Found on reddit, the front page of the internet.\n\n0 points and 36 comments so far
C’mon Reddit can’t we just get along? I’d take you out for dinner were you not an ugly troll living in your parents basement.
Found on reddit, the front page of the internet.\n\n0 points and 36 comments so far
C’mon Reddit can’t we just get along? I’d take you out for dinner were you not an ugly troll living in your parents basement.
You know the phrase tall, dark and handsome? Well how about instead you think short, fat and loud. Meet my first date in all his bizarre socially retarded glory. Now before you write me off as a “mean girl” deserving only a swift kick to the cunt, lets get a couple things straight. Imma tell it like it is. The truth hurts, and usually comes filled with statements like “your unibrow makes you look ugly”. Sugar coating is for the weak and morbidly obese, not for the thin and pretty. I approach the restaurant when I see him outside; he is unmistakable, sticking out like a sore thumb, wearing a full piece suit in the scorching heat. How shall I describe this? Not a fitted super classy suit with patterned socks and perhaps an ascot, no, more like an oversized obviously cheap and tacky suit. The kind one would wear to a court hearing- you don’t wear suits often do you? So we’ve lost a couple of points on appearance but hey now looks aren’t everything! Who am I kidding? Yes they fucking are. This reminds me of that game “Would you still love me if…I lost an eye, ear, leg” etc. And the answer is, of course, no. I would stop loving you over time and slowly fall in love with a better more equip person and have an affair behind your back all the while feeding you soup and singing you lullabies. Back to reality, now I’ve left out another major detail at this point regarding tonight’s suitor. He is also holding a boutique of flowers. Two words: so embarrassing. Is this guy out of his mind? Does he know what kind of restaurant we are going to? We are not some ancient couple in the suburbs on a date at The Keg. We are in the heart of the cities west end, the only end that matters, and you expect me to walk into this up and coming obviously hipster restaurant with a boutique of flowers? Idiot. Thank god I am getting an amazing free meal out of this. I have yet to hear this man speak and already this is feeling just short of torture. Alright Erin, get it together, be polite, and do everything you can to diffuse the awkward tension. For the sake of this man’s privacy, lets call him Harry. Harry is a whooping 5 foot 2 and is about as wide as he is tall, the words Grecian God come to mind…Okay he’s not as socially retarded as he looks, I’ll give him that, but that’s all I’ll ever give him if you catch my drift. I fight the urge to check my cell phone through all of his stories or rather ramblings. He tells me he comes from a family of “over producers”, spit, sweat, what have you. How charming. Harry is the man who gets nervous and talks too much. To him silence is a living breathing thing that must be squashed, the air must constantly be a buzz with conversations, it’s exhausting. I decide to whip out my cell phone, a dating faux-pas but desperate times call for desperate measures. I aimlessly peruse my phone when suddenly I get a text message from a friend, thank the lord! Apparently she and a couple other theatre school cronies including my beautiful ex-boyfriend are all hanging out at my apartment right now. No dessert please. There is only one thing Harry and I need right now and it’s the bloody check. There comes a time in everyone’s life when the only thing that really matters is showing your ex-boyfriend you’re dating again. For me, this is that moment. Never mind Harry is short, fat, and loud, the point is I’m dating, I’m awesome, people want me, blah blah blah. The check arrives and is swiftly taken care of, courtesy of tonight’s man meat. Then it happens. The absolute worst part of serial dating/any type of dating. You know that moment when you need to figure out what’s happening next? Cue the awkward silence. Will there be a second date? Is the night over? Or is it time to rack your brain for an excuse? Perhaps something a tad more creative then the classic, “I need to get up early tomorrow.” Sigh. A restaurant makes a great one night stand, but men on the other hand, men make things complicated. It’s safe to say myself and Mr. Harry will not be seeing one another again, though he seems to think quite the opposite, in fact he is so boldly presuming I am coming to his house for a sleepover tonight. I stupidly told him I work close by so it makes “so much sense” for me to sleep with him tonight. Frankly it makes about as much sense as me going down on my own sister, no sense at all. So think again Mr. Harry Smelly Sweaty what have you, you just got serial dated!
