The Chef: At your convenience? I think not

The Roommate, who was at the time living vicariously through my adventures in CL dating (more to come about her own foray into the deep, dark web) actually found The Chef’s ad and insisted I reply to him. His ad sounded pretty good, so I have to give her credit.

We exchanged a series of wonderful e-mails, asking one another a ton of random questions. He was good at the game, seemed to have a great (sarcastic) sense of humor, and, after all, he was a chef.

We met outside the Dupont Metro one evening. He got bonus points for making out at after a long, torturous day at work and even managing to maintain a decent, witty conversation.

We went to the Circle for a bit of people-watching. He told me about his love for Halloween (he actually went one year as a piece of bubble gum stuck to the bottom of a flip-flop. Gross, but pretty original, no?), some little-known (or at least not known to me) historical facts about the District, and how he came to be a chef. There’s really no telling what I divulged to him, but the conversation was engaging, and he seemed to be enjoying himself as much as I was. Pretty soon, the brass band that often graces the Circle sent out a few notes, and we decided to grab an iced coffee and position ourselves for a better listen. We spent a while bobbing our heads to the beat and enjoying watching the group work the crowd (nothing like having cute little kiddies out there getting down with the band to keep the dollars pouring into that conspicuously-placed five-gallon bucket). He explained some things to me about the way brass bands work and how much he loved the music.

For some reason I told him about The Resolution. One of the random questions he’d asked was if I kept my New Year’s resolutions, and I hadn’t thought it necessary to go into too much detail via e-mail. But I was having such a nice time with him that my overwhelming compulsion to tell the truth won out. I just couldn’t not tell the guy. Looking back, I think this might’ve been what put the brakes on in something that otherwise had been coasting along at a pleasantly agreeable rate.

When we hugged goodnight, he said we’d have to get together again. I agreed and went on my way.

The next day I forwarded him a message about kickball (we’d discussed his love for the game the night before) one of my friends sent me and said I’d had fun with him the night before. He replied to that one, but suddenly he was so “busy at work” that our e-mail and chat correspondence dropped to almost nil. We still discussed going out again a couple weeks later. He asked that I pick a place, and I did, but the day before we were supposed to meet I asked if I could postpone. The Roommate and I had just moved that weekend, and we could barely walk in the house because of all the boxes everywhere. I had to clear my schedule to get things done around there to regain some sense of sanity.

After that, though, the e-mails from The Chef went to nil and we stopped chatting altogether. It was mostly on his end, but I’d been on several more dates by then and my interest had waned as well.

Almost exactly a month after I’d last heard from The Chef, a tragedy occurred in the kitchen of Casa de la Belle. While she was preparing dinner, The Roommate let out a shriek the likes of which I can’t remember hearing outside a horror movie. I jumped up and ran over to see what was wrong, afraid she’d chopped off a thumb or something. The cry was one of utter devastation and remorse, and it was all because of a broken knife. Yep, that’s right. A broken knife. Before having lived (and cooked) with The Roommate, I would’ve thought this reaction a bit over the top. But the knife was the only one she used, really. She “traded” someone in a hostel for it while she was backpacking in Europe (this might be her only devious act ever, so I won’t alert the authorities), and it was a top-grade Italian chef’s knife that cut and chopped and diced and sliced with the greatest of ease.

Anyhow, the result of the knife breaking is that The Roommate threatened to boycott the kitchen altogether and leave the cooking to me until she found a suitable replacement. This, friends, is completely unacceptable. Initially, I did a search for the brand of knife, but their site didn’t have the type she needed and didn’t cater to my needs for U.S. currency conversions. I couldn’t find the brand on eBay or anywhere else. Being that I’ve been spoiled in my current living situation with nightly dinners that consist of more than three or four rotating staples, I wasn’t exactly thrilled with the prospect of reverting to eating out all the time or subsisting on the three or four dishes I can cook with relative competence. I went into emergency mode. I did what I always do if I can when I need advice about something; I consulted the expert. In this case, that meant asking The Chef.

I sent an e-mail and heard nothing back. This was Sept. 27. On Oct. 15, The Chef IMed me through gmail chat. It surprised me. I expressed as much. He was cordial and flirty, revealing that he’d gotten another chef position with less stress and better hours and that his roommate had gone and joined the Air Force, so he’d essentially had a ton of down time lately. Then he fished for an invitation to the Halloween party I’m attending this weekend (he loves Halloween). I considered inviting him. We had, after all, had fun together, and he’d seemed like a really cool guy. But then I thought about it, and he’s the one who bagged me. He’s the one who suddenly became busy, didn’t return my e-mail. Why should he get what he wants when it’s convenient for him? That’s no longer the way Belle operates.