the fascism of cake

no, not as dudley-do-dastardly a predicament as eddie izzard's colonialist's smarmy and duplicitous offer of "cake or death?", but a regularly occuring peril for me. (me, me, me, that's why i have a blog. nyah.)

one of the perks/trials of my position is that i get taken out to eat. often, and to stupidly nice places. we get the royal treatment, the best tables and the best service. special morsels "just for us" from the chef, compliments. (illegally procured scottish woodcock for 10, anybody? yes, please; we'll all take that tiny fork to scoop out the brains, too. contraband ortolan liver? of course!!) cloistered in a private dining room at the four seasons, and buoyed by bolly, i still catch my breath. not once do i forget how infrequent a dinner *out* is for most, never mind that the flowers alone cost more than a high-summer week on nantucket. rareified air indeed, sitting next to a discreetly charming french count while savoring glass after glass of astounding beauty most humans will never know. we few can look around and rightly, quietly say, "right now, life is very good."

there is the downside of knowing the bottomless bread-basket at the olive garden will never sate me, but that's a cross i willingly bear.

courses proceed seamlessly. we ooh and aah, and marvel at the delicious parade.

then..

it comes. fallen chocolate, espresso-mascarpone cheese, some towering confection of layers -- it matters not. it's sweet, it's sticky, and i know i don't want any.

sometimes, more casually, i'm out with equally glucose-averse friends (always men) and we get sent a dessert. the owner graciously acknowledging our complicity in this hell industry and recognizing our patronage. he's being a lovely host, and we appreciate the gesture. but it's oozing and it's chocolate and we want none of it. we've gone through elaborate napkin ruses, but typically each force down a bite, mush the rest around and then wave the serviette of stuffed surrender.

but in the more contrived setting there are the fascists:

"you have to try this."

"no, thanks, i'm so full."
"you'll love it, it's to die for."
"no, really, i couldn't have another bite."
"you'll have a bite if i get one, won't you?"
"go ahead, get what you like."
"oh, good, ok, we can share."
~~ plate arrives, forkful hovers menacingly in the air, and you've got the adult equivalent of "open up the tunnel, here comes the choo-choo"~~
"if you try it you'll love it, it's the best (<>) i've ever had."
"really, i'm so full and i don't like sweets."
"you've never had this, it's too die for."
"it's all for you."
~~ the stare-down ~~

do i cave ? with a straight man, almost always. (thankfully, now, most of my professional friends know not to bother, more for them!) but with a woman, never. the man means well, and is merely offering a delicious tidbit, no real strings. the woman is trying to share her cellulite and guilt. ack.

i can always appreciate the play of hot vs. cold, crisp vs. soft and the visual affair. the lovely plates, the colors, the inside gastronomic jokes. i *know* how it tastes. by now i know how i wish to complete my meal, and it's not with a creamy-sweet lactic coating of goo. the disconnect reminds me all too starkly of when my mom would finish dinner and light up a tareyton. why have something so foul, after something fine? as a teen i recall asking in that patently obnoxious way, breed-specific to adolescent girls (you'll see), "do you eat to smoke, or smoke to eat?"she still smokes after every dinner.

i still never want dessert.

funny. how some things don't change.