The get away…
I make a beeline for a cab and alas I am a free woman. As the cab whirls a bunch of corners and heads back into the heart of the city, there is no denying I am missing my ex-boyfriend about as much as a fat kid misses cake. Again for the sake of ex-boyfriends privacy let’s call him Scott. Scott and I were a beautiful couple. We were both “artists”. I put that in quotations because well I just can’t take that sentence seriously unless there are quotations. We loved all the same music we liked poetry, and would constantly talk about the meaning of life. Tortured pretty people, we would sit for hours, documentaries on repeat, and a plan to save the world. We met in theatre school. If you have no affiliation with theatre school, allow me to fill you in. Theatre school is an awful place. Remember I said I spent my entire life searching for validation? Well that is the basis of every course you take in theatre school. But instead of getting the much sought after validation, you are told that you’re shit, you should be a mime, no one can understand a word you are saying, you don’t deserve to be here, you will probably be kicked out, oh and here is your probation sentence that you will be serving for your entire time here. Thanks theatre school, you really know how to encourage young creative artists; every person has a voice right? WRONG. They actually might be right there, I will give them that. Some people do have terribly boring things to say. Ah I digress. Moving on. Wait…FUCK YOU THEATRE SCHOOL. Okay now we can continue. We met in theatre school, Scott and I, but today that’s ancient history. Having graduated over a year ago, we’ve both had ample time to start fucking up our lives. Our relationship ended soon after school ended because I wanted to travel the world and he uhh didn’t. So I travel the world yadda yadda yadda and for mind-boggling reasons that will forever remain a mystery to me, I decided to come back from the big bad world and resume my life, as an illustrious actor, maybe even picking up my old relationship where we left off (a girl can dream). Except now I’ve got a killer tan and life experience, pretty sure those two things are really high up there on those what makes women hot lists. My reminiscing comes to a halt when I realize we’ve made it back to my apartment. Okay Erin you can do this. It’s been like a year, you’re the one who did all the traveling, you are the one whose dating again, you are winning. I enter the apartment and a pretty standard hangout is in full swing. It’s a Monday night just past 10pm- oh none of us have normal jobs so any day of the week is fair game. Now without further ado, there are some people I’d like you to meet…introducing my sassy gay friend with Brittany spears references that will make you dizzy, the hot-headed pretty nerdy extremely opinionated you wouldn’t think he’s gay gay guy, the blunt city girl who is always giggling or doing drugs or both, the extremely phony your smile is a little to wide I can’t trust you obsessed with musical theatre guy, and Scott. We are sitting on miss matched patio furniture on a rooftop drinking cheap wine and an assortment of alcoholic ciders. Life is perfect. Except it’s not because I’m pretty much a poor person with no assets I’m in so much debt and I don’t have an effing career. Everything with Scott goes swimmingly, I mean add a little alcoholic cider to any situation and you’re good to go right? Effortlessly things transition back normal, he notices the flowers, I regale the dating horror story that just ensued, everybody laughs. The tension between Scott and I is palpable. Our friends roll there eyes and everybody knows what’s about to go down. Sleeping with ex-boyfriends is pretty awesome. This statement is only true however if and only if enough time has passed to make it not entirely messy and confusing because who are we kidding it is ALWAYS a tad messy and confusing no matter how much time has passed. It is awesome because you are both free human beings no longer bogged down by crazy relationship problems that are entirely of your own invention. You are no longer crazy people, but living breathing productive people. Your confidence level is at an all time high because you’ve been with other people and yup that’s an ego boost. Plus and this is probably the best part, you know each other sexually. Inhibitions are for the weak and newly partnered. I’m going to skip this part because I don’t talk about stuff like this but you can guess what happened.
