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The doorbell rings at 7:35. Seemingly unafraid of appearing unfashionable, the first guests are right on time. Perhaps because they know that Judith Tatar is not the kind of entertaining diva to be messed with. Or perhaps it is simply because Judith, who is at the moment being literally lifted off her feet in a bear hug from Amar Bhalla, throws the kind of parties where you don't want to miss the cocktail part.

"How are you, fabulous girl?" The ponytailed Amar, in a swish suede coat over jeans, sweeps past Judith's tiny front hall with an animated Georgia Scherman, bringing the crisp scent of fall leaves straight into the dining room.

"Judy, this table is absolutely stellar!" Georgia says with a dramatic sweep of one scarf-clad arm. Tony Volpe, one of Judith's regular A-team of wait guys, whisks the pair's coats upstairs and asks them what they might like to drink. (Judith has been known to reschedule parties around the availability of Tony and his teammate Barton Cornego. "They know just the way I like everything done, but they are almost impossible to get," she said, "partly because they are better-looking than most of my guests.")

Returning with two glasses of Spy Valley Sauvignon Blanc, Tony is quickly off to fetch more for new arrivals Alexandra Bennett, glowing in vintage Edwardian lace, and Stephen Dembroski, who are admiring Judith's new collection of luminous Scotch tape vases by Robert Fones.

"Can you believe I tried to get the people at 3M interested in his work and the only thing I hear back from them is a cease-and-desist letter about unauthorized use of Scotch tape?" Judith says with a laugh.

Dee Dee Taylor Hannah and her husband, Rob Hannah, are here, and they'll have the wine too.

There are cocktails on offer, of course, but none of those fruity "signature" drinks: In Judith's opinion, the classics are just fine on a school night, thank you very much.

But that is precisely Judith's gift as a hostess; she knows that mixing up pink drinks is less important than mixing together the right people -- and the animated group that is filling her minimal downtown Victorian front room represents social mixology at its best.

Like all art forms, its apparent ease of execution disguises a prodigious amount of hard work. Judith, who leaves little to chance, defines "energetic": a typical day starts with Pilates at 6 and might involve supervising an art installation while trying to score Streisand tickets and coming up with a clever concept for a launch invitation on the way to a French lesson -- all before dinner with clients to introduce them to someone they just have to meet.

But in the past month, even Judith's hyper-functionality has been challenged. She closed the doors of her 10-year-old Toronto gallery, opened new offices in the hipster central King West zone, launched an exhibition space at the invitation-only Spoke Club with a show by Vancouver painter George Vergette -- oh, and planned tonight's intimate birthday dinner for her dear friend, designer Glenn Pushelberg, and 12 other fabulous friends, including The Globe and Mail.

Why did The Globe crash Judith's party? Because Judith is the 21st-century version of the celebrated hostesses of times past, a latter-day Madame de Pompadour or Elsa Maxwell -- the kind of social maven Malcolm Gladwell would call a "connector." A natural hostess who relishes the role, Judith has a lot to teach those foolish enough to proclaim the dinner party dead.

In fact, the art of the party is hot news these days. At film festivals and fashion weeks, it is the fab fetes that get the ink, eclipsing the action on the screen and the runway. Indeed, this month's issue of American society glossy Town & Country is entirely devoted to haute entertaining, while it has become de rigueur for scenesters to consult the wildly popular website lastnightsparty.com.

"We've all had the Gong Show dinner party where all you get from the table are yes or no answers even though you haven't asked a yes or no question," Judith told me earlier. "But whenever I meet new fabulous people I immediately think, 'Wouldn't it be great to have them over, they'd probably enjoy so-and-so.' Dinner parties are still the best way to bring people together who want to connect."

And there are plenty of connections being made this evening. There's the art crowd, including Georgia, daughter of painter Tony Scherman, who has just opened her new gallery, and hot Toronto artist Christine Davis. There's Dee Dee, an architect who runs the eponymous Taylor Hannah Architect Inc., who just may have some tips for Amar, an entrepreneur who is in the midst of renovating his new loft, the former residence of Galen Weston Jr.

Art mixes well with money in this crowd. Stephen Dembroski, an investor, is a former chair of the Institute for Contemporary Culture at the Royal Ontario Museum. New York-based financier Anthony Munk -- son of Barrick Gold founder and philanthropist Peter -- has flown in for dinner and wants to connect with uber design duo George Yabu and Glenn Pushelberg about the possibility of redoing his New York digs.

Vancouver jewellery and accessories designer Alexandra Bennett has also flown in for the party, and is showing off a rustic and beautiful gold ring set with raw Indian diamonds. It's part of her new line, called Lata, which means "vine" in Hindi. "The idea is that it's a kind of dialogue with Indian tradition and a more Western minimal approach, so there's this constant weaving back and forth," Alex says.

