A Sarcastic Appetite

A Sarcastic Appetite Dates: Pop Quiz, Hotshot!
June 14, 2014, 2:31 pm
Filed under: Dating | Tags: ,

Have you ever been quizzed on a first date? I don’t mean the standard 20 questions about where you live and what you do, and do you hate your ex with the fire of a thousand dragons, or with the gentler flame of a summer’s campfire? I mean actually being quizzed, typically on math-related topics that relate to the gentleman’s job (in finance, natch). It’s happened to me several times, the most recent being last Wednesday, and so I decided it was a topic worth delving into here on A Sarcastic Appetite Dates.

We met at the Bar at the Modern (his choice, which was an excellent one). He was slight enough to fit in my handbag but fairly cute, and before long we were actually arguing about whether or not I experienced “culture shock” when I lived in London during college. I didn’t think I had, and he vociferously disagreed. The date was clearly off to an excellent start.

Once we (thankfully) moved onto discussing our jobs, he explained that he was essentially a math nerd who worked in finance, and then launched into a discussion about practical mathematics which proved a) he knew what he was talking about; b) he was incredibly pompous; c) he knew what he was talking about; and d) did I mention that he knew what he was talking about?

“Do you cook?” he asked. “I do!” I replied, eager to move the conversation along. “What shape is the pot you use to cook pasta?” he asked.

I wondered if this was a trick question. Where was he going with this? “A cylinder?”

“Ah, yes!” he responded. “Now, what if this pot were square? Could it be square? Why couldn’t it be square?”

Why were we talking about square-shaped pots?

“Wouldn’t that use more material?” I asked.

“So it would be…” he prodded. I felt cornered, and in desperate need of another drink. But this guy had been nursing his one glass of Sauvignon Blanc for the last hour, and it was clear another drink was completely off the table. I wanted a lifeline, and all I had were the watery dregs of a Negroni.

“More expensive?”

He half smiled and cocked an eyebrow at me – apparently I had gotten it right. I felt like a contestant on “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire,” which was firing up my competitive streak until I realized: if I played my cards right, I wasn’t going to win a million dollars; I was going to win another date with a guy who’s been quizzing me.

The bartender must have picked up on my distress, because the bill arrived soon after. And nicely enough he did offer to pick up the tab – without further question.