Life Is Too Short Not To.

We have a headache. Which is to be expected, considering that less than twenty-four hours ago, we consumed a MASTERFUL AND GENIUS SEVEN-COURSE MEAL WITH WINE PAIRINGS. No, we didn't go to some schmancy Zagat-touted restaurant. This event of worldwide importance transpired at the homey abode of Simon's lovely sis-in-law Jo. All 84 plates of wonder were created by VHJ-inner-circleite Matt. Sime and Sera, when not moaning in full-mouthed ecstasy, kept exchanging burning glances that clearly said, "We must blog about this immediately. The world needs to know."

The chef at work.

We don't know about you, but we love us some food porn. Also, we enjoy reading about other people's personal lives. This post is for you if you are like us. It's a glimpse into the VHJ's near-n-dearest at their boho best. (If you aren't into fatty meals or candid snaps of folks you've never met, this post will bore you to tears; sorry; come back later; love you, mean it.)

You've heard of Matt before. He is the one who, when Sera was feeling like emo crap in a bucket of suck, arrived at her pad bearing pasta maker, bacon, Gorgonzola and cream. He's a fine writer, but more pertinent to this here blogversation is his blessed food-related obsessive-compulsive disorder. Matt owns a cookbook written by the psychotic genius who chefs the French Laundry, which is one of those restaurants that require reservations six months in advance. The cookbook talks about cutting little squares of meat "against the grain," fridging fresh fish in exactly the position in which they swam at the moment of their demise, and other frankly weird shit. Many of the recipes start with unseemly bits of offal, and end four days later. Not joking.

Most of us would treat such a cookbook as a novelty item, a glimpse into the inner-mindfuck of a true artist we could never imagine emulating. Matt, on the other hand, sees a fun challenge. He's the foodie equivalent of those crazy bastards who decide they want to swim the English channel.

As you can see, Matt likes to eat.

Matt called Sera up a few months ago and told her he hankered to engineer a feast for twelve. It would be a bit of work, he said with hilarious calm. Would she pitch in her producer's mind for drama and help him create an evening so cool, Oprah would beg to film it for a segment concerning the joie-de-vivreiest Angelenos in the history of ever? Strategy meetings ensued; invitations zipped into the hot little hands of our lucky, lucky jury; and the harmonic convergence of this weekend was the orgiastic, drunkarific result.

Our motley tribe descended upon Jo's, dressed to the nines. Here is the part we recommend to all of you. This is the thing that life is too short (and also waaaaaay too long) not to do: next time you plan a soiree, do mention to your friends that there's no such thing as overdressed.

We know, we know, there's no way in hell you're cooking that much. We understand; when supper's left to us, we usually end up serving pizza and cupcakes. Not everyone is lucky enough to know a cook as talented and maniacal as Matt. But even if your dinner party was catered by drive-thru, it shouldn't stop you from requiring festive attire. Believe us when we say you will derive special pleasure from dining in your finest. You will rediscover the deep hotness of your friends. Also, drunk people are more fun to watch when they're dressed to give an acceptance speech.

So, we mingled in the candlelight, champers-tipsy and newly re-in-love with one another. Simon rocked the orange velveteen blazer and pearl tie-bar. Lovely Wife Julia donned black silk, platform heels and a sideways tiara.

Power couple.

Jo poured her Semitic loveliness into a sparkly gown previously worn by a chanteuse at Cannes.

Sparkly Jo with longtime companion, Wiener.

Dinda and Mollie came as that couple at the cocktail party who make you reconsider swinging as a lifestyle.

Mols and Dinda, on the drive over. You know you want them.

Shana wore a blue crocheted flower in her hair; her Brit beau Dave, natty vest and rocker hair.

Intercontinental love in action.

Michael mixed thrift-store finds with designer duds in that envy-making way that overworked, sleep-deprived, yet nevertheless supermodelesque production designers do.

Matt's Very Hot Musician bro Andy wore a hat that made us reappraise our previous dismissal of Abraham Lincoln as unsexy.

Matt's girlfriend-cum-sous chef Lindsay wore her slinkster dress from Junior Prom, because it still fits, bitches.

Sera wore silver leather flowers in her hair and a capelet fashioned from 100% muppet fur.

Sera as rejected Dorothy Parker's Vicious Circle candidate.

