THE DINNER DANCE

Evan thoughtfully labeled my pizza box 

so I wouldn't get into his which was officially 

called The Meat Lover's.

At brunch today, my partner, Evan, had Korean noodles with ground bison. I ordered the pumpkin quinoa veggie burger. There was no sharing. The cuisines may vary, but this is a typical dining out experience and I’d like to think we’re both okay with it.

 

During my dating droughts, I often wondered if my chosen diet was a deterrent. On dating sites, I mentioned I was a vegetarian, in part to share very basic information about me, but also in hopes of possibly attracting someone with a similar palate—a vegan, a pescatarian, maybe someone who would refrain from gnawing on a giant turkey leg if we ever went to Disneyland. My profile made clear I didn’t have an aversion to meat-eaters. I wouldn’t lecture someone who ordered veal or sweetbread or a rack of lamb. I thought it might even be a perk in that my meal mate wouldn’t have to share. He/They could swallow every one of those oysters without me drooling covetously. 

 

No one thinks twice 

about this kind of hate.

I think vegans are one of the last groups of people whom people feel free to attack. Apparently there are some who have switched to a veg diet who are self-righteous about it and can’t seem to curb the urge to “educate”/shame someone who orders a beef burger with four kinds of cheese and extra bacon. That’s never going to go well. I find it just as annoying when someone preaches about their keto diet or someone who insists on going on at length—without anyone asking—about how sugars/carbs/ice cubes are bad for you. I regard these people as newly committed to a particular diet, channeling conviction to stay the course by going on and on about all that’s right with their choice. Talking about it is self-affirming. If someone counters, it’s an opportunity to defend their dietary shift. Doubling down fuels them. I’m vegan/keto/sugar-free because it’s good for me and maybe just to spite Uncle Freddie.

 

I have never tried to talk someone out of meat. I have, however, been grilled countless times by people I barely know who go out of their way to find flaws in my choice to be a vegetarian. It’s rare that someone asks questions out of genuine interest. I keep answers succinct, intentionally vague since the interrogator is often focused on poking holes in my dietary decision. I don’t know why, but they need a victory—touchdown, Team Meat! My condo would be paid off if I had a dollar for every time someone leaned toward me and said, “Yeah, but what about protein?” I don’t feel any need to defend my diet. Or promote it. Adults are free to make their own decisions. I ask questions of servers when I’m at restaurants because I have to. I’ve had “surprise” ingredients show up on my plate. “Veg-friendly” can be very loosely interpreted. Still, I try to ask my questions quietly and quickly. I pride myself in being low maintenance, hopefully not in a Sally Albright sort of way. 

 

I find food talk rather dull. Can’t we move on to a discussion about gun control, trans rights, the charms of “Heartstopper” (series or graphic novel), job satisfaction, relationship news, travels to Sweden or a spirited debate on whether David Beckham and Adam Levine went too far in terms of tattoos? Anything else!

 

I’m sorry that some vegans have come across as aggressive to meat lovers. Frankly, I don’t feel anyone on Team Meat has ever had reason to feel overwhelmed by a vegan assault. In North America, at least, it’s a meat-eater’s world.

 

I’m sure some guys passed over my dating profile because of the vegetarian mention. There are people for whom meatlessness is unfathomable, not just for themselves but for everyone around them, especially a partner. “Brisket, man! Nothing better. Except maybe ribs. Am I right?” 

 

No comment.

 

You be you.

 

T

here were times when I debated removing the fact I was a vegetarian. I could maybe agree to coffee dates and hikes and parachuting from airplanes for the first few dates. Trick the dude, lure him in after the rush he felt from our times together. (Yeah, let him think it was all me and had nothing to do with freefalling from ten thousand feet.) I wouldn’t spring the vegetarian thing on him until we finally grabbed dinner at Morton’s, my enamored date oohing and aahing over the medium-rare filet mignon while I grazed on a garden salad. Mmm, iceberg lettuce. Buzzkill? Probably. Why go through all that deception? I’ve never wanted to jump out of a plane anyway. 

 

I’ve dated vegetarians or vegans a few times. Admittedly, it excited me. I could suggest restaurants without feeling like I was subjecting someone to an experience that would come out as a big sacrifice during some argument in the future. “How can you complain about my videogame obsession? I ate a chik’n sandwich for you. And kale!” Truth is, I don’t want to talk at length with a veg-dude about seitan or tofu or cauliflower steak either. I don’t yearn to reach my fork across the table at a restaurant to taste someone else’s meal. A common love for oat milk is never going to take a relationship to the next level. A shared enjoyment of a lentil stew is a nice bonus, that’s all.

 

For almost four decades now, I’ve been accustomed to eating differently from others. It’s one hundred percent fine. At restaurants, I can’t imagine how that’s a problem. For dinner parties, I often pass and then invite the friend for a chat while walking the seawall some other time. Sometimes I offer to bring a dish to share or an entire meal for myself so the host doesn’t have to stress. (“You can eat the cornbread stuffing if it’s been cooked in the bird, right?”) 

 

I’m perfectly fine sitting out some events. I try to go out of my way not to be a bother, not just about food, but about everything in life. I hate to pull focus. Still, while I’m accustomed to eating differently, all the non-vegetarians in my life are not. It’s hard for them to see sharing a meal as being something that, oftentimes, involves two entirely different plates. (I’m in for the candles and conversation, not the chili con carne.) Most of us were raised on family dining, everyone scooping from the same ham-and-cheese macaroni casserole. It’s okay when baby Tanya goes through her Cheerios-only phase from three until three and a half (She lived!), but that “picky” fifty-eight-year-old gay guy is a trip. I’m sorry, I’m never going to eat lobster just to make a table of seafood lovers feel an crushing, all-for-one victory over a half dozen ugly crustaceans. 

 

My long-term boyfriends have tried nobly to understand or, if not actually understand, then to let me be. Most have made special meals of, yes, lentil stew (It was delicious) and pasta with corn as a substitute for ground beef (That was just odd). Sweet gestures. Brownie points, for sure. These acts usually come in the first few months followed, I suspect, by late-night emergency runs to the McDonald’s drive-thru to refuel on three Big Macs and a supersized order of McNuggets. (Do they still supersize things? How ’bout the Shamrock Shake? No surprise, but McD’s isn’t exactly my kind of place.)

 

More than a year into our relationship, Evan and I do our best to dance around dinner debates. It’s been glitchy, to be sure. He’s stopped pointing at me and announcing to waiters, “He’s vegan!” To be fair, I think he’d be just as forthcoming if I had a third nipple or once met Elmo—the real one, not some Times Square poseur. When we’re in our separate cities midweek, he proudly sends me pics of the meatballs he made from scratch or the chicken fricassee he had at a friend’s place down the street. The images don’t give me nightmares and I earnestly reply with something like “Bon appetit!” Changing his eating habits is nowhere on my agenda. Food choices excepted, we mesh pretty damn well. It’s not a case of opposites attracting; instead, it’s about accepting—and respecting—our differences.