Rose and Larger

I woke up this morning a very hungry girl. No I hadn’t been fortunate enough to enjoy a good Friday night rodgering….I’d essentially missed out on Friday night supper. There had been food but I’d not be quick enough to eat it.

“Fun and easy on the eyes” preceded by “Hey there saucy” were the toe-curling texts I couldn’t resist forwarding to Newlos.

“How does one send these texts after being poured drunk into a taxi and sent home directly less than 12 hours” before I implored.

“Maybe it was nerves or the oysters were bad” Newlos suggested.

Friday night was first-date night…..OK so maybe that’s not the wisest when it’s a Nerve Date but we’d exchanged a few emails and texts and spoken briefly on the phone. We’d connected over gnudi – he claiming that the Spotted Pig was the business, I claimed Falai. He seemed witty enough and was definitely “easy on the eyes” given close Nerve Profile scrutiny.

He’d suggested we meet at the Spotted Pig and then move on the Falai in the Lower East Side. Either this would be date suicide given the no-reservation policy at the Pig or he was “in” with the Pig people. Fortunately he was “in”.

Exiting the taxi, Mario Batali gave me the once over, or more accurately the 10th over….that guy’s everywhere. I snaked through the crowd in my favourite new Tsubi skinny-skinny jeans and flirty Vanessa Bruno “Age of Innocence” cami; hair loosely pulled into a low ponytail.

Yes he was cute (the photos didn’t lie) and yes I do believe he was 36. Nerve-experienced I know that age is definitely the number 1 lie. He’d thought about his appearance….not to my taste but there was effort: Not-bad jeans, ok-loafers, acceptable-button-down shirt and could-be-funky jacket….OK I did wince?…..the jacket needed to go. Dolce and Gabbana maybe, but, a) fingering to highlight such label not cool, and b) gastro-pub-cool and 80 degree weather does not demand lapels.

Things started out promisingly. He’d given me the once-over – perhaps a little to obviously (nine times less than Mario) and introduced me to the Manager, getting the “anytime you want a table Mate” assurance. Bumping into a friend of his he’d ordered drinks for the three of us.

OK, commonalities with Date Boy: we both lived in the East Village. Commonalities with Friend: he worked for an Australian company and Vegemite was pantry staple. Date Boy suddenly looked not so self-assured and sensing potential third-wheel relegation downed his Rose and opted to fetch another round.

Three Rose’s later (him not I), I stuck to the one Sauvignon Blanc…I suggested that perhaps he give the “Matey” nod to the Manager about that table….Eventually sitting down I detected that Date Boy was a little tipsy. Engaging him in conversation was not difficult we’d gone through school, jobs, family, but it was a little dull. Not for long….Date Boy was trolleyed.

Our waiter rattled off the specials and Date Boy ordered both mentioned starters…neither of which I particularly cared for. Diplomatically I suggested that perhaps he just choose one and we would also share some oysters. This he agreed to adding a pint of larger.

The oysters arrived and he dived right in. Emboldened by Rose, larger, oysters (they are a aphrodisiac I guess) and the Dolce jacket warmth (the sweat beads he kept swiping off his nose, apart from those then fell into the mignonette…..well less said the better), Date Boy pulled me into a passionate kiss, depositing a tidbit…..ewwww… a warm back-washed oyster….I’ll stick to Rockefeller for that. There are boys who could pull that off….this boy wasn’t one of them.

As the mains arrived (not fast enough for me) Date Boy swallowed the remains of his third larger, eyed me and the Striped Bass before me less than squarely and swooped on the Bass between bites of his Scallops. I watched amused and somewhat thankful that this date was closing fast. Less than half and hour later I was able to nimbly pile him into a taxi and send him home, allowing me to skip off to a Fashion Week party still feeling skinny in those Tsubi jeans.