The following morning, we lazily get up and go for brunch. It’s like no time has passed at all and we are back in a relationship easy as that. I’ve missed him a lot and spent a ridiculously embarrassing amount of time debating whether or not I should message him while traveling. The killing fields of Cambodia can wait; this girl is crafting the perfect nonchalant facebook message for her ex-lover, how pathetic I know. And now here he is, right in front of me, across a plate of bacon brie eggs benny I can reach out and touch his face. But wait, what about my plan? My mastermind plan to serial date the fuck out of this city scoring as much free foie gras as possible. Why is it when I finally have some brilliant independent man-eating scheme this boy walks back into my life invoking feelings of confusion, which weaken my female soul and mire me with self-doubt. A curse upon ex-boyfriends everywhere! Hmm…hang on a sec, why am I acting so serious? Can’t I have my cake and eat it too? Or in this case have the charcuterie plate AND the elk tartare. Yes, yes I can. Besides this dating thing is too easy, plus surprise surpise I’m low on cash and I’ll be damned if I’m giving up my free meal ticket any time soon. Sorry Mr. Scott pretty as you are, I am not falling for you this time, your smoldering blue eyes got nothing on prosciutto wrapped rabbit! We wrap things up at our favorite brunch joint and as much as I want to continue the day with him, I break things off and head home to my apartment, suddenly I have a lot to do today and by a lot to do, I mean join a lot of dating sites…
Let’s talk about how my twenty something year old life isn’t going as planned and yours probably isn’t either and where the fuck do we go from here? And yes, I am speaking on behalf of twenty something’s everywhere. Well, except maybe China? Not sure why I picked China. Moving on. I am a recent theatre school graduate, needless to say I’ve spent my entire life searching for validation and where has that got me you ask? Well I’m working at a wing place right now, oh and I also “cater”. Which means I clad a men’s suit (yup tie and all) and walk around with a tray of hors d’oeuvres at expensive weddings hating my life and crying silently in bathroom stalls. Why they force the female caterers to dress like men I know not. I can only imagine its yet another supervisor setting out to make my life miserable. “You just gotta look on that bright side”, my supervisor says. His half-baked advice meets my blank stare. Am I missing something? What the fuck is the bright side of having people with low IQs and broken dreams constantly demand you complete these menial monotonous tasks with extreme speed and a smile? The point is there is no bright side. Catering is a disguised hell and I’m burning alive in a man’s suit. Great. I’m dying and I don’t even look good. Let me guess. You’re wondering how I ended up here. How did this once hopeful bright eyed blonde end up catering to the rich and beautiful? Why must she walk amongst the rich as a peasant; her head down, her stare dark, mumbling only a few words like “Would you like to try the salmon?” When all her life she dreamed of being one of them. She dreamed of caviar, dresses imported from Paris, and wines so rare one would mortgage their house to afford.
What went wrong?
It all started when I was a kid. Don’t worry I’m not that asshole who will bore you with every oh so interesting detail of my childhood. I’m far to socially aware for that. Allow me to give you the sum up: my parents let me do whatever I want. Meaning anything I wanted to pursue was encouraged. Didn’t they realize this was only going to lead to copious amounts of origami and an obsession with genealogy charts? No. They didn’t realize that. (Why did everyone fail to mention the art of plumbing?) So about fifteen years go by…I decide to become an actor…yadda yadda yadda and here we are today. Now. This moment. I stand before you as an ill equipped recently single 20 something with dreams of grandeur and absolutely no means of getting myself to the grandeur. Now that you’ve learned a little bit about me, why not come up to my apartment? Meet my apartment. It’s not one of those glamorously spacious apartments you see in romantic comedies and wonder how the fuck would this girl afford that, it’s honest, shitty, affordable. Before we continue any further, you should probably be aware of a condition I have. Although it is a self-diagnosed disorder, it is very real and plagues me every hour of everyday. EPDMSD. Extremely Poor Decision Making Skills Disorder. It is the cause of all my suffering. Had I made better decisions I would have been a corporate lawyer working from my own private yacht by now. But alas EPDMSD got the best of me and I’m trapped in my studio apartment with an embarrassingly out of control pigeon problem (more on that later) and I’m single. Recently single that is, but have no fear ex-boyfriends will come back to haunt us through the course of this book. They will be guiding us through a series of drunken mistakes, camping trips gone wrong, dramatically not getting on airplanes, blackmailed tattoos, and much more. But for now let’s breathe a sigh of relief; actually lets make it a really big sigh of relief. And why might you ask are we so relieved? I mean didn’t I just vomit the details of my life on your face and were they not sad, depressing, and relatively hopeless? Yes, I did just do that. However I left out one minor detail, one teeny tiny detail that might actually turn this whole life thing of mine around.
I have a plan.
(While reading this book please keep in mind everything thought and said is coming from a person struggling with EPDMSD)
If there are two things in life I am certain of it’s this…I have a pretty face and a pretty extensive Urbanspoon wish list. There is very little I love more in life than first sitting down at a freshly set table in some chic restaurant. The initial menu scan, maybe some complimentary aperitifs, the first sip of wine is indeed a holy one, the ritual of it, gets me every time. Back to reality…as I finish up yet another catering shift, my arms weary from endless trays of champagne I begin to wonder, is this fancy lifestyle really out of reach for me? I have the palate for it I mean nothing speaks to my heart like a little foie gras and some caviar gelee. Then it dawns on me. I am a single pretty lady with an appetite for the finer things in life, what better way to get what I want than to serial date my way through this cities finest men and meals! Gone will be the days of budgeting with my ex-boyfriend, the actor who can’t spare a dime type. I want the corporate lawyers, the wall street investors, the elk tartare, the surf and turfs worth more than a car (hmm maybe that’s a bit unrealistic?) On second thought NO it isn’t. Some people’s dreams only reach the end of the tarmac, but not me, I see a whole world filled with endless restaurants!
