I hope your weekend was super duper lovely, filled with gluten-free cake. I really do. Me? Well, I’ve been struggling with whether to write this post or not because I always want to be fair. Sometimes even erring on the side of too fair, and facing consequences at a later date. (Looking at you, Loteria.) So I don’t know if not publishing the name of the restaurant is fair (to them), or unfair (to you). Fairness, it turns out, is complicated.
I was, in fact, all ready to write a glowing post about a new’ish restaurant I tried and how knowledgeable the wait staff was, and how excited I was to eat something other than my beloved steak and Brussels sprouts combo when I dine out. So I started writing it, even with a caveat. The caveat being, since I’m still in the middle of a really bad gluten’ing, I’m still getting sick every day, multiple times a day. (And no, the queso was NOT WORTH IT.) So how can I tell if a restaurant is truly safe, if I’m already sick?
My thought was, if I continued the same level of sick as before then most likely the assurances I received from the waiter (I mean, when I told him I was celiac he replied, “Perfect!” and proceeded to tell me how there are no hidden ingredients so I would not have to worry, and they were all clear on soy sauce. I was stoked.) were accurate. Bam. A great place to dine gluten-free that is outside the usual fare LA serves up. What I had not considered is what actually happened: I became dramatically more ill. I mean, up all night, not sleeping, canceling Mother’s Day plans, stay in bed, ill. I cancelled a massage, people. That’s serious. Naturally, I’m assuming some gluten got up in me. But did it?
You see that burrata up there? I enjoyed the hell out of that burrata and house smoked brisket (it did come out with bread but my husband snatched it up before it could touch the melt-in-your-mouth beef) and hoover’d up the sunchokes with green goddess dressing. And then, I really got going. Enjoying a peat-y whiskey flight first thing put me in hungry mode. Which, I highly recommend. Highly. Maybe, drunkenly. This restaurant was adorable, fresh, interesting and most of all—freaking delicious. The only possible issue I could visibly see was the bread getting bread-breath on my brisket. But that wouldn’t really account for the violent illness that has plagued me, basically from about an hour after eating, that has still not stopped.
I’ve had sporadic issues with cheese, so maybe the burrata, oh, and this amazing potato puree with cheese curd, were to blame. As I’m trying to get to the bottom of all of this truly horrible, rotten, depressing way to spend Mother’s Day, I realize that this is the problem with eating outside of your own home: No matter how much you explain, no matter how much anyone thinks they understand, something could go wrong. And you know what? It’s impossible to tell what that “something” was. It’s also impossible to know if it was a slight cross-contamination or a dairy overload that I could usually deal with, but in my current state of “I’ve been sick for almost 3 weeks” my body just couldn’t take it.
So I don’t know whether to “call out” a restaurant that said it was safe and turned out not to be, or to just remind all of you (myself, especially) that when you’re healing from getting hit by the gluten monster, you should never dine out, cut out the dairy, and only focus on protein and greens. What is my responsibility here? What would you do? Oh, and I’M SO SICK OF BEING SICK!!!!!!