Feed the lettuce to the bunny and eat the bunny.

Dashiell Hammett

There are two types of eaters in America. 

First, the Texans and their ilk, who start queuing for the Vegas All You Can Eat Buffet at 5am – and boy, are they going to get their money’s worth. Talk about taking it literally. Staff have to nail the tables to the floor for fear of the mobile hunger homes moving onto wood once they’ve cleaned up the bacon and eggs. 

And then there’s Eva Longoria.

If you want to be thin in America, there’s only one question you have to ask as you reach for the plate: “Would Eva Longoria Bastón (or whatever her latest surname is) eat it?”

A dish of of nuts and chips is placed in front of you at the bar? By habit, you might reach out. Beware. Take a rain check. Look, but don’t touch, and just ask yourself: “Would Eva Longoria eat them?” It’s a definitive No. 

You don’t get to be, and maintain a size zero (even after pregnancy) – not to mention acquire a perfect mouth that looks as if it has just had a lipstick manicure – by ramming a plate of deep-fried potatoes and 204 calories an ounce macadamia nuts down your gullet.

So, it’s farewell to the chips and nuts. And don’t even contemplate an afternoon tea, which arrives with a long dish of Italian sweetmeats and biscuits. “Would Eva Longoria eat them?” Only if you chloroformed her first and force-fed them.

You must apply the same rule to all bars and restaurants – especially Italian ones. Take Il Fornaio, a lovely, friendly Italian establishment on Canon Drive. Their pasta list is extensive – Spaghetti Calamari and Broccoli, Fusilliani alla Trentina, Tarte Con Argosta, a veritable opera of choices. By all means, make your way down the list, but “Would Eva Longoria eat it?” No, no, no. Just a black espresso for me, please.

The first meal I ever ate in the US was at the Grill on the Alley in Beverly Hills. I ordered what seemed to be healthy fare: grilled steak, a baked potato, one side of green beans and one side of grilled mushrooms.

A cow arrived on my plate, followed by a potato farm, a field of beans, and 12 mushrooms that wouldn’t have looked out of place in New York’s Easter Parade and Bonnet Festival. A third of the way through the meal, it looked bigger than when I started.

“Would you like a takeout?” said the waiter. Sorry, but I don’t have a truck big enough.

Ordering anything, I quickly discovered, is to enter a danger zone, and asking the Eva question is therefore a guaranteed way to lose those extra pounds. Having inadvertently stumbled upon the perfect diet (No always means No), I have been able to maintain a relatively low weight (my slim frame is a freak show at the Vegas buffet; I nearly got eaten as a side dish).

I suspect that Eva Whatsherface, like every other thin woman in LA in particular, enjoys playing with the occasional salad – without dressing (are you crazy?) – and, to this end, I am now perfecting the art of steering a leaf around my plate, without ever consuming it, while giving the impression that I am stuffing my face. Over the radish, under the yellow pepper, slalom around the red onion – I can make a leaf’s journey around my plate last longer than a Grand Prix. And, by the end of its course, it really does look half consumed.

Another technique sure to bring about this apparition of greed is to place the weight of a cherry tomato in the middle of, say, a mound of rocket: it flattens the centre of the display to such an extent, your dining companion might be tempted to tell you to slow down, for fear of your developing indigestion through over-eating.

Or, you can achieve the weighing down technique simply by moving all your rocket to the side of your plate, taking a piece of bread (obviously, without eating a crumb), ripping it in two and squashing it down at each end of your rocket pile, thereby giving the appearance of real over-indulgence – carbs, heaven forbid: the woman’s a pig – yet leaving the restaurant thinner, albeit starving.

When it comes to drink, I sip, and alternate with water; I can make a glass of wine last two hours. In New York, I’ve been admonished for drinking too slowly (something that never happened to me in the UK).

Unlike New York establishments, Beverly Hills restaurants are very tolerant of the non-eating and semi-non-drinking diner. My lunch at Il Fornaio lasted three hours, during which both my guest and I ate not a morsel and consumed just two bottles of water. One of my British friends and new to LA is still keen on her food (how quaint – she’ll learn) and bemoans this aspect of the culture. She says she gets invited to breakfast meetings where there is no breakfast, and spends the whole time wondering when the sausages are coming.

Of course, I knew before I lived in LA when I first arrived, that drinking in public was pretty much a no-no, but especially so during the day. If the answer to “Would Eva Longoria eat it?” is No, the answer to “Would Eva Longoria drink it?” is: You must be insane. 

Glass of champagne? 150 calories. Dry white wine? 120. As for that $4 Happy Hour 220 calories a pint Stella, you deserve to be locked up and put in restraints, you over-indulgent hog. 

You don’t shrink to the kind of shape that gets blown away in an LA earthquake by consuming empty calories.

So, the route to being thin is the Eva Longoria eating and drinking plan, and just watch your weight start heading in the right direction and your first pair of size zero jeans.

Eva Longoria, eat your heart out.

Oh, I forgot: she can’t. Too many calories.