Guess Who's Coming to Dinner

When Jim Mitchell started his freshman year at Harvard four years ago, he arrived with a set of illusions: "I was very naive when I went to Harvard--I though it meant having dinner with Archibald Cox and Dean Rosovsky and Nathan Glazer." He pauses. "I soon found out I was wrong."

As a Dudley House affiliate, he attended only one student-faculty dinner, but that evening left a marked impression: "It was very large and not very intimate. It was noisy and the food was abominable."

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Candlelight flickers softly in the room, dancing on the tablecloth and glinting on the goblets' crystal stems. The elegant table, laid for eight, is set for a lavish gourmet feast, and the guests, clad in evening gowns and tailored suits, talk of Herodotus and scientific ethics over white wine, blanched vegetables and cheddar cheese fondue. In the seat of honor, Emily Vermeule, professor of Fine Arts, discusses her excavations in Cyprus during the Turkish invasion. It is Jim Mitchell's dream come true.

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Nearly every week for the past year and a half, Jim Mitchell has had a Harvard professor to dinner. As founder and host of the "Faculty-Alumni Dinner Series," he has discussed astronomy and science with David Layzer and foreign affairs with Stanley Hoffmann; he has debated economics with Stephen Marglin and politics with Nathan Glazer; he has heard Dean Rosovsky's reflections on the Core Curriculum and President Horner's views on women's education. In all, he's hosted more than 50 of Harvard's senior faculty members and administrators. The dinner series-- a brainchild which Mitchell instituted shortly after he left college--has not always been so extravagant. In the early days it was held in Mitchell's Mass Ave apartment and the evening was entirely casual. "It started out really tacky and studenty," recalls Richard Linowes, a Business School student who has been part of Mitchell's organizing committee and a regular attendee since the series began. "At that time the big dish was fish stew."

But the dinners have evolved over time, coming closer and closer to Mitchell's ultimate goal--to make them as different as possible from the House dinners he remembers.

And different they are. Now formal, gourmet affairs, the dinners are held in a spacious, elevator-equipped Berkeley St. home that Mitchell moved into when its previous occupant, Richard Pipes, left Harvard's History Department last spring to join President Reagan's national security team. Long dresses and dark suits are de rigueur and a typical menu features artichoke hearts with baby shrimp, stuffed onions and chocolate mousse. For those who are not used to using three goblets, three forks and three spoons. Mitchell can offer practical advice: "Don't worry about waiting." Mitchell tells one dinner companion who hesitates over cream of celery soup as a servant serves the other guests, "Julia Child was here last week and she said it's okay to go ahead."

Although the series is officially dubbed "Faculty-Alumni," Mitchell usually invites as many students as young graduates. Most are from the graduate schools, but an occasional undergraduate attends. Since Mitchell often draws up his guest list using suggestions from faculty members or friends, many guests have never heard of him until they are invited. ("When he called and told me to wear the best thing I had, I asked, 'What is this--a practical joke?' " one B-School student recalls.

So far, Mitchell has had astonishing success in luring Harvard's finest. Only a handful of professors--most notably Otto Eckstein and Martin Feldstein--have refused to come to dinner. President Bok is another refusenik, but there have been college presidents in attendance. President Horner was honored at an earlier dinner, and B.U. president John R. Silber accepted an invitation to attend last week. (A last-minute conflict forced him to send his deputy instead.) Of Bok Mitchell says, "We're hoping someday he'll accept our invitation. If the president of B.U. will come to a Harvard alumni group, there's no reason he shouldn't."

Part of the reason for the high acceptance rate, Mitchell contends, is the atmosphere of the gathering. "It's a forum where a professor can come and air his ideas," says the host. "No matter what their theories--no matter how outrageous--they will have a very sympathetic audience."

And guests at the dinners have heard a wide array of theories and tales beyond the ears of most students and alumni. Classicist Gregory Nagy told legends of the Ad Board, and Thomas C. Schelling addressed the economics of death. Biochemist Mark Ptashne recalled his efforts during the '60s to bring an anti-war resolution before the Faculty, and psychologist R.J. Herrnstein spoke of his battles with the SDS, who occupied his office, claiming his research was racist. Matthew Meselson, also a biochemist, advocated a "Great Books House," where all the residents follow the same freshman year curriculum, and Dean of Admissions L. Fred Jewett '57 told of wiles and intrigues of past Harvard applicants. The former secretary of labor and former Dean of the Faculty John T. Dunlop told of mediating a dispute between Rosovsky and former Law School Dean Albert Sacks over the use of athletic facilities.

Some of the tales are humorous, others inspirational. "Most of these people are 50 or 60 and have swept through quite a number of things," Linowes says, adding, "You get to hear the intellectual odysseys of people who really like what they're doing."

Although by now the planning and mechanics of dinners have become almost rote, they have not been without an occasional mishap. Once, when the controversial sociobiologist E.O. Wilson came for an evening, the chef forgot to show up, and the whole party had to move to a nearby Indian restaurant for the meal. One honored guest, who was too drunk to get to Mitchell's house on his own, finished off a bottle of sherry before dinner and then asked for another. And finally, an ardent speaker making a point leaned into the table a little too forcefully, and it collapsed.

But faux pas like these are the rare exception. Usually the dinners came off without a hitch--and with a luxurious elegance unusual in Cambridge. As Mitchell quotes one guest of honor, Dean Fox, "People don't do things like this anymore--it's something they would have done in the previous century."