The Pressure Cooker: Dinner as the First Date

Neil* sent one of the first serious responses to my ad, and he included his IM. I chatted with him while I read and responded to some other messages I’d received. We covered the basics (Where are you from? What do you do? What music do you like? etc.) and exchanged photos. He was neither gorgeous nor hideous, he seemed like a nice enough guy, and we seemed to have quite a few interests in common. So when he asked me out after a couple hours of chat, I said sure. I almost immediately regretted agreeing when, after I asked what he had in mind, he said he wanted take me to dinner somewhere "special."

My belief is that going out to dinner is one of the absolute worst first dates you can have. In fact, dinner alone shouldn’t be a date until you’re completely comfortable with the person you’re dating. My reasons for this belief are plentiful. One, you're eating (obviously), which, for me, introduces problems including, but not limited to: maintaining conversation while trying to trudge through a menu (I’m one of those people who finds menus daunting and takes forever to choose, usually only selecting when the server comes 'round for the umpteenth time and I feel I can dawdle no longer); maintaining conversation while stuffing your face; not spilling your food or drink or your date’s food or drink on yourself or on your date (I fail at this almost daily); overcoming the odds of the exponential increase in the potential for foreign objects becoming lodged in your teeth.

Then, of course, there’s the whole eye contact thing. You’re sitting across from this person you barely know or don’t know at all, and you have to decide just how much eye contact is enough. Too little and you’re avoiding him; he might think you find him unattractive or that you have something to hide. Too much and you just make everyone uncomfortable. Then there’s the fact that most restaurants just don’t offer a great deal of stimulation for conversation if the one you’re having happens to fall flat. Medieval Times and Marrakesh aside, you probably aren’t getting loads of interesting things to talk about heaped upon you at your dining establishment of choice (and I wouldn’t necessarily recommend first dates that involve eating only with your hands, so both those restaurants are off my dating list).

Then there are the questions about your date’s behavior… How does he react to poor service? Will he pitch a fit and call the manager if the bread isn’t warm enough or if the bartender gives him two olives instead of three in his martini? Does he get loud after a glass or two of wine and disrupt everyone else’s dinner? Will he try to order for you? What if he wants to eat off your plate? Does he leave lousy tips? Are his table manners akin to those of a Marmoset monkey? Will he try to stick you with the bill? In meeting someone for the first time for dinner, these are all questions to be considered.

Aside from my general distaste for dinner as the first date, that this guy thought I was worthy of something ‘special’ after our relatively brief exchange made me a little wary. And even if it hadn’t, I hadn’t been on an actual date in more months than grace a calendar year, and I’d never been on a date with someone I’d never met. I wasn’t pleased with the whole proposition.

“Oh. Dinner? Really? I was thinking something low-key, without a lot of pressure,” I responded.

Nonetheless, he persisted. “I just mean somewhere I haven’t taken another date.” And so it was decided: by the next day we had reservations at a semi-swanky Dupont restaurant the coming Wednesday evening. Another prospect I found none-too-thrilling, since it wasn’t something I’d budgeted for, and I’m a firm believer in paying (or at least offering with conviction) my share.

I arrived a few minutes early and hung around outside hoping he’d arrive soon. He didn’t, and I found myself inside faced with a host who seemed hospitable enough, but I realized I had no idea what this guy’s last name might be when asked for the reservation. Fortunately, Neil came over from the bar just in time to rescue me, and we were promptly seated.

Neil ordered a bottle of wine and some steamed mussels for an appetizer. Mussels? The prospect of digging the little rubbery buggers out of their shells without sending one flying across the room à la Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman was a little daunting. Somehow I knew it’d be less endearing if I did it than it was with her. Plus, there was a decided lack of guys in tuxedoes standing around waiting to catch flying mollusks. So the pressure was on.

Fortunately, I managed to keep my mussels at our table, perhaps even on or near a plate, but it didn’t make the experience less intense. Unfortunately, that was about the only intense thing about our date. Actually, it was about the only thing remarkable in any way. The food was good, as was the service, but, although the conversation was pleasant enough and wasn’t painfully dull, it tended toward the mundane.

Neil, as nice and successful a guy as he is, seemed to have no capacity for imagination. Call me childish, or whatever you will, but I enjoy the company of people who can keep up in a conversation that ranges from how much Matt Drudge Rules Our World to whether or not pirates actually kick more ass than ninjas to what the big deal about Chuck Norris is to the big ol’ mess we’re in to how gross it is to think of Screech having sex (not to mention the gross-out factor of the Dirty Sanchez). I’m happiest when having conversations that seem to flow seamlessly from one topic to another, however discordant they may be.

Anyhow, the main revelation in the conversation with Neil was his workaholic tendencies, and I had to wonder if and when he’d have time to date at all. When our meal was complete, he paid the tab (which helped my wallet and hurt my pride a smidge) and politely walked me to my door. We exchanged general goodnight pleasantries with mention of “doing this again” sometime. I e-mailed him the next day to thank him again for dinner. That was pretty much the end of it.

On immediate reflection, I thought of the date as less-than-desirable. Hadn’t I asked for a great conversationalist? Someone with a great imagination? Neil was neither, and although I realized the date wasn’t terrible, I thought it left a lot to be desired. Since I’d posted my ad that Monday, I’d been receiving more and more responses. By the time I got back from dinner with Neil Wednesday night, they probably numbered in the 70-range, so I had a little hope that I’d have some more pleasant experiences.

The next two outings with CL guys made me re-evaluate my analysis of the date with Neil. Compared with them, Neil looked like a prince, dull conversation or no.


* Names have been changed -- for the innocents and the slimeballs alike -- because, hell, I’d want my name changed if someone were putting me in a blog. (And who’s to say any of those were their real names anyway?)