A Sarcastic Appetite


A Sarcastic Appetite Dates: Cafe Lalo
May 16, 2013, 9:18 pm
Filed under: Dating

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Image courtesy of Sameer Narula

When I brought the blog back, I was open to taking it in a few new directions. This is one of them. It’s food related only in that it took place at a restaurant. But if it’s entertaining enough, I may continue sacrificing myself to the online dating gods for your reading pleasure. There’s certainly enough content. 

The date was set for 8pm at Cafe Lalo on the Upper West Side. The gentleman in question – let’s call him Bernard – got points for simply picking a place, without 75 text exchanges over where and when, and do you work in Midtown East or Midtown West? But he was coming off a weekend of minus 1,000 points, mostly due to his incessant need to text me at all times with just: “Hey :- ).”

It was something about the nose that made me breathe fire. Who was this guy, and why did he insist on texting me to say absolutely nothing – with a smiley face AND a nose? There was only one way to find out.

So promptly at 8pm I bounded up the steps of Cafe Lalo, after wasting the appropriate amount of time perusing the goods on display at Organic Avenue. (I fled.) Suddenly, I was on the set of You’ve Got Mail. Should I have brought a red rose? I thought. Am I going to meet Tom Hanks?

Actually, my first thought was, It’s hotter than Satan’s armpit in here. Seriously. They had thrown the front windows open and the klieg lights were on. Then again, maybe it was better for me to get a good look at this guy….who just texted to say he’d be 10 minutes late. He was coming from the Financial District, he said, and there was terrible traffic. Did this guy move to New York yesterday? I couldn’t remember – I had purposely blocked out all details of his profile. Better to set a low bar in these situations, I’ve learned. Actually, just set that bar down on the ground. No need to make it difficult.

Another 10 minutes went by…and then another, at which point I began texting a friend the minute-by-minute count of how long I’d been waiting. (23! 24!) We couldn’t decide if I should stay or go. What are the rules when he’s told you he’ll be late? My gut was telling me to get the heck out of there. In retrospect I should have listened.

Thirty minutes after our original meeting time, I received a phone call. Bernard sounded sort of breathless. “I had to get out of the cab and take the subway,” he said. “I’m three blocks away.”

“Well I’m still here,” I replied.

“Did you order anything?”

“No.”

“I’m three blocks away. I’ll be there soon,” he said, and I hung up.

Another eight, maybe 10 minutes went by. Was Bernard in a wheelchair? These were legitimate thoughts I was having as I flagged down the waitress to order a glass of rose. If I’m going to be hot and bothered, I’m at least going to try to pretend I’m sunning myself on the French Riviera. (It wasn’t working.)

Finally, finally, the gentleman in question arrived. I half-stood, as any lazily gracious lady would, to shake his hand….and he sort of grabbed at my right hand with his left. Senator McCain!?!? No – it’s not Senator McCain. It’s a schlubby 40-something guy in a suit jacket and jeans that were clearly meant to fit him…350 lbs ago. Oh, and sneakers. Because he came from a work meeting!

The waitress came by with my wine.

“I hope you don’t mind that I went ahead and ordered something,” I said.

“Oh, it’s ok,” he replied. “Only a little rude.”

I guffawed, because he was obviously jok—oh. No. He wasn’t joking.

I tried to make small talk, asking about his work, and the meeting he just came from, but I could tell instantly this was going to be more tedious than a root canal.

“I have to use the restroom,” he said, and disappeared.

No – he actually disappeared. After 10 minutes I started glancing around. There were only two single use bathrooms at the front of the restaurant, and both were just vacated by ladies. An older gentleman (my target demographic) swanned over.

“Where did your man go?” he asked.

“I think he left!” I replied.

“How could he leave such a beautiful woman,” he asked, laying it on thick. I was happy to play along.

“He knew he had no chance with me,” I replied.

“I am horrified,” he responded. “I own this place. Your wine – it’s on me.”

He told my waitress, who was also horrified, and asked me repeatedly if there was anything else she could get me. I assured her my glass of rose was all I wanted. Soon I got a text from Bernard: “Sorry. Work emergency. Had to go.”

I couldn’t stop laughing.

And to be honest, it was the most delightful glass of rose I’ve had in awhile. The company, of course, was the best part.

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2 Comments so far
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“Oh, it’s ok,” he replied. “Only a little rude.”

I guffawed, because he was obviously jok—oh. No. He wasn’t joking.

This is the apex of insanity. You are hysterical. I hope the older gentleman was at the very least a natty dresser, the best- a silver fox. Love you! Xo

Comment by JChev

[…] But my politeness won over – it seemed too mean to run away. […]

Pingback by A Sarcastic Appetite Dates: Some Nondescript Bar in Times Square | A Sarcastic Appetite




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