DINNER WITH A STRANGER

DINNER WITH A FUNERAL PLANNER

Louise’s Trattoria
1008 Montana Ave.
Santa Monica, CA



Emily is a Funeral Planner. You’ll meet her when you discover a tumor that’ll kill you in a month or when rotting away in a nursing home, ready to plan your future. You won’t meet her if you’re suddenly hit by a bus or decapitated by a helicopter blade.

We met her at Louise’s.

It was a Monday around 7:30pm, and the little Italian joint on Montana Ave, was just what we expected. The staff, in pressed pleats and neckties, gave the place an upscale feel. While cheesy Italian prints and a disturbingly large amount of children and spaghetti kept it casual and unpretentious.

After taking a booth in the back, our waiter rushed over, offering “wine or a beer to start?” In dire need of one or the other (or both), we looked to Emily, who replied “No thanks. I don’t drink.” Never feeling guilty for drinking in the presence of someone who doesn’t, we ordered two La Creama pinot noirs (great tasting), an Amstel Lite (better than piss) and Emily’s Diet Coke (good on rust).

A bus boy dropped off a basket of herb-toasted focaccia, and a plate of olive oil and balsamic to tango in front of us. Hangry, we ripped into the basket, plunking the thick, delicious dough into the rich, flavorful oils. Complementary bread is always a good but this was delicious.

After placing our order we got into a little small town small talk. Emily grew up in a small suburb of Massachusetts, in a staunchly religious family of 6. She went to school close to home. Went to church, close to home. Even chose a career that was all too close to home: teaching. Just like her mother.

She taught Spanish at the same high school she attended, in the same town she grew up in, with the same friends, same family and same congregation. Sounds like a plotline right out of an afterschool special on the Trinity Broadcasting Network, right?

Well, that is, until Chapter L.A., Verse 01: 09
She saw the light in the form of a boy. A boy who uprooted our little Emily from Pleasantville to Encino. He was following a dream of becoming part of “the industry”, and she was following him. And suddenly the story of a little pietist from Little Town, MA got very, very interesting.

As our food arrived, we proceeded to dig in. To pizza. To pasta. And to Emily.

When we asked her how the hell she became a Funeral Planner, she simply replied, “I knew a girl. I saw how much money she made. I liked the idea of all that money and well, I don’t mind funerals.”

Death is a billion dollar industry. And until they find a cure, Emily can sell a wrinkled widow with the line, “This is the last way you can take care of your kids,” and make a nice little living, on the dying.

The Pappardelle with Italian Sausage was in a light (by which they mean heavy) cream sauce with big chunks of Italian sausage on top with even bigger chunks of fennel seeds inside. They overpowered the entire dish, that, by the way, was our waiter’s recommendation and a “specialty of the house.”

We should have taken that as a sign of things to come. But as disinterested as we were in the food, we were fascinated with our stranger. And so we asked Emily to take us through a typical day, which turned into her planning our funerals.

Q: Do you want to be cremated or buried?

A: Cremated

You’ll purchase a cardboard box for $395 bucks and they’ll throw you in a giant oven. Like the oven at Pizzeria Mozza in Hollywood, but for bodies, not LA’s best pizza. After 2 hours of cadaver cookin’, they open the oven to 8 pounds of ash left in the shape of your body. They double bag them, and they’re ready to spread. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RpuMAvA8M6g&feature=related

And speaking of cremation (sorry, I couldn’t help it), let’s talk Chicken Portobello Mushroom Ravioli’s. They were stuffed with a dry blend of chicken and ricotta that was comparable to dehydrated couscous. The sauce tasted like a can of whole cream spiked with slimy mushrooms. It’s only redeeming quality was that it was sort of moist, I guess. But even still, it couldn’t counter torrid, parched pillows.

Q: For your funeral service, do you want an open casket or closed?

A: Open

It starts with picking a casket. You could get a simple, wood case for $900 or a solid copper, super soft stuff inside, double-layered casing for $189,000. You even have to option to get a “used” casket. One that has been used to show a body for a funeral service before cremation.

On that note, our next open casket arrived. A platter of Chicken Parmigiana. It looked correct when it arrived, but one cut into the pounded, fried chicken breast and we knew we were in for another disappointment. The chicken was dry and overcooked. The typically battered, crispy shell was doused in Ragu, which turned the fried goodness into a soggy disaster. (Tasted worse than picture looks.)

Even though the conversation turned to embalming, it was still more appetizing that the plates on our table. We divvied up a Margarita Pizza covered in sliced tomatoes and basil, sitting in an overly sweet sauce as Emily dropped some knowledge on us. It was the worst dish of the night paired with the most interesting conversation.

Apparently, after you croak, your body is taken to a care center and put in a fridge, which is exactly where the pizza probably comes from too.WARNING: Make sure family knows burial wishes, or end up waiting in a fridge for over a year while they fight about it. True story. Anyways, then they then drill a hole in your neck, two in your feet, and drain the fluids out one end and pump them into the other.

“Well, that’s if your body is intact. Don’t ever watch an autopsy on YouTube.”
- Emily…. Or do. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VRAh3Qse-Us

Emily’s first day at a care center included victims of a suicide and a car accident (beginner’s luck). She assisted an embalmer – who she tells us are mostly gay males (chock it up to sensitivity and a flair for makeup application) –in breaking bones back into place and sewing hard, stubborn skin around them. She stuffed cotton into a nose cavity to bring the relaxed cartilage back to visual life. Even put bubble gum behind the eyelids of a retina donor to give them shape and keep them closed. (Sugar free only, sugar dissolves)

As our actually very fitting dinner conversation continued, we crossed our fingers and tried the Linguine Alfredo. Something so staple and simple that it’s impossible to fuck up. A starch, drenched in butter, cheese and cream. Well, let’s just say we’ve had better from a Lean Cuisine box. Strike 5, Louise’s.

Q: Do you have any special wishes?

A: Here is where you would explain to Emily that over your lifetime, you have cremated and kept all of your cats in urns upon your mantel. You’d then explain your wish to line the inside of your casket with these remains, so you and you’re 6 cats could lie together in eternity. Oh yes, a previous client of hers.

She concludes by telling us about the post death package. A kit that includes all the things you’d never think of but must have. Safe deposit box keys, bank account information, thank you cards, letters to cable companies, electric companies and other contacts you’d never think of...


Now that our funerals were planned, we ordered a little depression control in the form of dessert. We slaughtered 4 layers of dense cake situated between layers of thick chocolate fudge, surrounded by dribbles of hot fudge and raspberry puree. Perfect for those who like rich, coma-inducing desserts that’ll make you have to special order a fat casket. It was actually delicious. A perfect bookend to the bread (honestly, the best thing we had all night) to hold up and otherwise horrendous meal.

But that wasn’t the sweetest part of the night. That came when, drunk on cake, Emily let spill that she and her boyfriend were starting a business shooting erotic photos of women in their basement. Emily claims it’s an art, inspired by the 19th century burlesque movement. But it’s pretty clear that this didn’t start on a whim. Could it be? Our little choirgirl has a bit of a bad streak? A teacher, turned death merchant, turned fetishist?


Unforgivable. Much like our meal.