My aunt insisted he was perfect for me. Then she tried his vegan macaroons.

She lured me to L.A. with the promise of a suitor. Not just one, but a multitude of handpicked, middle-aged, maybe divorced, probably Jewish, and most certainly bitter, bachelors.

“Santa Monica is teeming with good men your age.” Really? I didn’t get that memo. Her daily spiel is aggressive, peppered with enticing soundbites meant to convince me that migrating south is the key to finding love, as if staying in the Bay Area will surely lead to my single demise. “You’re almost 50, you’ll end up joining an Ashram if you stay up there.” As the matriarch of our Southern California tribe, she still believes that the Bay Area is nothing but granola making, tree-hugging hippies who wear white after Labor Day and don’t know a good Jewish rye from a loaf of sourdough if it hit them on their Birkenstocks.

I’m barely over the Grapevine and she’s blowing up my phone with a succession of one-liners.       

      He has most of his hair.

      He lives west of the 405.

      He has a good therapist.

Most of his hair? Her sales pitch is steadily waning as I inch my way south on the 405 past the Getty. What kind of matchmaker leads with most of his hair? I’m half a mile from exiting on Sunset with three lanes of traffic to cross and bam, she tosses out a fresh batch of text grenades.

      You’re meeting him tonight.

      Maybe don’t wear heels.

      And whatever you do don’t take Sunset. Take Sepulveda to Bundy and then call me.

Dammit. She’s right. Sunset is gridlocked and now it’s too late.

At 81, my Aunt Rose is a native Angeleno who texts like a teenager and navigates the Westside like a New York taxi driver on speed, despite her arthritic fingers and momentary lapses in memory. She appointed herself matchmaking commander and chief after my mom passed away, managing my “Skeptical, Still Single & Approaching 50” dossier with the fortitude of ten Jewish grandmothers and one huge caveat - that I move to Los Angeles.

Meeting him tonight? She’s going zero to sixty. I’m exhausted, wired from flavored creamers and gas station coffee, and covered in the plethora of snacks I’ve consumed on the six-hour drive from the Bay Area. Is she serious? I’ve been looking forward to the Planned Parenthood Food Fare for weeks – noshing and drinking my way through the Barker Hangar. After her last barrage of texts, I’m growing increasingly weary of her matchmaking skills, but I’m in too deep to turn back. My car is packed to the rafters. I put everything in storage and rented a ridiculously priced room from a 62-year-old man-child in Venice who paddle boards all day and auditions for indie films. She spent the last three months talking this guy up with “Handsome” this and “Gorgeous” that, even tossing out shiny adjectives meant to suggest his resemblance to Jon Hamm. I’m beginning to think she’s never seen Mad Men.

      Sorry sweets. Waze says traffic is nuts. Go on without me.

      Adam will meet you at the entrance, I gave him your number.

      Don’t forget to mention you like to swim. His mom said he wants to get back into shape.

 Back into shape. What happened? 24 hours ago, I was meeting a Jon Hamm lookalike and now I’m scanning the crowd for a short, balding, overweight man. Where’s the wine table?

“Shanti?” Adam greets me with a polite smile and a warm handshake, and despite the woven man-purse slung over his plump mid-section, I’m pleasantly relieved. He’s exactly my height with a slightly receding hairline, no surprise, all par for the Over 50 course. I’m too tired to make small talk so I cut to the chase. “I just drove straight here from the Bay Area, I’m starving and I need some wine.” This is the part when he could have told me that’s he’s vegan, doesn’t drink, and is “allergic” to most anything edible. But he doesn’t. I’m busy indulging my way through every micro bite, every small pour, and every petite scoop. He trails behind me, examining the table like he’s at the Smithsonian before asking the unsuspecting server a laundry list of questions. “So, there’s really no meat in this? What about dairy? Fish? How about eggs? Gluten? Soy?” I’m one heavenly bite into a mini éclair and he shoots me a judgmental glare. “I don’t eat refined sugar.” Good grief. Thankfully, I’m slightly buzzed, loopy from the drive, and perimenopausal so I’m blissfully unphased, taking a big gulp of Pinot Gris. I should have worn the heels. Now I’m fixated on his pretentious man purse and all I can think about is why on earth would she set me up with this guy?

