It's very simple, really. I cannot eat walnuts, pecans, almonds, macadamias. If I eat them, my throat swells up like a Chrysler airbag and I die. They call it anaphylaxis. Yet when I say to a waiter, "I'm allergic; are there nuts in that?" I am more likely to hear a Bullwinkle-like "Gee, I don't think so," than a crisp "Let me check." Who trains these people? My favorite activity is saying, "Mmm, I really hope you're right, because if you're not, I'll thrash convulsively on your floor and make a scene and die and my family will be sad and they will sue you for a lot of money." Then I smile sweetly. The Bullwinkles always gulp hard and stammer, "I'll ask in the kitchen." And they make a beeline toward the swinging doors.

Other waiters are not dim, but are far too jaded and sullen to make that long journey back to the kitchen (really, they're seething at being in the restaurant at all, instead of where they should be, starring in the Broadway debut of Coriolanus: The Musical). And I do have to ask, because you'd be surprised where nuts may reside. Nachos? I swear to you, I once got a plate of 'em studded with walnuts. Then there's macadamia-encrusted fish. Microscopically ground almonds lurk invisibly in chocolate cakes. I don't go out for Indian food anymore, because somehow cashews seem to migrate into even putatively nut-free dishes. No pesto, either, though I love it. I'm not allergic to pine nuts (they're seeds, not nuts, if you wanna get anal about it), but many restaurants evilly cut corners by using walnuts, which are cheaper. (It's a sacrilege, if you ask me.) Three years ago, a waitress huffily swore to me that no walnut had ever graced her cafe's pesto sauce. Half an hour later, I was unconscious and blue on the floor. But, after being rushed to St. Vincent's, intubated and pumped full of epinephrine, then experiencing a full recovery and dating one of my paramedics, I bear no grudges.

The only surefire solution to the nut problem? I am forced to eat in exquisitely expensive restaurants, where the waiters always have a clue and the chefs know the ingredients of everything that passes through their kitchen portals. It's a burden, but somehow I carry on.