In other places, life happens in restaurants. Not in LA. Here, people invite you over. It’s one of the things I love about my adopted city; you get to know a lot about someone when you spend time at their home and they cook for you. But playing hostess here is about more than just throwing a roast in the oven and calling it a night. For one thing, the myth is true: We Angelenos scrutinize what we ingest. Maybe it has to do with the fact that, due to the warm weather, our bodies are constantly on display. Maybe it’s filtered down to us through Hollywood’s well-known obsession with beauty and fitness. Whatever the reason, the fact is that almost everyone I know has something they don’t eat, whether for ethical, nutritional, or textural reasons. But somehow, when I decided it was time to reciprocate the many invitations I’d received over the years by throwing a dinner party, this thought didn’t cross my mind. Maybe, given how my friends love food, I was fooled into feeling I was exempt. So, when Dana’s number showed up on my phone a few days after the invite went out, I was unprepared.
“What are you thinking of serving?” She got right to the point. I’d spent the morning emailing with a friend who was on his way to Spain and that had put the idea of a paella in my head. It’s a big, festive dish, something I would never make just for myself, but it was perfect for a party. And while it was full of carbs — those tiny grains of rice — I figured it was gluten free. Carbs had recently lost their foothold as the enemy; it was one of their rogue members, gluten, who was the true adversary. Along with the paella I’d pour a nice rich Spanish Rioja and make a big salad. There’d be raw milk Manchego, a local, artisanal salami, and olives to begin. Done and done.
“Really?” Dana squeaked when I shared the menu I was considering. “You know I’m kind of paleo, right?”
Paleo? That was the same as Atkins, wasn’t it? I quickly googled the difference while we were on the phone and scanned the list of dos and don’ts. Meat was okay, as long as it was grass-fed, but cheese wasn’t. And rice was definitely verboten. Paella, which had seemed like the perfect party dish a few minutes ago, was as far from paleo as I was from the scantily-clad people who’d apparently subsisted on it.
“Good to know,” I sputtered. “So no rice. No worries, I’ll just pull out some seafood for you.”
“You’re not doing shellfish, are you?” There was a catch in her voice that made the mix of mussels, clams, and lobsters that had been doing a lively jig in my head, start to stumble.
“Well, I had considered it,” I started.
“Jeff’s allergic to shellfish. He blows up like a balloon. There’s an EpiPen and everything.”
It took me a moment to place the name. Dana’s new boyfriend. Well, I certainly didn’t want to be responsible for anyone dying.
I’d always laughed at people who got stressed about throwing a dinner party, but now I was beginning to understand how they felt. Catering to everyone’s dietary likes and dislikes was like skipping through a beautiful meadow and discovering it was full of land mines. I started a list that I tacked up on the refrigerator to remind me what was off-limits.
So paella was out. So was shellfish. And cheese. What was fun and easy and worked for a crowd? Chili came to mind. The weather was still crisp with cloudy skies, LA’s imitation of winter. Liz was the only vegetarian among us but she always ate before she went out. And I’d make a big salad. I knew she’d be happy with that.
Then my phone beeped with a text from Ben. He’d been having some weird issues with his skin — red spots and breakouts — and had gone to the dermatologist that morning.
“OMG!! It turns out I’m allergic to tomatoes.” A dozen exclamation points in their own text bubble were followed by more information: “The whole nightshade family: peppers, eggplant, tomatillos, and potatoes.”
“Oh, that’s terrible.” I added a sad face emoji, but I wasn’t sure if it was for him or for me.
So chili was out … or was it? I started reading recipes for white chili when I looked back at his text. Peppers were out. Damn.
I’d always laughed at people who got stressed about throwing a dinner party in Los Angeles, but now I was beginning to understand how they felt. Catering to everyone’s dietary likes and dislikes was like skipping through a beautiful meadow and discovering it was full of land mines. I started a list that I tacked up on the refrigerator to remind me what was off-limits.
