I was in N e w York some years back and up popped a reminder on my Palm: "Birthday—Kent Blossil." Kent was the man w h o successfully got past my gatekeeper. W h e n I met Kent that day, and I received his contact information, I asked for his birth date, as I try to do with everyone. It's not intrusive, and most people forget the moment after they tell me.

Kent was a M o r m o n . Born in Salt Lake City, Utah, he had upward of ten brothers and sisters. W i t h such a large family, y o u ' d think the man's phone would be ringing off the hook on his birthday.

I hadn't spoken to him for over a year. It was a busy day for me, and I didn't see the reminder until close to 3 : 0 0 P.M. that afternoon. Generally, I like to make birthday calls in the early morning. This w a y I get someone's voice mail, and when they come in to work that morning, they're greeted with my rendition of " H a p p y Birthday." I can't tell you how many N e w York City cabdrivers must think I'm an utter lunatic.

So when Kent actually picked up his phone that afternoon, my personal Pavarotti of " H a p p y Birthday" greeted him. No greetings. No niceties. I just let it rip.

Normally, I get laughter and a grateful "Thanks." This time, after I had finished, the phone went silent. "Kent, you there? It's your birthday, right?" Nothing. Not a w o r d . I thought I'd made a jerk out of myself and missed the day or something.

"Kent?"

Finally he stammers out, "Yeah." He was choked up, audibly holding back tears.

"You all right?"

"You remembered my birthday?" he said. People are always shocked by this.

"You know, Keith, this year none of my brothers or sisters or family .. . well, nobody remembered my birthday. N o b o d y remembered," he said. "Thank you so much."

He never forgot. People never d o .

21. Find Anchor Tenants and Feed Them

When I was an insolvent student working his way through business school, my apartment wasn't what you'd call a spotless designer residence. Minimal, yes. A bit grungy, definitely. Still, it never stopped me from throwing outrageously fun dinner parties where I enjoyed the company of good friends—and a few strangers.

It was in those days that I learned how powerful the art of throwing dinner parties could be in creating wonderful memories and strengthening relationships in the process. Today I can safely say my strongest links have been forged at the table. The companionable effects of breaking bread—not to mention drinking a few glasses of wine—bring people together.

In those early years, my 400-square-foot, one-bedroom apartment opposite the football field, with a kitchen table that could barely seat two adults, held wild get-togethers for four, six, even fifteen guests. The mix was always a diverse medley of professors, students, Boston locals, and, sometimes, a person I met in line while checking out groceries. I never thought twice about some of the minor inconveniences those impoverished days bestowed on my events, like forcing my guests to eat with plates in their laps.

For all the sheer delight and good times a dinner party can impart, it seems our fast-food culture has diminished our centuries-old belief in the power of a shared meal in your own home to comfort, nurture, and connect people. Some people seem to think it's too hard, too time-consuming. The only image they have of a dinner party is of those grandly ornate occasions once glamorized by Martha Stewart, a friend by the way. Maybe those female-hosted TV shows are, perhaps, another reason why men, in particular, have forgotten the virtues of hosting a simple dinner gathering. They think it's feminine. But trust me, guys, you can serve a fine meal in your home and still be masculine—and, if you're single, it will do a world of good for your dating lives.

Nearly once a month an array of different people from different worlds gathers at my home in Los Angeles or hotel suite in New York or a friend's home in San Francisco to have fun, talk business, and meet new people. But I learned the art of throwing these events back in my dingy Cambridge apartment.

Before my dinner parties had any cachet, I had to develop a deliberate strategy for attracting a good mix of people that would expand my social horizons and get a reputation that would keep people coming back.

You, me, every one of us—we have an established peer set. But if you only have dinner parties with the same people, your circle of relationships will never grow. At the same time, we're confronted with a small obstacle. Randomly inviting strangers, especially strangers who hold a level of prestige and experience above your own peer set, is rarely effective. These people want to hang around people of their own background, experience, or social status.

Parents tend to stay away from their children's gatherings unless they expect other parents to be in attendance as well. In college, juniors and seniors avoid the parties populated solely by freshmen and sophomores. In the adult world, it's no different. Go to any cafeteria at any major corporation in the country. You'll generally find each strata of the organization—from the administrative staff on up to the executive suite—congregating in their own cliques to eat their lunches.

To overcome this herd mentality and pull people into my dinner parties that would otherwise not come, I developed a helpful little concept I call the "anchor tenant."

Every individual within a particular peer set has a bridge to someone outside his or her own group of friends. We all have, to some degree or another, developed relationships with older, wiser, more experienced people; they may be our mentors, our parents' friends, our teachers, our rabbis and reverends, our bosses.

I call them anchor tenants; their value comes from the simple fact that they are, in relation to one's core group of friends, different. They know different people, have experienced different things, and thus, have much to teach.

Identifying and inviting an anchor tenant to your dinner party isn't hard. Someone you know probably has access and is close enough to such an individual that an invitation will be well received. You'll discover who these people are by paying attention to your friends' stories and taking notice of the one or two names that continually pop up. They tend to be the names of people who have had a positive influence on your friends' lives. And it stands to reason that they can have the same effect on you.

Once you've identified a person outside your social circle and successfully invited him or her to a dinner, here's an added little nuance that pays terrific dividends. Landing an anchor tenant isn't about entertaining your dinner-party regulars. They'll come no matter what. But an anchor allows you to reach out beyond your circle in subsequent invitations and pull in people who wouldn't otherwise attend. To put it in terms of the company cafeteria, now that you have the CEO eating lunch at the manager's table, other executives will jump at the opportunity to eat at the table, too.

Frankly, anyone who can add a little electricity to your dinner party is an anchor tenant. Journalists, I've found, are terrific anchor guests. They aren't particularly well paid (which makes them a sucker for a free meal), their profession has a good deal of intrigue, they are always on the lookout for good material and see such dinners as a potential venue for new ideas, they're generally good conversationalists, and many folks enjoy an opportunity to get their ideas heard by someone who might publicize them to a larger audience. Artists and actors, famous or not, fall into the same category. On those occasions when you can't land as big a fish as you might have liked, you can try to pull in a person with proximity to power: a political consultant to an interesting politician, the COO of an interesting company under an interesting CEO, and so on. In these cases, it's about brand association.