When Life Gives You Lemons...

Whenever I speak to friends (or even dates) about my dating life, I’m often asked about how bad it gets. Specifically, “Tell me about your BAD dates!”

Well, gentle reader, bind those britches and pour yourself a spot of tea, Bellyrina’s got a story for you.

Before I begin, I want to mention that I’ve been on (unfortunately) several bad dates. ‘Tis the nature of the beast, really. You walk into the arena knowing you won’t walk out unscathed. This particular date, however, is one of my favourites to narrate as an example of a “bad date” because of how colossally, laughably terrible it got, and how quickly. Note that I mentioned “laughably”, because there have been bad dates that veered more towards the “terrifying” end of the scale. But we’ll come to those another time. 

For today, I present to you – The Chef.

Note: Image used for representational purposes only

The Chef and I matched on Bumble shortly after the end of the lockdown (the second one, I think). We got to texting, and it went quite well – conversation flowed easily, he was articulate, had a witty sense of humour, and all those things that present themselves as positives when you first start talking to someone on a dating app.

Over the course of the conversation, he mentioned that he was very interested in food and cooking (not professionally, he did it for the love of it). “Nice”, I thought. It isn’t often you meet men who can not just cook, but who actually enjoy experimenting and trying out new recipes. He sent me pictures of stuff he had cooked – stuff ranging from grilled salmon to basque cheesecakes and everything in between. The man wasn’t just making rajma chawal, he was MasterChef-ing it up.

Anyhow, we chatted for a couple of days and then planned to meet up for drinks and dinner. I picked a restaurant close to where I lived, one that had become my regular first-date place. So much so that I’m fairly certain the waiters had a pool going. It being a weekday, I mentioned I’d meet him at around 7:30 pm, once I was done with work and had time to pretty myself up. Picked out a cute dress and heels, got my besties to approve the look, the works.

Gentle reader, I might as well have saved myself the effort.

He texted at 6:45 pm, saying that he had already arrived. “Wow, that’s eager”, I thought to myself. “Good sign? Or slightly desperate?” I shushed my inner chatter and proceeded to get ready to head to the venue. Arriving at 7:30 pm as planned, I saw him seated at a table close to the entrance.

Wearing workout clothes and running shoes.

Dirty, sweaty, workout clothes.

With nine glasses on the table in front of him. Five of them empty, one in the process of getting there. 

Years of corporate life and Zoom calls meant I could hold a poker face, but my brain was screaming “WTF” in 17 languages – and I only speak 4!

I greeted him and sat down. Frankly, that was my first and biggest mistake.

Turns out he had decided to get in his evening run on his way to the date. Meaning he had run the 5-odd kilometres from his house to the restaurant, and no, hadn’t bothered to carry a change of clothes or seemingly even a towel to mop himself up. And I soon understood why he was as early to the date as he was, and what the deal was with all those glasses.

Dear reader, he wasn’t eager. He simply didn’t want to miss Happy Hour. In the 45-ish minutes between his arrival and mine, he had managed to knock back 6 drinks.

You’d think I would have left at this point. I kinda wish I had. I could even see the waiters looking at me like “Gurl, he ain’t it!” But call it good old-fashioned stupidity, I stuck around thinking there might be a sliver of the interesting personality I had detected in that text conversation.

Anyhow, we got to talking, and I realise this man isn’t just interested in food and cooking, he’s… a tad intense about it. He spoke about a few of the recipes he had tried recently, and then asked me whether I liked cooking. I told him that honestly, my approach to cooking was more functional – I cook so I could control the kind of nutrition I get. I don’t exactly enjoy the process or derive any sort of succour from it. He cocked his eyebrow slightly at this, seemingly deeming me inferior for having that viewpoint.

He then proceeded to ramble more about food, and how he was very particular about even the quality of ingredients he used in his cooking. At this point he paused and looked to me.

The Chef: “You’re South Indian, right? You must eat a lot of fish.”

Me: “I do, yes. A couple of times a week.”

The Chef: “Where do you source your fish from?”

Me: “Errrm… Nature’s Basket? Sometimes Licious? Why?”

At this point, The Chef looked practically aghast, as though I had insulted his ancestors. Shaking his head disappointedly, he goes “No no, if you like seer fish, there’s this place off the coast of Visakhapatnam that has the best fish.”

Ah yes, the after-effects of Happy Hour were kicking in.

“I’m sure, but it wouldn’t exactly be feasible for me to visit the opposite coast twice a week to source fish for my meals.” I don’t think my oh-so-delicate sarcasm could penetrate the vodka-fume fog, because he didn’t even respond to that. He simply waved me off, as one would a pesky insect buzzing over their dessert. Yup, waved me off.

I should have left then. But well, the story gets better.

He continues to ramble, really just talking at me rather than to me at this point. He starts telling me about how, prior to the lockdown, he and a friend had been exploring creating a collection of artisanal liqueurs. “How interesting”, I responded, and I meant it. It did sound like a fun project, and possibly something we could build some conversation out of. He then starts to talk to me about how he was working on this recipe for limoncello, and how he had sourced the lemons from someplace-or-the-other.

He then pauses, his glazed eyes looking straight at me, and goes, “Lemons, yeah? Not limes. You know, the yellow ones with the knobs on the ends?”

“Speaking of knobs…”, I couldn’t help but think to myself. This man was mansplaining lemons to me. Lemons.

We then got to the point of ordering dinner. After the dumpster fire that the evening had been thus far, I figured I might as well get a good meal out of it. As we both perused the menu, The Chef rambled on about how when eating out, he would only order stuff he couldn’t make himself at home. “Fair enough”, I shrugged. If I cooked that well, I might have similar views.

He then asked me what I was planning to order. 

Me: “The pasta looks good, I think I might get that.”

The Chef: “Pasta?! That’s so many carbs! I thought you were into fitness?!”

Gentle reader, it was at this point that I stood up and walked away. Unmatched and blocked him the instant I was out the door. Hailed an auto and headed home.

Nobody puts Baby in a corner, and nobody tells Bellyrina not to eat pasta.

And that, gentle readers, is the story of my encounter with The Chef. This happened at least 3 years ago now, but it’s still my go-to story when someone asks me about my “bad date” experiences. I’m sure you can see why. 

Until next time,

Bellyrina