 “How was the date?”

“He’s vegan.”

“He’s what?”

“Vegan. He’s a vegan. Did you know that?”

“I don’t even know what that means. Maybe that’s why he’s in therapy.”

“It means that he doesn’t eat animal products.”

“Oh! He’s a vegetarian, what’s wrong with that? You can’t be too picky at your age.”

“No, he’s vegan which means he doesn’t eat animal products of any kind. No cheese, butter, milk, eggs. And I’m pretty sure he doesn’t eat gluten, sugar, soy, and probably no coffee or alcohol. There’s nothing wrong with it, and he seems nice, but we’re not really food compatible.”

There’s such a long pause that I figure she’s inadvertently turned down the volume on her hearing aids again, a frequent and somewhat frustrating occurrence for both of us.

“No eggs! Then what does he eat for God’s sake? I’m calling his mother.”

 In lieu of calling Adam’s mother and determined to observe his culinary habits in the flesh, Aunt Rose summons me to a 6pm dinner party the following Wednesday. I sensed her disbelief after my detailed rehash of the Food Fare. She assures me that I’ve probably misinterpreted the situation due to my inability to properly navigate L.A. traffic as a NorCal transplant, causing me to arrive to the date exhausted and ultimately confused. “Everyone eats eggs.”

 I can smell fish from her driveway. Uh oh. “What are you making for dinner?” “Baked salmon and rice.” “Aunt Rose, he doesn’t eat fish, remember …  he’s a vegan.” “Oh vegan, smegan. It’s from Santa Monica Seafood, he’ll have one bite. One bite won’t kill him.” Adam arrives shortly after me, presenting Rose with a small bag he pulls out of his man-purse. “Dessert from Erewhon.” She’s beaming, oblivious to both his man-purse, and to the fine print on the package as she turns to me. “Macaroons! Isn’t that thoughtful, Adam brought macaroons. Who doesn’t love a good macaroon.” After receiving an urgent text about picking up a pint of whipped cream, along with detailed driving instructions on the most efficient route from Venice to the Gelson’s on Lincoln, I’m pretty certain she made an almond poundcake. That won’t go over well. I feel guilty, as if I know she’s heading straight into battle with no chance of enemy surrender, but her tenacity when it comes to finding me a match (and thus keeping me in L.A. County) is unwavering.

He politely declines the salmon, and she offers him rice, piling a big scoop on his plate before he can answer. “Is there butter in the rice by chance?” She stalls for a second as if she’s either going to claim a senior moment or lie. Don’t do it Rose, don’t lie. I’m feeling a hot flash coming on from the stress and I know there’s butter in the rice, so I blurt out a dairy warning and offer to eat his portion. “Yes, there’s butter in there!” He looks relieved and pokes his fork through a piece of butterleaf lettuce. “I’ll just eat salad.” She’s showing no sign of retreating as she heads towards the kitchen. “Great, then you’ll have more room for dessert!” I have to hand it to her, whatever is going through her 81-year-old mind isn’t manifesting itself in a single wrinkle of her brow. The poundcake emerges from the kitchen, impeccably arranged on a gold-rimmed serving platter, sliced and circling a bowl of fresh strawberries. “Harry’s Berries ran out early so I had to buy them from another stand at the farmers market, and they aren’t very sweet. I mixed them with a little sugar and lemon.” Oh dear. Sugar. Strike three. Adam drops his head and lets out a sigh. “Would you mind if we put out the macaroons?” He starts to get up, but Aunt Rose quickly thwarts his effort, ushering for me to follow her into the kitchen.

She pulls down another serving platter and opens the package of macaroons, popping one in her mouth before muttering. “What on earth?” She spits out a giant wad of what looks like wood pulp onto her palm. “His balls taste like cardboard!” Her hearing aids must have switched off and her volume is steadily increasing. “I’m throwing them in the compost.” We look at each other and burst out laughing as Adam comes into the kitchen. He stares at us, motionless and poker faced. We’re still cackling as he grabs what’s left of his Vegan Macaroons and heads for the front door. Rose hands me a dessert fork and a plate of poundcake. “That’s it. You can’t date a man with no sense of humor, it would never work.”

This essay was originally published in The Los Angeles Times.