First came the soft embarassment that goes with handing my very average keys to one of the red vested cash workers outside the only vegan place nearby. I felt like the deck was stacked in my favor finding four stars on Yelp associated with a restaurant that doesn't serve food. Apparently there was something unspeakably wrong with the menu besides sticky laminate, because we were on our way across town to another spot, my wallet five complimentary dollars lighter. She never seemed satisfied with her meal, like the time I could feel a night destroyed by stomach pain only halfway through my blue cheese burger. Hard fought tolerance for lactose doesn't stop me from accomodating a lady who insists artisan pizza will change my life, but gas and valet take their toll.
It was a good meal and a nice time. My desire for someone who wanted us to enjoy dinner together was short-lived and small picture. Diet makes us hungry dictators bent on satisfying me, to the extent we can't remember you too were there, until hours later. Try as we might to bake kale chips and taste test gluten-free ales, you're not worth it and it's not your fault. Perhaps taste is the most significant factor in choosing your match.
If you've felt marginalized by the common Chicago vs. New York pie conversation or found your true fear of flying comes in sample-sized Southwest snack packs, then you have a legitimate reason to take eatery selection seriously. Adding gluten to the list has forced Los Angeles to be very creative, searching the ends of the earth for diets and recipes that offer palatable plates for the pickiest people. The love train doesn't always carry what's right for you and they don't stop at Whole Foods, so some measure of sacrifice must go along with the dietary diatribe we love to hot potato back and forth.
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