The candlelit front room is now buzzing with guests sipping wine and nibbling on what are possibly the world's largest jumbo shrimp. Polenta fries are being circulated by Barton, who warns that the tomato dipping sauce is "seriously arrabiata." Thank god for the linen cocktail napkins.

"Visual, aural, every sense has to be looked after," Judith told me. That includes the tunes, for which she consulted DJ Geoff Kelleway.

"I told him that we wanted to start out with some very hip, lounge-y sounds for cocktails, but that I didn't want it to compete with the conversation," she said.

As lovely smells of dinner waft from the kitchen where caterer Liza Hardoon and her crew are hard at work, the guest of honour arrives to hoots of welcome and congratulations. Glenn Pushelberg, co-founder with his partner George of Yabu Pushelberg, is celebrating his birthday tonight. Judith notes the skinny indigo jeans. "Nice rear view there, Pushelberg."

"Hey, I'm 53," Glenn says. "That's all I've got left."

It's a coup to have Glenn and George here. Planning a dinner party for the jet-set crowd requires the precision of an air-traffic controller. "This is the part I hate," Judith told me earlier. "Given everybody's schedule, sometimes it takes literally months to find a date that works."

Even then, it doesn't always work as planned: This morning, Judith got a regretful message from Michael Levine. Fresh from his recent triumph as designer and director of the Canadian Opera Company's Ring cycle, Michael was en route from India, but so ill with a nasty post-Ring bug, he wasn't going to be able to make it (earlier, he had e-mailed from Paris that he had "a fur-lined bikini I've been dying to wear somewhere").

By the time Judith starts hustling us to the dining table, the conversation is so lively, we all pretend to ignore her like bad schoolchildren. But Barton and Tony are Judith's enforcers, and we are soon seated, our places indicated by faux first-class Air France luggage tickets on tiny wire stands.

Just a couple of hours ago, Judith was still shuffling the place cards, with the same kind of focus she uses when hanging a show of paintings.

"Generally, I try to seat people who might not know each other well but might enjoy each other," she told me. "The trick is to seat introverts next to extroverts and try to balance them strategically."

The Air France theme took off from Yabu Pushelberg's airborne existence: With projects around the world, George and Glenn probably spend more time in the business-class lounges of the world's airports than in their own living room. Naturally, their favourite carrier is Air France, which also inspired Judith's e-mail invites. Designed to resemble first-class boarding cards passed through the wicket of Judith's irreverent humour (under "baggage," it read "Glenn Pushelberg's birthday"), they included the directive to "Please bring only your charm, wit and the latest tragic celebrity stories."

Taking our seats, everyone oohs over the cute little personal airline-sized bottles of Veuve Clicquot atop each place setting. Their signature orange labels are echoed in the pretty bits of ranunculus, mokora orchids and pieris berries in the tiny bud vases that were arranged that afternoon by Judith's regular around-the-corner florist, Karina Lemke of Posies Flowers. ("I hate when you can't see the person across from you because there's this enormous vertical thing in the middle of the table," Judith says.)

To my left is George, who tells me about his and Glenn's favourite home away from home: Ironically, given their penchant for designing show-stopping mega-hotels (they did the Four Seasons Tokyo), it's a tiny ryokan, a simple Japanese country inn.

My husband, Thomas, sits beside Christine, who asks him what he does for a living. When he says he's a lawyer, she says she hates lawyers. "Well, I hate artists," Thomas says. And then they both burst out laughing.

With 14 of us, Judith's rustic minimal dining table is slightly oversubscribed, but our hostess, as always, is up to the challenge. To make it work, she has borrowed the gorgeous pewter-rimmed dinner service from her friend Anna McGowan, as well as a couple of beautiful rough-hewn wooden stools from design store Nienkamper for extra seating. ("Besides," she said earlier, "it will be hotter if we're all sitting closer together.")

Right on schedule -- at 8:40 -- Judith stands to make a toast. By now, the party has taken on such a life of its own, Barton and Tony have to practically wolf whistle to get our attention.

"I'd like to welcome everybody, and say how happy I am that you could be here with us tonight to celebrate Glenn's birthday," she begins. "So many of you actually came in especially to be here tonight, and I really appreciate it. Anthony from New York, Alex from Vancouver, and Dee Dee all the way from Pusateri's . . ."

At this reference to the posh uptown groceteria, the table erupts with laughter. Barton and Tony run round and pop each personal Veuve, which sounds like a roomful of mini-fireworks.

The champagne is absolutely delicious with the first course of butternut squash soup -- as is the Keegan chardonnay -- except that I am far from finished before my bowl is whisked away (fashionable guests never being allowed to lick their platters as clean as they might want to).

Happily, I am distracted by Canada's most eligible bachelor, Anthony Munk, who is on my right, telling me about how he loves the combination of living in New York and spending weekends in the quiet of his Georgian Bay island.

"It's actually the best of both worlds," he says, "spending the week in the constant action of Manhattan and waking up on Saturday morning in the total serenity of Northern Ontario."

