I took a neuropsychology test the other day that consisted of over 500 questions. One question was something like, “Do you eat differently in public than when you’re at home?” I answered yes. It wasn’t until a couple of hours later at lunch that it hit me what they were actually asking vs. what I interpreted the question to be. When I read the question, I was picturing myself eating a messy sandwich at home vs. at a restaurant. At a restaurant, I take controlled and deliberate bites so as to not make a mess. At home, I’m biting into a delicious sandwich with near reckless abandon and most likely something will drip from it onto my chin. So, at lunch in Indy at the 10th Street Diner, a place highly recommended by the way, I bit into my BLT and that’s when it dawned on me what the actual intention of the question was. It meant do I order salads when I’m out and eat burgers in the privacy of my home, that kind of thing. So now the psych people probably think I have an eating disorder because my brain interprets things in its own bananas way.
Also, I actually hate ordering salads out in public. I don’t get the trope of a date ordering salads. Salads are a mess. You put your fork in there and come back with a stack of things that most likely don’t fit in your mouth properly, so you have a dressing-soaked leaf smacking against your cheek while you shovel it in. Now you must wipe the dressing off your cheek and mouth, hoping you don’t look like Jerry Sizzler from Kids in the Hall while your date watches on. And yes, you can use a knife to cut your salad – and I do – but picture the scenario: you’re dating, you’re just getting to know a person, and they start cutting up their salad. You look high-strung when really, it’s a tactical strategy of maintaining make-up perfection while getting sustenance and retaining the ability to talk. You can actively focus on the topic of conversation instead of worrying if that lettuce flicked dressing in more places than you realize. Like, why are they looking at my hair now? Is it in my hair? It’s in my hair, isn’t it? Shit, I have no idea what they were saying and now they aren’t talking. I’m pretty sure a piece of carrot is in my hair, though.
So, what would the perfect date food be? On my first date with my husband, he took me to a Thai restaurant. I’d never had Thai food before, so I let him guide me on what to get. He ordered fresh salad rolls for the appetizer, which I had no idea how to eat. The roll was sized such that it could be eaten in one large bite or in two small bites. I wasn’t sure what to do, and he seemed to be waiting for me to eat first (which meant watching him was out of the picture), so I ate the whole thing in one bite. His eyes got kind of big, but he smiled and he took a bite out of his. I sat there and chewed with my mouth completely full of salad roll. Turns out, I love Thai food. Oh, and him too. I wanted to try new things with this new person. Would I say that was the perfect first date food? No, because it was new to me, but obviously it worked out. Honestly, I’d be a mess no matter what we had because as discussed in the first paragraph, my brain is just weird.
Pasta. I’d say pasta is a good date food. Specifically, a noodle you can twirl up on a fork so it all fits in your mouth, leaving nothing to splatter onto your face. Just don’t slurp your noodles. You’re neither Lady nor Tramp no matter how beautiful the night is. I mean, what are you doing with yourself? Why, are you slurping your noodles? I can’t take this noodle slurping lifestyle of yours! Anyway, noodles work.
Obviously, this is all surface shit, and if instead of sweetly informing you about your own splash zone situation, your date is turned off about the salad dressing on your cheek or ketchup on your chin so much that it ruins a date, then fuck that guy. (And by “guy” I mean person in general. The flow of the word “guy” is fun, but seriously, fuck that person.) Don’t let anyone make you feel less than magnificent for having food on your face. In fact, if that does happen to you, lean into it. At that point, you know this person is the kind of vapid idiot you don’t want in your life. Start smearing condiments all over your face, stand up and yell, “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me!” and walk out of the restaurant and that person’s life.