Hungry, Hungry Human

Posted on April 16, 2012

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Starting this blog (i.e. going on three times the dates I normally would) comes with its definite perks. Mainly, I get a whole lot of free dinners.

But, as a general rule, I think just drinks for a first date is the way to go. After all, there’s nothing worse than knowing before you even open your menu that a guy is all wrong for you, but having to sit through an entire salmon lovers sushi platter for two.

Anyway, when Gary asked me out for a first date drink at 8pm on a Friday, I was glad to have the potential out after one beer if necessary.

We met at a sports bar on the Upper East Side, and as we sat down at a table, Gary asked, “Did you already eat or do you want to order food?”

“Oh, I’m OK. I already had dinner,” I said.

“Me too,” he said. “I cooked, and it was one of my best meals yet.” He then went on to explain in great detail the extravagant feast he had created for himself. There was pasta. There was salad. There was a baked potato. By the time the waitress interrupted, he was describing the ice cream dessert.

“We’ll have two Blue Moons, and I’ll have the club sandwich,” he said.

Confused, I asked, “Oh didn’t you just say you’d already eaten?”

“Oh yeah, but I love the club sandwich here. Is it alright with you if I eat?” What I was really wondering was if it was alright with his body if he ate. After all, it seems like he already had enough in there to feed a small country.

But alas, that club sandwich came, and he devoured it.

“I feel awkward that you’re just watching me eat,” he said halfway through. “Here, have my pickle.”

Distracted by his feeding frenzy, our conversation was pretty stilted. Basically, I was over it.

An expert at escaping a tricky situation, I had a plan. My friend’s strategic phone call came just as he was finishing off the last of his fries. (I had texted her from the bathroom.) I stepped away to answer it, and when I returned, informed him that I completely forgot that I had told my friend I’d go to a party with her. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “But I really have to run.”

“That’s no problem,” he replied. “I’ll just go with you.”

In hindsight, there are so many things I could have said at this point. “It’s actually a private party.” Or, “My friend’s going through a breakup and really wouldn’t like that.” Or “Honestly, I don’t like you at all.” Instead, I said, “OK.”

As we jumped in a cab, I was thankful that my friend actually was at a party we could crash. We emerged in Astor Place, and Gary announced, “Oh, a McDonald’s! Thank God, I’m starving.”

“Wait, seriously?”

“Yeah, I eat a lot. Let’s stop here for a bite before we hit that party.” He ordered a Big Mac, a chicken sandwich and a large order of fries. I watched him eat in silent shock.

By the time we arrived at the party, I was both annoyed and disgusted by Gary. He didn’t stay long before getting the hint and telling me he had to leave. His excuse for cutting the night short? He was hungry.

 —Raz, 25, NYC

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