Perils of the Modern Dinner Party

One of my greatest pleasures in life lies in preparing and enjoying delicious meals with solid friends. It is, after all, the principle behind Fifty-Two Feasts, this sumptuous project in which I have been indulging for almost a year now. And although I have often eulogized on the joys of dinners, brunches, birthday meals, and festive parties, I rarely reveal my ugly side—my few pet peeves and pent up acidic grievances.

Primary among these objections is the glittering world of food intolerances. It seems almost fashionable today, like chatting about your sun sign in the 70s. I’m a Cancer, what are you? Today, however, a growing portion of the population recites the litany of their own personal “sensitivities” to break the ice with strangers or form heartfelt bonds with friends. “I can’t eat wheat, gluten or dairy,” Angela chirrups cheerfully. “Oh my God, me too!” Jessica responds with delight. An animated conversation follows, one that is as absorbing to its participants as it is tedious to everyone else.

They discuss each minute detail of their mutual affliction, from the description of physical symptoms to sanctimonious recitations of the food they can “handle:” “I’ll have fruit for breakfast,” Jessica admits, as though even this is a sinful indulgence. “Although nothing acidic  . . . . And no fruits with too much sugar or starch. So I’ll have like blueberries with like half a teaspoon of agave.” Angela nods attentively, making a mental to research the symptoms of intolerance to acidic/sugary/starchy fruits. Who knows, it is quite possible that she too is unwittingly poisoning her body with venomous oranges!

At some point during this tiresome conversation you will inevitably encounter a stream of advertising for the so-called natural health and wellness industry; the sharing of information on the hoard of vitamins, minerals, oils, and miracle herbals supplements that these sufferer take on a daily basis to banish their multiplicity of ills. These safety measures, in concert with vigilant adherence to dietary commandments, seem to ward off the grim reaper and enable our heroines—or less frequently heroes—to sail ascetically through the day.

Still fascinated with their own digestive systems, Angela and Jessica continue on to exchange recommendations on brands of alternative cookies, breads, and tofu which meet their stringent requirements. (Wait, cookies? I thought . . . okay it’s too complicated for me.)

 And all the while they are massacring my carefully constructed, hand rolled ravioli, gouging out the filling and leaving the delicate pasta torn and stranded on the plate. I offer them salad, thinking naively that this is a safe bet, and after cautiously removing the rounds of mozzarella so fresh they barely hold shape and after picking off the warm, herb encrusted croutons, they take a few, insipid bites. Offers of dessert, however, are received with horrified protestations. Coffee? No, the caffeine keeps them awake. Fair enough. I persevere and suggest decaf, trying valiantly to remain cheerful. Alas there is still the problem of acid. It wreaks havoc on their stomachs. Finally, I win with an innocuous herbal tea; victory at last.

In observing the phenomenon of these intolerances, I have noticed some strange and seemingly inexplicable patterns. Firstly, 90% of the time the sufferers are female. Secondly, from time to time these life threatening allergies disappear late at night, perhaps outside a taco truck at 3 am after an evening of bar hopping.  Strange.
After years of observing the patterns I’ve come up with many theories on food intolerances: that they are fashions, here today gone tomorrow, a doctor approved alternative or accompaniment to the more base, materialistic obsessions with designer shoes. They are interesting, distinguishing you from the crowd; they make you “unique.” Or perhaps they are the disguised form of an eating disorder—a manifestation of desperate attempts to control and restrict. Then again they may have deeper roots, flowering today as a modern residue of the puritanical rigidity of early American settlers. Whatever the explanation, it is as fascinating to observe the devotees of this new cult as it is frustrating to have them at your dinner party.

And now I want to qualify everything I’ve just said. Firstly, this is a rant, and rage is notorious for skewing the vision and warping the truth.  Angela and Jessica are figments of my imagination, monsters dreamed up from a compilation of the worst behaviors I have witnessed, heard, or read about. Secondly, I am aware that some people have totally legitimate allergies to food. In fact a dear friend of mine is relegated to the sofa for days if she upsets her body with the wrong food. But I hazard a guess that she is in the minority as a genuine sufferer. And the difference is that she is far less loquacious about her condition and refers to it in a completely different way. Basically it sucks when you can’t eat 99% of the dishes on a restaurant’s menu.  And she’s been like this ever since I’ve known her. Even at 3 am after a night on the town she still can’t eat wheat.

My own theory is that many of the intolerances people experience today are not caused by the food per se but by the toxins in our food system and the methods for processing and preserving that food. Not all milk, cheese, or wheat is created equal! This isn’t just a wacky theory: Read nutritionist Sally Fallon’s book on the subject, Nourishing Traditions or look into the West on Price Foundation. There is a growing body of research to back up this more nuanced, deeper analysis of food intolerances.

Chili, Chocolate, and Cheesecake

The cousins were coming to visit. That is to say the highland dwelling contingent from my dad’s side of the family had landed in the new world for a summer of rambling adventures. They did New York, spent time in Maine, and then—quite sensibly—hopped over that great swath of Jesus land separating the east and west coasts of our great country to arrive in Seattle.

I wanted to welcome them with a truly American meal. And what, I wondered, is a more American custom than appropriating and bastardizing a dish from another culture? So I penned the menu. We would eat chili con carne as the main course followed by an all American fat n’ wobbly cheesecake—two ubiquitous dishes that I’d never attempted to execute.

As a complete amateur, I consulted various recipes for chili and found that within the realm of this craft there is constant warfare. Diced or ground meat? Smoked peppers or not? Should one add cinnamon? Chocolate? Bourbon? Beans or no beans? The debates were endless with belligerent voices on all sides. Clearly, the search for any semblance of authenticity would be long and arduous. I shrugged, gathered together what I considered to be the most exciting recipes, and patched together my own chili: ground beef and finely diced pork, medium heat, a little quirky chorizo, and substantial smoke in the shape of both chipotle and pimentón. And beans, definitely beans for the rather prosaic reason that I wanted to stretch this chili to feed ten people. Finally I tossed in a cinnamon stick and some cacao—fantasizing vaguely about the Aztecs . . . . Or is it the Mayans whole handed us this intoxicating combination?

Equally uninitiated in the process of constructing a cheesecake, I decided not to be overly ambitious and instead to follow a simple recipe for white chocolate hazelnut cheesecake from my favorite dessert book entitled—with self confident simplicity—Chocolate. Unfortunately, I forgot to factor in the time necessary for chilling the cake so that when I plunged a hopeful knife into the center and extricated the first slice, the rest of the cake, in a display of defeat, began melting lugubriously in all directions. Fortunately, the sinfully decadent taste and texture of the dessert made up for its aesthetic failings. 

All in all the meal was not only a succulent success, but also ridiculously easy to prepare. In fact to anyone looking for easy menu ideas I can safely say this one is a winner. Chili is a one-pot main course that actually improves slightly if made the day before. Serve it with sour cream, crusty bread and a salad—y ahí lo tiene! And as for the cheesecake, it too is quite literally a piece of cake (tee hee, sorry) to prepare and as I learned, it requires a good chill out in the fridge before serving.