“Is chicken too boring?” I asked Anne when she called me to find out how the plans for the dinner party were coming along. “I’m having trouble coming up with a menu. Ben can’t have tomatoes or peppers or potatoes, Jeff’s got a shellfish allergy, Dana’s paleo.”
“Is that the same as Atkins?”
“Sort of. But no cheese.”
“Oh. Chicken might work, as long as it’s organic and heritage.”
“What about lamb? Or salmon?”
“Just make sure it’s wild-caught. Nick can’t have the farmed stuff because of his candida. And sardines are good but I think most other fish is taboo.”
I’d forgotten about Nick’s candida. I added that to the growing list on my refrigerator. “But wild salmon is okay?”
“I think so, but you’d better check.”
So salmon was a possibility. I could poach a whole fish — without wine, because Mark was in AA and even the smallest amount might kick him off the wagon, or lemons, because Anne had a citrus allergy, or the head, in deference to Liz.
So salmon was a possibility. I could poach a whole fish — without wine, because Mark was in AA and even the smallest amount might kick him off the wagon, or lemons, because Anne had a citrus allergy, or the head, in deference to Liz. But what would I serve with it? Chimichurri was out. It was made with garlic and Luca, despite being Italian, couldn’t stomach the stuff. I’d already nixed Romesco sauce — there was garlic in that too, and peppers, which Ben couldn’t eat. Andrew hated mayonnaise, so aioli was a no-no. I moved on to lamb. Grass-fed for Dana’s paleo and Nick’s candida. There’d be at least one vegetarian side for Liz. I called her to check. Evan picked up. A baby lamb had been the reason she’d gone vegetarian as a child. Another dish down.
“What else can’t she eat?” I asked while I had him on the phone. He ticked them off: mushrooms were iffy and nightshades were out, but I’d already covered that with Ben. “She’s okay with butter?” I was pretty sure she was vegetarian, not vegan.
“Butter’s good, eggs are good, but not too many and preferably the whites not the yolks. Honey’s okay. But chocolate’s out.”
“Chocolate’s not vegetarian?”
“It’s vegetarian, she’s just allergic to it.”
Five days to go and I still hadn’t figured out what to serve. I called my mother in New York — my parents had regularly thrown dinner parties throughout my childhood — but she didn’t have any advice for me. “People will just eat around the stuff they don’t like,” she counseled. I tried to explain to her that things were different now, but it was futile. She was still giving me grief over the carton of almond milk she’d bought for my last visit that I hadn’t touched; it was sweet of her to remember that I’d gone through a period of thinking I was lactose-intolerant. “I gave an unopened carton to your brother,” she told me. I didn’t have the heart to remind her that my sister-in-law hated nuts in all forms. Then something she said gave me an idea. “How much of what you won’t eat is for real reasons,” she asked me, “and how much of it is for faux ones?” That’s it, I thought, I’ll make pho.
“What a great idea,” Andrew said. It was the night of the party and he and Anne had arrived first. I’d made a vegetarian stock. I’d checked with Nick and with Liz and they’d okayed a few mushrooms, which I’d left simmering on the stove, and there were bowls of ingredients so my guests could customize their own dinners: boiled shredded chicken, cubed tofu, sprigs of cilantro and Thai basil, a tangle of mung beans, thin strips of grass-fed beef, lightly cooked snow peas, fresh cut limes, and rice noodles. Everyone showed up with wine and there was sparkling water for Mark and Nick. Afterwards there were two kinds of coffee, three kinds of tea, and an array of milks. I’d made a Pavlova for dessert. There was extra fruit for people who preferred it plain and yogurt with cinnamon for Nick. Dinner was a success and there were barely any leftovers.
I didn’t feel so good when I got up the next morning. That was odd; I didn’t remember drinking that much. As I stumbled to the medicine chest for some ibuprofen, I saw the labels on the wine bottles that Anne had thoughtfully corralled next to the recycling bin and I remembered: The red wine I’d been drinking had been a young Californian. I was allergic. I’d taken care of everyone else and forgotten about myself.