(FORTUNE Small Business) – Like most Americans, I'm always interested in passing myself off as a higher-class person than I actually am. Recently, my girlfriend and I moved from New York City--where all our friends pretty much knew the truth about us, that we are the sort of people who serve guests cans of Tecate beer--to New Orleans, where we hardly know anybody and thus have an opportunity to hoodwink new acquaintances into thinking we're players. But how? Well, where I come from, nothing says "class" quite like lavish, over-the-top expenditures.

So what we had going in was a concept. Friends of ours in New York kept giving us names of friends of theirs in New Orleans. Soon there were more than a dozen we were supposed to look up. Why not invite all these people over for a little cocktail party--where we wouldn't know a soul? We started calling it the Strangers Party. Recall, however, that the point wasn't simply to meet new people but also to suggest to them that we are classy and important. That's why we blew a thousand dollars on a caterer.

We didn't actually plan to spend that much. I asked my one old friend in New Orleans about local caterers, then hit the Yellow Pages. We got menus from four places, and an outfit called Willow Catering looked the fanciest. I called and got a pleasant fellow named Tony. At first we discussed a scenario involving cold finger food and beer and wine for 20, which would've run maybe $300. On reflection, I started pushing for a bit more food and a full bar (hey, we said cocktail party), and Tony pleasantly faxed a proposal that would run about $600. My girlfriend, E, was underwhelmed--Why not hot food?--and joined me on the phone. Tony, a little edge creeping into his pleasant voice, asked for a budget. Another proposal arrived. E was saying something like, "How about after the crispy spring rolls, some phyllo stuffed with chevre?" And thus: a cool grand.

Meanwhile, I was busy enticing total strangers to come to a party thrown by someone they'd never met. I had to harangue a few, but we were getting a pretty good response rate. E made some invitations. And from there, it all went incredibly smoothly. A little before 5 p.m. on the appointed day, the catering truck rolled up. A bartender and waitress (part of the deal) set up a table in the dining room and a bar on the patio. (For us, this was already a high point; in New York we lived in a lightless, railroad-style apartment less suitable for entertaining than for contemplating the city's immigrant tradition.) The guests started arriving at exactly 6:30. Of the eight finger food selections, the oyster turnovers were the clear standout, along with the skewered scallops (the phyllo turned out to be the clunker). Everyone seemed to have a good time.

But forget that: Were we in fact fooling these strangers into thinking that we are people of style? I would say the results were mixed. Several people seemed to suspect that something was amiss here. I pulled a few aside to explain that, really, a magazine was funding the whole exercise. That seemed to put people at ease. Some seemed impressed that I had pulled off such an outrageous scam. Which goes to show that these days, savvy trumps taste. Then again, one of my more stylish guests, on departing, paused to admire my shirt and asked where I'd bought it. You think that would've happened if we'd handed out Tecate?