Why Your Work Bestie and College Bestie Need to Meet Over Pasta

Your friends should know each other, and the best way to make it happen is over good food and even better music. The night my different friend groups met, New York suddenly felt more like home—because the best friendships happen when you mix worlds, not keep them apart.

When the Bubble Pops.

Growing up, friendships just happened. You had homeroom together. You lived on the same block. Your moms were friends. Easy. Then you move to a city like New York, where everyone is living their own completely different version of the same place. Suddenly, friendships are not about convenience and proximity. They are about intention.

When I first moved to New York, my life felt like a collection of different worlds. My college friends. My work besties. The creatives I met at events. They all existed in separate universes, like characters from different TV shows that should have had a crossover episode but never did. It was giving alternate realities. Different groups with different energy, all orbiting around me but never actually meeting. They had all heard of each other, but they had never been in the same room. That just felt wrong, so I changed it.

Everyone bring a dish.

There’s a science to a great dinner party, but it’s got nothing to do with etiquette and everything to do with alchemy. Anthropologists say communal dining is one of the oldest human rituals, dating back over 12,000 years of humans breaking bread. In Ancient Rome, feasts were extravagant affairs meant to showcase status and wealth. In West Africa, griots used long tables as stages for storytelling, passing down history through music and spoken word. The table has always been more than a place to eat; it’s about connection, the kind that lingers long after the plates are cleared.

There is something about a shared meal that makes people drop their guard. When we eat together, we listen, we laugh, and we feel seen. Maybe it is the rhythm of passing plates or just knowing that everyone put in effort. Whatever it is, food pulls people closer. On the invitation, I put, “Come with a dish or don’t come at all. Real potluck style.” Friends came in one by one with a mix of home-cooked attempts, Trader Joe’s shortcuts, and bodega grabs. I spent the afternoon at Whole Foods, questioning why basil costs that much. I settled on making pesto, penne alla vodka, and my classic spiked lemonade + jungle juice that tasted like a high school party.

One of my closest friends and I had gotten ready together beforehand, doing makeup and last-minute outfit checks in the mirror. The first knock came. Then another. My door kept swinging open, and with each new arrival, the apartment filled up with voices overlapping and laughter cutting through Kali Uchis playing on my overhead speakers.

My Chinatown apartment forced people together, and with thirteen of us packed inside, it did exactly that. The air smelled like pasta, tequila, and perfume. There was no room for awkward hovering—close proximity made conversation inevitable. But with a large kitchen and a round dining table draped in lace, the space still felt open and inviting, a place where everyone naturally gathered. My friend from design class hit it off immediately with my og group and shared a vape throughout the night. My playlist was stacked with '90s throwbacks, R&B classics, and the kind of songs that made people yell the lyrics instead of just singing them. Two of my friends, one from Brazil and one from Canada, bonded over being far from home. My Facebook Marketplace couch was slightly worn but perfect for sinking into and it became the unofficial lounge. Music videos looped on the projector, flashing nostalgic visuals across the room. My best friends arrived, loud and making a scene. Every time the door opened, the overhead lights flickered slightly, mixing with the glow of the neon lamp in the corner. At first, there was the usual awkwardness, basic questions about their hometown, school, and how people knew me. But soon, stories started flowing. I introduced friends with fun facts about each other, setting the stage for deeper conversations. Two friends bonded over their exes, trading dramatic breakup stories; within minutes, we had declared it a fuck men night, raising our glasses in solidarity. My work bestie and college bestie fell into a debate about astrology, comparing birth charts.

The energy grew louder, the drinks flowed more freely, and by 1 AM, I had popped a bottle of cheap champagne. After a few final rounds of Fuck, Marry, Kill, we landed on Fuck Shrek, Marry Oprah, and Kill John Cena.

From 9 PM to 1 AM, the night had done what it was supposed to do. A few friends had tapped out, but the rest of us weren’t done. I knew that the dinner party was a success because we didn’t want the night to end. We crammed into an Uber XL, taking over the aux. The night blurred into bar hopping in true fake ID, L.E.S shit. By the time I walked home, I passed Canal Street, and street vendors were setting up shop, and people headed to work. When I stepped back inside, I was hit with the lingering scent of pasta, tequila, and perfume — my mirror had a kiss print on it, and my camera roll was proof that when you mix your worlds, the energy takes care of the rest.