It is time for me to put down the tray of hors d’oeuvres and pick up the glass of champagne. I’m hanging up the men’s suit and stepping into the heels. And though I would argue eating chickpeas from a can is a legitimate meal (especially if there’s ketchup) I am putting down the can and picking up the charcuterie plate. Wait. Stop. Will there be any hiccups? Will I be responding to drunken booty calls from my ex-boyfriend? No. And by no I mean maybe. And by maybe I mean yes. Dammit. Nevertheless I will keep my head up and my wits about me as I navigate through this perilous terrain. Inhibited only by my EPDMSD it suddenly seems like I have a lot going for me, even the smell of rotting lettuce momentarily fades in my apartment and things seem perfect, almost glamorous. Just moments ago I saw grandeur in the distance, but now it is here in front of me, like freshly purchased lipstick waiting to be put on. My new life awaits. I am on a search for the meal of my dreams and a man of considerable means. Let the dating begin.
"It’s not a meal unless there’s at least seven courses."
-Erin Wotherspoon, serial dater.
Toronto restaurants are good, great at best and I’ve had my fill at the finest, but like most of the men here, they’re just too “nice”. I like my foie gras served up with some attitude, and no I’m not talking about those angsty hipsters west of Ossington. I’m talking about bold, sexy restos that are unapologetically original. Not the run of the mill “we’ve got tapas, micro brews & local veggies”. Don’t get me wrong, I want all of the above but I want the moon & the stars too. Maybe my expectations are unrealistically high? I don’t think so. I’ve always expected the elk tatare & never let my fashionably thin wallet stand in the way of my dreams. Toronto men of Reddit can crawl out of the holes- that are their mother’s basements & resume dating, but remember boys, shave those unibrows first & try not to be awkwardly polite. This serial dater is coming to New York City.
Men, women, children, what have you, if you’re interested in booking a dinner with this dreamboat send me a message. Openings are booking up fast.
Show up on time, act super interested, laugh at my jokes, compliment my hair, let me guess you like me, and if push came to shove you would date me again & again & again. The problem? We seem to have skipped one crucial step in the dating dance, the chase. Acting illusive and super busy (even if you’re not of course) can increase your chances immearsurably when zeroing in on potential suitors. Want to hang out next week? Ooo sorry can’t, I’ve got this thing. How about the week after? No can do, got a couple of things that week actually. Catch my drift? The point is you’ve got me wondering, and sooner or later I’ll be clawing at the walls, pulling out my hair, driving my car off a cliff, wondering was he really even interested in me? We did order dessert though, a tell tale sign things are going well -when things go south getting the bill as fast as you can is your only hope. Sigh. Confusion, mixed signals, hidden agendas, it’s all a necessary part of the chase. Without these things I’d probably be in a boring relationship with all my shit together. Bleh. I think I’ve found enough stability in my relationship with oysters thank you very much. I see them every weekend, we usually enjoy each other’s company whilst intoxicated, and they’re great at turning me on. The glistening little pearls arrive at the table, oysters at the chase are the best to date. They’re accompanied by the standard fixings, nothing special, although you can opt to pay extra for some special sauces. We keep it classic with some lemon, horse radish, & hot sauce. How do you slurp your oysters? Do you suck them back quickly no strings attached swallowing them in one foul gulp or are you more of a chewer? Me? I’m a chewer. I want the whole 3D experience. I want the smooth avocado like finish, the meaty subtly salty texture, refreshingly cool & these oysters taste nothing like the sea. I’m say yes to another round and yes to the chase fish & oyster.
Not to be missed, the raw bar. Go big or go home. That pay cheque was meant for wasting and my advice is don’t splurge on shots (or any number of the fancy cocktails) splurge on the raw halibut, the yellowfin, and just about anything & everything on the raw menu. A couple other dishes pushing some brain-scrambling tastes are the pan-seared scallop, the lobster claw & the jalapeño butter- since consuming I have often fantasized about drowning in said butter; live & die a foodie, that butter will be the death of me. The only mis-step was the dessert, an angel food cake twist on key lime pie. No frills could run circles around their angel food cake and if you were expecting key lime pie, well…don’t expect key lime pie. My disappointment was momentary though, the bill comes revealing I’ve racked up some pretty hefty damage- no doubt the most thus far. Wait for it….wait for it…”Mastercard”, the sweet sound of someone else footing the bill. This penniless girl gets what she wants. Do yourself a favour, don’t underestimate the power of the chase. Happy dinner dating!
