The Blind Date Dance

I had dinner plans one evening after work with a friend of a friend.  Neither one of us realized it was a blind date, but it was.  I must say that it was well-played on the part of our mutual friend since I’ve steered away from blind dates all of my life.  She invited both of us to a dinner with her and her husband and then bowed out when the scheduling got tricky - the sly minx.

He picked the place, a long-established, somewhat sleepy restaurant located in decent proximity to my office and his business.  I had never been there, but it was one of his favorites, and as it turned out he had worked there as a college student.

I arrived before him and got a table.  A few minutes later a man with chiseled features, ice blue eyes, and hair halfway down his back walked toward me.  His dress spoke of a definite eclectic country style – bolo, boots, jeans and hat, finished off with an intricately detailed tailored blazer.  He was nice-looking, but I had a quick observation – my friend and I have rather different taste in men.   

He greets me warmly and just as he sits and we start to chat the waitress comes to take our drink orders.  He motions to me to answer first.

“A margarita, please.” 

“Should I make that two?” the waitress asks, looking at him.

“No, I don’t drink.  I’ll have a club soda,” he replies. 

After she leaves, he tells me that he’s a recovered alcoholic.  I ask whether my drinking will bother him.  He says no, that it won’t, and that he doesn’t expect others to act differently than they otherwise would because of him.  He is open and direct about the topic, and there is not judgement in either direction.

He peruses the menu and asks which of the soups I prefer.  I tell him the two listed that I like.  He asks how I feel about sharing a bowl of one of them.  I know many people do it, but I don’t like to share drinks and such because, well, I don’t like to share germs.  Not only did my mama teach me it was bad, but my life experiences with my own children have reinforced that lesson more than once.  Despite this, something about the formal manner in which his question is framed nudges me into agreeing. 

The attentive waitress see him look up and comes to take the order. 

“We’ll have the tortilla soup.” 

She asks if we need anything else and after he says, “No, thank you,“ she departs.

His preference to take the lead and do the ordering is clear and not something I usually run into.  I have never been one to be a fan of letting someone else order for me, and I realize that many women would feel the need to be in an uproar right about now, however, his manner is not presumptuous, patronizing, or demeaning in any way. 

When the soup arrives, the waitress places it in front of him.  He asks for a second spoon, which she brings.  He gently pushes the bowl towards me and offers me the first taste.  I take a spoonful and he watches as I sample the soup and smile.  It’s quite good.  I push the bowl back to the middle of the table so that it sits evenly between us.  He scoops a spoonful and tastes it.  We take turns until the soup is mostly consumed.  I set my spoon upside down against the rim.  He takes one more spoonful and then does the same. 

While we share the soup, we chat about our educations and various jobs we’d held throughout our careers until the waitress returns to take our dinner order and clear the bowl.  When she asks for our order he looks at me and asks what I like out of four choices.  I respond with two of them and he nods to the waitress.  She clears the dish and disappears. 

He and I both have technical backgrounds and several scientific topics come up in our discussion.  I have another observation.  This man is clearly very intelligent, but he displays hints of disdain for those who might not be as knowledgeable in, or have a different opinion about, the specific topic being discussed.  He isn’t arrogant and he doesn’t condescend to me, but parts of the conversation feel like a competition to display who knows more about very theoretical topics.  This happens to be something that I have little patience for, but I indulge this part of the conversation so as not to be rude.  Continuing the discussion also allows me to get to know this aspect of him a bit more. 

Our conversation changes to a more moderate pace and the competitiveness dissipates as our main dishes arrive.  Although there are two, we had not specified which was his and which was mine.  We have a new waiter, and he sets both dishes in the middle of the table, asking whether we want plates so that we can share.  We do. 

My date offers me the first selection, but I answer, “After you” since I had gone first with the appetizer.  He chooses from one platter and then the other, and then I do the same, in reverse.  We comment on how wonderful the food is, and, in truth, it is delicious.  Through unspoken agreement we take turns as we eat our dinner.  He finishes one of the platters, and offers that I should have the last of the remaining one.  I accept, but can’t eat all of it, so he finishes the last of the dish. 

We order coffee and take turns going to the restroom.  While he’s gone, I watch the host seat a new party at the table directly behind my date’s seat.  I realize something.  They are the third party that’s been seated there.  The first was already seated when I sat down and were there through the soup, at least.  The second has sat, eaten, and left while we talked and ate our main course.  And here, for our dessert, is the third.  I wonder how long we’ve been here.  I look at the clock on my phone and see that it has been over two hours already.  It registers that an entire group party has come, taken over most of the dining room – it was hard to miss them when they all sang to the guest of honor – and has left as well, all with relatively little notice by me. 

When he returns to the table he asks, “Would you like to share a dessert with me?” 

“I won’t eat much of it, but won’t say no to it,” I answer, smiling.

He orders chocolate cake with ice cream.  We chat a bit about what we are looking for in a person we would date over the coffee and cake.  In general, our wishes are compatible.

When the check comes, he asks, “Will you let me treat you to dinner?” 

I’m surprised by the gentle directness and formality of his question.  “That would be lovely, thank you.” 

“It’s my pleasure,” he says picking up the bill.

When we leave the restaurant, he walks me to my car.  On the way, he mentions that he walked from his office.  As he opens my door I offer to drive him back.  Surprised, he accepts.  When we’ve arrived a few moments later he leans across the front seat, hugs me, and kisses my cheek.  Then he says goodbye and gets out of the car.

As I drive home, I realize that the entire date has progressed with a sense of comfortable courtesy, like a sort of elegant dance.  Not only have we have passed three hours enveloped in each other’s company, for my part at least, it was without registering much of what was occurring in the room around us.  It was a very warm date. Perhaps the occasional blind date is worth allowing after all.

I find the dinner dance to have been quite enjoyable.