The Food Critic

I was recently set up on a date with a local food critic. She was adamant about taking me to a restaurant she had to review, thinking it might be fun. It wasn't. I like great food as much as the next guy, but discussing and discussing the minutiae of lamb seared two and a half seconds too long is simply a turn off. To shift the mood, I took her to a local McDonald's. She seemed hesitant at first, but she eased into it, finishing off her own Double Quarter Pounder Extra Value Meal.

I jolted her sensibilities further by buying a bottle of Cook's champagne from a liquor store near by. I popped it open right there on the street while we waited in line to get into a midnight showing of Saturday Night Fever. Inside I bought us two cokes, and showed her the cache of nips I'd lifted from the liquor store. By the end of the movie she was sufficiently wasted and in amazingly good spirits. I walked her back to her apartment building.

"Wow, this is the best date I've ever been on. Do you want to come up for coffee?"

"No, I think I'll call it a night."

"What...? Really? Well, okay... let me give you my number."

"Don't bother, I won't be calling you."

"What?"

"You're just not my type. Have fun with your food critic thing."