So, we ate a lot. We took pictures of that, too, which we will share here for your droolification.

First, Matt served a soul-crushingly delish amuse-bouche of hamhock paté (sounds gross, tastes like a three-picture deal making artistic horror movies executive-produced by Guillermo del Toro - oh, and you get final cut on the films, and also James McAvoy/Natalie Portman will wake you each morning with a loving round of oral sex. Actually, as good as that all sounds? The paté was better).

Then he served us soup we would gladly kill for. Matt's initial inspiration for the whole event was Sera's offhanded remark that she quite liked the onion soup at Doughboy's, a hipsterlicious Hollywood bakery. "Dude, I can make an onion soup that will make you believe in Jesus," Matt shot back. And so he concocted a heavenly liquid requiring several days of simmering and several pounds of asiago - hands-down the best fucking soup Sera's ever tasted (and, full disclosure, very nearly enough to make her consider emailing Christ an application for the position of Personal Savior).

We strongly suggest someone get this soup on the table for the next Israeli-Palestinian peace talks. If anything can get 'em in the mood to lay down arms, it's a still-bubbling bowlful of broth, spongy bread, and ooey-gooey cheese.

If memory serves, right around the soup course was the first time Jo burst into tears of joy. This behavior would continue throughout the evening, as new and miraculous taste sensations were set before her sparkling bosom.

Many charming toasts were made, and glasses of wine were imbibed. We can't remember how many. More than four but less than all the wine in the world. Matt and Lindz split their time between the table and the roasting-hot kitchen, from whence nirvanic smells wafted. They emerged bearing skate - the fish, not the wheeled shoe - in a vertical sculpture of garlic and pan-seared lemon slice on a nest of oniony delight. Several people proposed marriage to Matt. When he gently refused, we offered to be his slave forever, as long as he cooked us skate every day.

Next came this complicated ravioli-esque pasta dish we can't recall the name of. Redolent of cheese, bursting with sweet buttery goodness, many members of our group decided that they would rather eat pasta created by Matt than anything else they could think of. Yes, including that.

Jules with her pasta plate.

After that, a palate-cleansing grapefruit-tarragon sorbet which Sera failed to photograph on account of she was shrieking with laughter and already so full she feared it was a mistake not to rent forklifts to get people back to their cars after the party.

The Very Hot Jews like meat. We like it so much that we suddenly realized we weren't really that full when Matt set before us a dish of lamb so beautiful we wanted to bronze it. It tasted just as good as you imagine.

Plating the meat course, sexily.

Then we took a much-needed breather - from the food, if not the drink, since Matt took that moment to bust out an epic bottle of dessert wine - and exchanged funny and embarrassing personal stories. Not to harp on the whole dress-up thing, but wearing spangly getups tends to jog one's formal-event memory banks. Visions of Sadie Hawkins Dances past pop into one's head. Michael charmed us with tales of helping his date - a girl! - make her dress. Sera recalled being helpfully informed that her prom dress made her look like a stripper. (It so didn't, at least in comparison to the stuff she started wearing later in life.) Tuxedo war stories abounded. Recollections of exotic travels punctuated by sumptuous meals that lead inevitably to heinous, gut-annihilating food poisoning. Life - isn't she grand?

Finally, Matt served dessert. He ended with another paté, the perfect symmetry of which seemed to soothe that OCD part of his brain. It was made of dense, dark, spiritually enlightening chocolate in a créme anglaise with pistachios. We all had seconds. Plates and fingers were licked. Groans of delight and overindulgence filled the air. Everyone swore they'd take a bullet for Matt, because protecting his gift had become the purpose of our lives.

Dessert, by the time Sera remembered to snap a pic of it.

And then, weary, some of us sloshed enough to require a cab, we collapsed into satiated heaps.

And that, handsome readers, is how the VHJ party. L'Chaim!

All I Want From Jew Is Love

When the Very Hot Jews decided to investigate the key ingredients in Irresistible Jewish Hotness, certain ridiculously fine Hebes leapt immediately to our fevered minds.

Alluring Jewess Shana Levy is one of those. Her statuesque good looks and inherent cool allow her to taunt you with her very being in any crowd, regardless of how glutted with L.A. modeliciousness that crowd may be. Oh — and she's smart, funny and talented. And single, last we heard, though we assume there's a long line of Nice Jewish (or Jew-curious) Boys just waiting for a shot at the Shan-ster.

