The Extra Man

As an extra man in Los Angeles, you eat a lot of salmon. Poached. Grilled. Occasionally raw. Here at land’s end, few dinner parties feature steaks, chops or rib roasts. An aromatic cassoulet? Forget about it. Stews are nostalgia. Most hostesses want to keep things light. This is not Detroit.

And if you are a certain age, you may meet a number of women with histories. Personal histories. Dinner partners with tales of separation, divorce, financial battles and custody fights. Goes with the territory. (You have yours as well.) In the face of all this, you must be a good and attentive listener. That is the price of dining with friends, maybe acquaintances, who fear unbalanced tables. Everyone must have a partner. Everyone must be matched. Everyone must hold up his or her end. No one dines out in silence. At least not for very long.

As an extra man, you know the rules. You know the landscape and the players. You know that on some evenings, you’ll be offered spirits; other nights, champagne or wine will pass for cocktails. You also know which of your stories are suitable for dining out, and which are better saved for barrooms and softball diamonds. You know this through trial and error. You know this after bombing in Brentwood or Encino with some long-ago memory of a drink with DiMaggio. You know this because you are a dependable extra man.

Like me.

Alone for 10 years, I know our town’s extra-man business about as well as my neighborhood. I am a more-than-willing participant. More than willing, say, to practice the social graces when tired or low or anticipating a bout with the flu. For I am blessed with good-hearted friends who know that single isn’t so swell. They know I regard extra “manship” as a reason to be out and diverted and separated from worries over getting and spending. They understand I embrace the unstated transaction: For a meal and some talk, for an alternative to the gym or television, I will be an interested party at their parties. More they cannot ask. More I cannot give. Mostly, everybody wins.

But not always.

For there are minefields in the extra-man racket. There are dangers and poisons. If you believe, if only for moments, that you can routinely dance through dinner without occasional incidents, you will learn otherwise. There are spouses who will turn to you--sometimes passionately, sometimes irritably--as they describe ice-cold marriages. For two hours. There are, if you are unlucky, dear friends of your former partner. You cannot win or charm them, so do not try. They’ve already heard more than enough about your weaknesses and failures. The best you can do is talk about the wine.

Wine talk is often what you make when everything else--politics, careers, the markets and children--strikes sensitive nerves. I’ve heard educated, worldly, opinionated guests eat up half hours on the right properties for cork. Meanwhile, noses--and egos--remain in joint. Accordingly, the extra man always looks for the Wine Spectator in doctors’ waiting rooms. Take 20 minutes to read up on climates in Bordeaux or Napa and you’re good to go for weeks. There are no minefields in vineyards.

That said, there are other conversational safety zones. They may be of little interest, but remember, you are the extra man and bear some responsibility for the evening’s success. You are being socialized. Aired out. There are well-groomed, attractive people in your field of vision. You may look across a crowded room and see your future. There is a price. There always is.

In polite company, that price may be feigning interest in the merits of hybrid cars. Or pilates. Maybe Schwarzenegger’s age-defying chestnut mane. In Los Angeles, the elements--save for fires, earthquakes and mudslides--are mostly non-starters. And don’t forget, we live in a temperate paradise where many work hardest at leisure. Depending on the crowd, sailing adventures are always good. A marathoner’s tale? Keep it short. Leave injuries and pain at the door. Golf scores? Save them for the clubhouse.

In truth, the extra man’s job is not so much to tell his story, to entertain with personal experiences or heroics, but to keep the production moving smoothly toward cognacs and goodbyes. You are, at certain instances, pitching batting practice, warming up the principals. This is not an easy or undignified job. Certainly, there is no recipe for excellence. Remember, you are the extra man--not quite the host but, when needed, a deputy social director. Of course, your friends are your friends. If they are honorable and sincere, they will understand if you have an off-night. When you just don’t have the stuff. Nevertheless, you have responsibilities at table. Aside from friendship, you are present because you are dependable. Because you are a working guest.

In textbooks and documentaries, the anthropologists tell us we are social animals. We function better, live longer and happier in groups. On any L.A. night, the lonely are on display for all to see. Trust me, the solitary souls crowding cafes and bookshops on Saturday nights do not have better places to go. They are out and alone and putting one foot in front of another. They have activity but not companionship. They order coffee or drinks within earshot of others’ conversations, remembering, perhaps, when they had companions or partners and did not sit alone. The extra man has had his share of such nights. Years of them.

So the extra man dines on.