusiasm (high) are right.

But first, shopping. I’m following Ingrid’s lead and going with sangria, a selection of tapas—heavy hors d’oeuvres, some Spanish-style, some taking multi-culti liberties to mix it up a bit and use what’s in season—and little desserts. It’s got the entertainment value of a full meal without having to actually do it, and it’s a novel (and cheap) change from the usual cocktail party fare. With Cary in tow I head for the 99 Cents Only Store. “You didn’t tell me how great this place is,” she says in a slightly accusatory fashion, grabbing candles, several large boxes of beautiful strawberries, a five-pound bag of potatoes, and a two-liter bottle of diet soda. The shopping cart is filling up: rice, chicken, mussels, and chorizo for paella to serve in lettuce cups. Fresh-baked pita bread—10 for a buck—fresh garlic, and big cans of chickpeas for dip. Olives to make tapenade. Eggs, potatoes, onions for Spanish Tortilla. We choose coconut, chocolate, dried fruit, and a big package of cinnamon, plus a few other things that look like they might be good for dessert. Cary grabs a good-sized package of salty roasted almonds at the same time I do, and for good measure, I throw in a couple of packs of wasabi peas and corn nuts. If all else fails, people can snack on those.

We load up on fresh herbs, fruit, and vegetables for crudités, paella, and sangria, then go to the wine section of the store. Cary studies the shelf.

“This is incredible. A bottle of wine for less than a dollar!” Cary is a convert.

“The selection seems a little slim,” I say, peering at the dozen bottles of red. Actually, there is no selection. All the bottles are the same, and they bear a label (depicting, what, a flower? A demon?) in a language I don’t recognize, except for the word “sulfites.”

What the heck. We take the whole lot. With a whole lot of juice and fruit, how bad can it be? All that food comes in just over $87, plus three cents per plastic bag, which the store charges to help support environmental causes.

While Zach and Andrew get to work peeling potatoes and I chop onions for the Spanish Tortilla (five big ones for less than a buck!), Cary attempts Ingrid’s taverna decorating theme. She strews an old copy of the Los Angeles Times across the dining room table, sets a couple candles on top, and steps back to take a look.

“It certainly is cheap,” she says.

“Practically free,” I say. That’s the good news. The bad news is how it looks. The taverna newspaper thing just isn’t working, but it reminds me of another Ingrid idea.

In just a couple of minutes, we’ve taken every clear glass container we can find—old jars, mismatched glasses, the vase that came with some flowers someone sent when we moved in—and put votives in half of them. In the other half, we’ve stuck bunches of fresh herbs. Mix in tall, glass-cylinder candles from my favorite 99-cent “boutique” (OK, so the candles were originally meant for religious purposes, and I’ll admit that I peeled off the saint labels) and the table looks downright cool—elegant and recycled eco-chic at the same time. Even Cary is enthusiastic.

In the meantime, Zach and Andrew have wandered off. So much for our chefs. Together, Cary and I finish the Spanish Tortilla, chopping vegetables, making paella, cutting pitas, mixing tiny piña colada–inspired cupcakes, and making fruit and chocolate dessert dipping sauces for our faux churros.

The cupcakes are in the oven, and I’m feeling pretty good when we mix the sangria. Its flavor improves when the wine “melds” with fruit juice over time, or so I have read, and I’m thinking I’m going to need all the help I can get here. Cary inspects one of the bottles of red with an appraising eye. “Who knew they even made wine in Transylvania?”

She unscrews the cap and pours it into a big bowl, and I add orange juice, peach nectar, canned pineapple, and some cut-up oranges. Before I know it, Cary is adding a good cupful of sugar, then pouring each of us a glass to try. It’s syrupy and tastes vaguely sangria-like, though even at 38 cents a serving, I’m not sure it’s a good value. Or potable, actually.

“Boozy bug juice,” Cary announces, grimacing. “Maybe you could cheat a little on the wine? Spend more than a dollar? Please?”

Her faith is wavering. And it isn’t helped by the smoke alarm shrilling a moment later. I grab the forgotten, burning cupcakes from the oven. Smoke billows out, the dog begins to bark, and even Zach and Andrew emerge from the TV room to see what is going on. I am getting a headache, along with the distinct feeling that this entire party may have been a mistake. And it is too late to back out now, social hara-kiri or not.

“THIS IS AMAZING,” says the television writer, pouring herself another glass of sangria. It’s two hours later, and I’ve doctored it with a lot of lemon juice and soda water. Now it’s actually tasty. Things are looking up.

Actually, way up. It’s showtime, the table is laden with good-looking food, and in the candlelight, the room seems to glow. All around—in my house, at my inaugural L.A. party!—stylish people are talking to each other and laughing. And the 99-cent thing is a conversation starter. In the corner, a director shares a tip with my surfer dude neighbor about a great taco truck in Venice. Near the window, an actress and artist discuss their shared love of dollar stores. Cary is giving plumbing tips to a television executive and my husband. As for me, well, I’ve just finished a conversation with a big-time film producer about his 20-something-year-old car. “It’s not vintage,” he tells me. “It’s just old. And ugly. But it runs great.” So much for having a fancy new car. Go figure: The most successful guy in the room has the crummiest car.

Then it all comes together. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before. Value is in the eye of the beholder, and having the courage to go with it. It’s about satisfaction, regardless of price. I’m beginning to realize this gathering is different, and it isn’t just because Ingrid Hoffmann gave me entertaining ideas or because it was done on a dime or because we have the only former cable chef/middle schooler in L.A. passing hors d’oeuvres. It is different because people seem more relaxed than at other parties.

This may have something to do with the high sugar content of the beverages—that sangria certainly acts fast—but I choose to believe that it is because I tried something completely different. In a city that de-emphasizes blunt honesty and thrift, the focus on value seems to work, and even feels positively chic. And value isn’t only about the price of something; it’s the entire experience. If you enjoy it, it’s a real bargain. Finding value, in many ways, is about taking pleasure.

“It’s a hit,” says Cary, suddenly appearing. “You pulled it off.”

We look around the full room, at the good-looking people glowing in the candlelight, laughing and talking, and miraculously, enthusiastically drinking cheap sangria and eating paella and cupcakes. But then the core of Epicurus’ philosophy had nothing to do with food or wine. He believed that one of the greatest pleasures was in good times with friends. Take it away, Epicurus: “To eat and drink without a friend is to devour like the lion and the wolf.”

From somewhere, we overhear someone say, “Thrift is fresh. It’s got real potential….” Cary looks at me and raises her glass. “Welcome to Hollywood.”

Jane Hammerslough knows all about value. In fact, she wrote the book, Dematerializing: Taming the Power of Possessions.