You’ve invited someone to dinner. Say, a couple. A couple you’ve never asked to dinner before, but you’ve wanted to. You spend the afternoon or the previous evening preparing a French country dish (or whatever) for them. Say, coq au vin. You’re quite proud of your creation. It looks wonderful. It tastes wonderful. It shows imagination, effort, care and, yes, love. You’re eager to serve it to them, because, well, it’s special. It’s worth being invited to dinner for this.
They arrive. Conversation follows. Some drink. Some laughter. Then it’s time for you to serve your masterpiece. Be seated everyone! You emerge from the kitchen with the coq au vin residing in a rustic pot. It looks perfect, dark, wine-rich, alluring scents filling the air. You place it before the couple with a flourish, certain they will be pleased.
One of them leans forward and peers at the food.
“Is that chicken?” he or she inquires.
“Yes!”
“Uh, I’m a vegetarian.”
You’re a what? You’re a vegetarian? You can’t eat this?
“Oh, don’t worry,” the vegetarian says breezily. “I’m happy with anything. Have you got something to make a salad with? Anything at all will do.”
You’re happy with anything? How about happy with this serving fork shoved up your ass until it emerges from your mouth?
This person did not think to be courteous enough to inform me of their predilection before coming to dinner so that I could plan accordingly. No, they simply arrived, assuming that I would be prepared to accommodate their saintly dietary choices.
I’ve actually had a vegetarian bring their own food to my home when they came for dinner.
It’s not that I don’t understand their choice. I actually sympathize with it. I may join them some day. Not tonight, though.
And has this happened to you? Recovering from the deflation of not being able to bask in your guests’ pleasure from your creation, you put together an uninspired, meatless dish—not expecting to have to do this, of course—and serve it to them. It looks boring. It looks unappetizing. You don’t feel right. They’re your guests!
They smile as you serve it to them.
“This is perfect,” they say. Then they proceed to pick at it desultorily. “I’m not that hungry anyway,” they say. “It’s fine. Really. Fine.”
At this point I’m going to introduce some self-proclaimed legislation. Everyone should be able to throttle at least one vegetarian in their life in circumstances like this. Better yet, strangle them before a huge steaming plate of baby back ribs. Or in front of a row of perfectly-cooked lamb chops, dripping blood, the odor of lamb hovering in the air. Or next to a pot of country-style chuck roast, the brand of the cow still faintly visible. Or—wait! I’ve got it!—in a suit version of the Lady Gaga meat dress.
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!
Vegetarian? I’ll. Show. You. Vegetarian.
Go, save the world. Don’t eat animals. Don’t wear fur. Don’t buy leather anything. Feel good about yourself. I admire you. Honestly.
But stay the fuck away from my dinner table.
Some people have no manners. One of our sons does not eat poultry. But when invited for thanksgiving he graciously ate some to be a good guest.
They could have been vegan…