At the other end of the table, everyone is talking about the first job they ever had. Glenn was some sort of labourer; Christine, who is from Burnaby, B.C., had a job flipping burgers. Georgia and I start yelling across the table about a recent Nigella Lawson interview in The Globe, in which she said she used to be in PR and once had to interview Margaret Atwood, who was mean to her.

There is general agreement that you can only get away with criticizing Margaret if you're not Canadian. One guest adds that, actually, "the only person who can get away with dissing Margaret Atwood is a British food porn star."

Tony and Barton come around to take our orders for the main course. Judith typically offers a choice of fish or meat at her parties, in this case, a pan-seared halibut or braised beef short ribs (which she pronounced a "sexier" choice than filet mignon).

Since George and I are conflicted -- the short ribs sound so good, but the halibut is probably lighter -- we agree to order one of each and share. The red Gigondas is poured into stemless glasses and it is lovely -- round and velvety. Most take the red, even if they've ordered fish.

The short ribs, though scarily primeval on the plate, are divine, with the meat falling off the bone into a deep rich dark sauce.

Thomas happily finishes the rest of Alex's plate. The conversation has become so loud we can barely hear Judith's dinner music, with subjects ping-ponging across the table -- about Madonna's adoption of an African child ("it's a shakedown by the father for money"), the impossibility of finding a hotel room for the next Art Basel Miami ("everything is totally booked and it's not till June!"), and ugly Toronto buildings ("is there some kind of rule that everything we put up in this town has to be cheap and horrible?").

Our hostess is loving her borrowed stools, which are rough-hewn and minimal and look like they drifted up to the table via a high tide.

"You have to buy these for me, Anthony," she teases. "I think I really need them now." Anthony doesn't blink an eye, but swallows his wine and says, "But of course." ("Judy is a great host," he tells me later, "because you just never know what she's going to say next.")

But now the moment has arrived, and everyone launches into Happy Birthday as Barton brings in the cake. "Wow," Glenn says with real delight, seeing his own likeness on the fondant icing: It has been hand-painted as a Vanity Fair cover starring Glenn and George.

After he blows out his candles to cheers (happily there are far fewer than 53), I help Glenn read out his chocolate headlines, which were written, of course, by Judith ("Pushelberg arrested at Liza Minnelli concert!" "Shopping is My Cardio" "Slimming Tips from Jet-Set Decorators").

Glenn is in fact quite shy, a fact that makes him particularly appreciative of Judith's skill set. "What makes her such a good hostess is really her exuberant personality," he tells me later. "She is funny, happy, lively and her aura quickly has her guests at ease."

Post-cake, the naughty smokers lead a group out to the front steps to admire the warm night and a strange, shaved-looking tree in Judith's yard that she has uplit with green outdoor lights.

Good parties are a lot like magic, we all agree. It's like the hostess lights a certain spark, and then they have a life of their own.

The first to get their coats are Anthony and Amie Rocket, his date for the evening, who make a quick retreat. Judith is once more hugged, kissed and held aloft by departing, grateful guests. Glenn and George leave carrying their chocolate Vanity Fair cover aloft like a tray.

The posse hanging around drinking wine in Judith's living room exchanges BlackBerry pin numbers -- all the easier to e-mail each other -- before sliding on their coats and slipping out into the night. Our voices, carrying on the brisk midnight air, agree that it was brilliant (totally, fabulous, wonderful, darling) and that we had a marvellous time.

"Judy, you are a genius!" Amar yells, wrapping his coat around himself and stepping out into the night.

The morning after, I drop by to thank Judith with a copy of Last Night's Party, the coffee-table-book version of the naughty website. She tells me that the black wool Ann Demeulemeester skirt she wore to dinner somehow ended up in the washer and is now approximately the right size for an Ann Demeulemeester Barbie. But the good news is that she did score her Barbra Streisand tickets. And where will our party diva be sitting, but right there in the front row.

the talk

"Being Canadian in the international arena is great because it's the one place where you can come from where there's no baggage. People are basically well disposed to you."

"Meanwhile, we are working on like 40 projects around the world right now and we can't get a single job here in Canada."

"It's getting weird being an older gay man, because you still have this memory of growing up with a gay scene. Now there is no scene. Everybody's either married or they just go on the Internet to find dates. It's like being gay has been completely changed by the Internet."

"Oh, you mean, the same way it's happened with antiquing?"

"In the last eight days, I've been in Madrid, Paris, Dubai and Delhi. I've got more air miles than I'll ever live to use."

"I've been collecting vintage clothes for years, but now that everything out there is cool, I don't have to go vintage shopping any more."

"I know. Vintage is for when you can't find anything new that's cool."

"I'd way rather be a gallery owner than an artist. Do you know how artists spend their day? I've seen it and it's not pretty. I'd go insane if I had to spend all day making art. I have to talk to people!"