Los Angeles

I went into Edelweiss Chocolates in Beverly Hills, not to buy chocolates but to buy their white Jordan almonds which I always keep handy in a silver sugar bowl.

“That’s it?” the lady behind the cash register said, casting her eyes in the direction of the case full of beautiful chocolate confections.

“Yeah, that’s it,” I said.

But Steve Zahir, the owner of the shop who was busily arranging his inventory, does not tolerate indifference to chocolate.

“Come in the back. I’ll show you how we do it,” he said.

“Oh,” I said, surprised. ”Okay!” I love it when a minor adventure presents itself unexpectedly.

Four employees were busy in the spotless back rooms of the shop, meticulously cutting toffee bars and dipping pretzels in dark chocolate.

This is like an April Fool’s Day joke; a BBQ joint write up by a vegetarian! There is a method to this madness. After all there’s more than one way to come at anything!

Here’s the theory; there are a lot of men out there who love BBQ. It’s such a manly man food. A lot of those manly men have wives, girlfriends, partners who are vegetarians. This makes going out to BBQ with their loved one difficult. Probably an adventure saved for boy’s night out. You know, after playing poker, shooting hoops, or screaming at TV skirmishes, they go grab a few ribs and some beers.

Ladies. I’m taking a page out of my book and handing it right to you. Want to make your hungry he-man happy, take him to Bludso’s BBQ and Bar on La Brea where you both will eat well and be happy. There probably won’t be any romance that night because he will be stuffed like the pig he just ate, but he will fall asleep with a bloated smile on his face and you will have won several gold stars! (To be cashed in later for jewelry, an i-pad, a weekend away with (or without) him or whatever your need might be at the moment.)

It’s 4 o’clock on Sunday afternoon, and like any well-adjusted twentysomething, I’m eating breakfast.  More specifically, I’m having brioche french toast and cappuccino at the Little Next Door on 3rd with my friend Gloria.  After living in LA for six months, I have determined that breakfast in the afternoon is exactly the sort of reckless behavior Sundays demand.

Typically in New York, Sundays amounted to consumption of greasy brunch complemented by mimosas and black coffee.  Following brunch was an inevitable headache, followed by more consumption in the form of excessive window-shopping, followed by an indulgent nap upon what appeared to be a laundry pile, but was in fact my bed.

I love food. And I love going out to eat and trying new places. And I love talking about food. In fact, I love food so much that whenever I'm eating I actually try not to get too full so that I'll be able to eat again in another two hours—which is something I think I inherited from my mother. When I was a kid, I thought it took five hours to get to Santa Barbara from LA because she would take the Pacific Coast Highway and stop to eat three times. (If you are not familiar with the geography of Southern California, it shouldn’t take more than an hour and a half to get to Santa Barbara).

But despite that fact that I grew up in a household where it was the norm to discuss what we were going to eat for lunch during breakfast (even if breakfast was at 12pm), I am not a foodie. I hate restaurants that pile food into thimble sized pyramids in the middle of oversized square plates. And when things like soup are served in shot glasses (unless you're Hatfield's and then you can do whatever you want). But the other night when my lovely boyfriend realized that not only did he not owe extra taxes, but he was getting a hefty refund, I wanted him to take me somewhere nice to make up for all those nights of sopitos at Poquito Mas while he anticipated paying what he thought was going to be a huge bill from the government. It turns out my step-dad is not the only man in my life who can’t do his own accounting. No offense, Alan.