Location? King west
If Buca were a man I’d be totally nervous to date him because he’s so good looking. A man of stature & pleasing height, he’s got this industrial yet glamorous style to him –not going to lie, I’m pretty overwhelmed & I wish I wore heels. Piled high plates go by and let the oogling begin! A gapping mouth stare is something I typically shy away from, but not here. A procession of pizza’s go by and I’m staring, mouth agape, right at the goods, undressing it with my eyes, imagining what it would look like on my plate, in my mouth…Buca is a man I want to get serious with. Yes, I’ve had some flings in the past, a little ramen, a regrettable meal at the Mandarin –we all make mistakes, right? And they usually come with copious amounts of tears, bad Chinese food and sentences like “these are my buffet pants”.
We are shown to our table and find ourselves seated amongst a good- looking crowd, an “in-crowd”. There is very little I love more than first sitting down at a freshly set table in some chic restaurant. The initial menu scan, maybe some complimentary apertifs, the first sip of wine is indeed a holy one, the ritual of it all, gets me every time. My eyes skim the page effortlessly for a couple of seconds before I lock eyes with it, “Tartufo Bianco”, taleggio cheese, fresh white truffle all atop a glorious pizza smothered with duck yolk instead of the more typical al pomodoro. Aside from the 32oz prime rib, said pizza is the priciest item on the menu, sitting at a whopping fifty bucks. Pangs of doubt cloud my pretty head. Dare I order the second most expensive dish on the menu? Is the serial dater turning soft? Do I actually feel bad for my date? He does seem to be a nice guy…NO! He is merely a conduit for my tasteful lifestyle, nothing more, nothing less. The waiter arrives, sheepishly I say, “I’ll have the double stuffed ravoli”.
The food. The prosciutto was perfectly conditioned, simultaneously warm & cool, though the fixings were a little dull. A very shy slice of taleggio cheese paired well with a chilled cranberry sauce to start. It should be noted most of the meats are cured in-house, a delicate balance indeed, with temperature and time being of the essence. The goose ravioli was by far the highlight, stuffed to the brim with goose meat, each ravioli is a plentiful package in and of itself. The sauce –which risked being too heavy (fonduto di parmigano, a melted cheese similar in consistency to mozzarella) was lighter than air & balanced nicely with the heavier goose meat. A cacophony of colours the dish wasn’t hard on the eyes either, and I swear I tasted hints of raspberry in that sauce.
Some wine. I like my wine. I like it red, not too dry and in a big ass glass. I know a thing or two about tannins, how to pair a good wine with a nice cheese, but talk to me longer than 30 seconds about some region in Spain and I’ve stopped listening. Sure sure some people have the more cultivated palate, can distinguish those floral notes, detect the oak, the smouldering fire & a whisper of cinnamon, but I smell bullshit. Or rather I don’t smell much of anything besides wine. If you do however enjoy talking about your wine as much as drinking it, the sommelier at Buca is the gentlemen for you. Straight out of a Gucci ad, in some quaint alley in Rome is the portrait he appears to have just stepped out of. It seems as if he is struggling to find English words to describe this breed of wine we’ve chosen –a surprisingly sweet merlot from Spain. (Seriously everyone who works here seems straight out of Italy). I watch nervously as his hands boisterously move about, just missing the bottle of wine –such passion in the sommelier, I’m sold, I love the wine.
Some advice. A little dessert. If you decide to come to Buca make sure you pre-eat because the portions are sparse and leave you wanting more. I’m getting the feeling opting for a second round of pizza is not an unusually occurrence at this resto. I also wouldn’t recommend dessert. If it wasn’t so late I’d totally tell you to hit up forno cultura across the street, the best bakery ever for some mind blowing pastry but sadly that ship has sailed for the evening. I compare my dessert at Buca to the likes of eating a just short of ripe banana. I know it has potential to taste good, all the makings of deliciousness are there –gelato, pumpkin fritters…but a banana before its prime just tastes bad, as does dessert at Buca.
Needless to say I’d call this gentlemen again and by gentlemen I mean restaurant and by call I mean eat at.