Fancy some more squid, Nicky?

Oh dear, we do tend to take things rather for granted sometimes, here in party central.

One night being drip-fed Cristal and munching melba toast with lark's tongue p?t? somehow seems to meld into another. We are the first to admit that we're spoilt rotten, though. Our premier-cru lifestyles take us on a merry-go-round of Ambrosial food and luxury booze which we neck indiscriminately without giving much thought for the preparation that's gone on.

A typical night will find us downing a few flutes, gnawing on a quail's egg or two and shooting the breeze like the party pros we are. Then after a podium dance with Cilla or H from Steps, we go home happy, tired and emotional and prepare to do it all over again. Well, that's what we used to do, anyway. After getting our hands dirty with London's best canap? architects and cocktail shakers, we will never be so blas? about what we eat and drink again.

Now, the fine art of canap?s is a subject close to our hearts. Indeed, Nicky regards himself as a sort of Fay Maschler of hors d'oeuvres and often drops trivia bombshells such as, 'Did you know that "canap?" actually means "small sofa"?' You do now. Because we virtually live on the things, we can get into a right old strop if they don't come up to scratch. But instead of kicking up a fuss, we decided to try making our own.

We donned white tunics at Isola, Oliver Peyton's trattoria, to be taught the art of canap? cuisine by Bruno Loubet. We decided on: squid stuffed with herb, ginger and prawn mix; cheese fondue; a generous quiver of grissini; and a riceless sushi affair. Everything was generously salted, peppered and paprika'd. 'That way, people get thirsty, drink more and everybody has a good time,' explained Bruno. How marvellous to meet someone with such an acute understanding of the Dish oeuvre.

Bruno told us the story of a chef who peed on some canap?s and served them to get revenge on his boss, then we spent a raucous time recalling finger-food fashions of past decades. Remember boom-time Britain's blue-chip spud-u-like - those little potatoes with a dollop of cr?me fra?che and a smudge of caviar they served in the mid-Nineties? Yum. Or the Eighties crudit?s-and-dips fad? Or the pineapple chunks and Edam cubes that Margot and Jerry types dished out to stockbroker-belt chums in the Seventies? How young and foolish we were.

We agreed that canap?s-as-installation-art are naff. I feel sorry for the waitress who has to hug some over-elaborate vase filled with coloured water, with Welsh slate on top, strewn with driftwood and metalwork, which supports a fedora of marmalade-covered, fried cheese thingies which taste vile. So we kept our presentation minimal and let the food do the talking. I don't mind saying our amuses-bouches tasted fantastic.

Munching our jet-set happy meals, Nicky said it's OK to talk with your mouth full when in party mode. 'What's common is overtheatrical chewing, making a big deal about swallowing before you talk. 'You should act as if it wasn't there.'

Another mouthful of spicy stuffed squid had me hankering for a cocktail, so it was off to the Atlantic Bar and Grill to meet gifted mixologist James Burgess who had promised to invent a 'Dish' cocktail. This was a nice job.

James lined up several exotic drinks of varying fortitude and zippyness, then enquired after our favourites so he could establish the elements of our special cocktail. We wanted something summery, with gin (very trendy), champagne (of course) and we wanted it to have a deep red, Matthew Williamson-ish colour. Eventually, because we're both a bit on the fruity side, we decided to reinterpret the Raspberry Collins.

Rather nervously, James invited me to mix the drink myself. Giving it a bit of the TGI Fridays, I shook up lemon juice, raspberry pur?e and a dash of gomme, poured it over ice, then topped it up with champagne. James had to admit that the result was a real pleasure - a perfect summer-party drink. So next time you find yourself in Glasshouse Street, pop downstairs to the Atlantic bar and ask the barman to build you a 'Raspberry Dish'. Oh, and tell him to put it on Nicky Haslam's tab.

Cookery courses at Isola, 145 Knightsbridge, SW1 (020 7838 1044)