Shana, in other words, is a shayneh maidel. We vowed we would stop at nothing to bring her hotness to you.

Shana Levy grew up in sunny, Jewy Miami. She's not just Jewish (complete with charming, nutrition-centric Jewish mum) but also a first-generation American Jew. Her dad emigrated from Egypt. Hot.

She moved to the City of Angels for college, snapped up a degree in theater alongside the Sera half of the VHJ, performed in hilarious local theater productions (including one in which she and Sera starred as devoted lesbian lovers), and spent her scant off time putting her 13 years of classical piano training to good use on the Silverlake indie band scene. Her pile of witty lyrics and upbeat-yet-somehow-haunting melodies grew, and she had no choice but to use her power for good by founding Let's Go Sailing.

The sound of flesh straining against clothing that you are even now hearing is not what you think. Yes, we kind of get a boner for Ms. Levy, but what we're doing is bursting with pride. Because tonight, when you are watching Grey's Anatomy along with the other five billion people who need to know if Izzie and George actually banged or just slept together naked like girlfriends do sometimes, you will be hearing not one but two Let's Go Sailing songs.

Our personal fave, "All I Want From You Is Love," will be featured mid-melodrama; "Sideways" got the pimp spot — it's gonna play over that circle-jerk of tears known as the closing montage Grey's inflicts each week. (Go to their myspace to hear all these and more, plus ogle pics of Shana caressing her guitar.)

You know what this means. Oprah will be listening to Let's Go Sailing tonight.

What better time to share with you our searingly in-depth interview with Shana? Scrub up, people. We're going in the lab.

Profiles In Hotness: Shana Levy

Were you always a hot Jew, or did you go through an awkward phase/convert?

I was definitely not always a hot Jew. I was a chubby kid and a huge nerd.

When others praise your hotness, what particular attribute do they most often talk about?

They talk to me about my height and my overall ethnic hotness. I'm a huge Jew!

What do you believe is the key to your hotness?

That I started accepting my flaws.

Did you have a bar/bat mitzvah? If so, what did you wear? What was the most embarrassing this about it?

No, but I had a Gumby-themed 13th birthday party. My parents are pretty old school and bat mitzvahs aren't traditional, so I had the party instead.

I can't remember what I wore, but I ended up wearing the Gumby-themed "I had a blast at Shana's 13th Birthday Party" t-shirt on top of it by the end of the night.

If you didn't have a bar/bat mitzvah, how did you get whatever knowledge you have about Jewish tradition?

My parents and grandfather told me stuff and I went to school with A LOT of Jews in Miami Beach.

What kind of Jew are you, besides hot? Are you observant, just unusually witty and smart, or other? Please explain.

I'm not very observant but I try to fast on Yom Kippur. I think it's important to think about the stuff you did all year that was stupid. Other than that I have some very classic Jewish traits. I'm neurotic and I think I have some form of OCD.

Who is your favorite Hot Jew, besides us?

Tanya Haden.

Double hotness: Shana with Tanya Haden

Have you ever experienced antisemitism? If so, what was your very hot response?

I luckily have experienced very little antisemitism. I think my response to a comment about being a cheap Jew was "Excuse me?" Yeah, I showed 'em who was boss.

Was your family observant?

Yes, my mom lit the candles every Friday and we celebrated the high holidays.

How would you describe your religious or spiritual feelings, if any?
As an adult I realized life is easier when you believe in God.

Do you think your (hot) Jewishness played a role in your career path?

Yes, I think part of Jewish culture is a stress on education and hard work and both of those have helped me.

How frequently do you pepper your speech and/or writing with Yiddishisms?

I say a Yiddish word probably every day. My grandpa and mom spoke Yiddish to each other so it's part of my vocabulary.

Do you have children? If so, what specifically Jewish neuroses are you helping them cultivate?

No, I have cats, but one of them is already showing signs of OCD. I'm very proud.

What is your most secret Hot Jew Fantasy?

Me and Sasha Baron Cohen eating gefilte fish and holding hands ...

No, wait — my Gumby-themed 13th birthday party. Dang, I wish I could go back for just five minutes.