We were just not a Match.
You had the perfect profile: you lived in the hippest part of town, had excellent credentials (my friends raved about you) and you looked hawt that night. We just. didn't. click.
Things started out well enough. I loved your whole look - modern/industrial with a dab of chic. The lighting brought out your earthy tones and made you "mirror, mirror on the wall" perfect, and impetuously, I was hoping that someday my drinks would come. As if on cue, an attentive and I-live-to-serve waiter came bounding to our table. We ordered up some cocktails, and in the blink of an eye, strawberry caipirinhas appeared that were not too sweet, not too strong, but just right. They lit us up and got the conversation (and the juices) flowing.
Your menu was a bit imposing. You listed a dozen apps, equally as many entrees, and then had another dozen daily specials, not to mention salads and sides. How was I ever supposed to get to know you on the first date if I could only sample a smattering of your many charms? And what dishes would show me "the real you"?
Not to be deterred, we kicked off the meal with some innuendo-inducing Prince Edward Island mussels. Your description was mouth-watering: a white wine and saffron cream sauce with bacon croutons, chili threads, and fried parsley. I was taken aback when the flavors didn't 'match' the description. The mussels didn't taste fresh (it was a Sunday, after all) and the broth didn't impart any of the bacon-y saffron-y goodness described. Thankfully, there was a spark of interest in your seared wasabi and sesame rubbed TUNA, particularly the caramelized coconut sticky rice cake, avocado crema, and spicy ARIRACHA - the latter was so tasty that we requested a separate dish to mop up with your ho-hum semolina-crusted calamari.
It wasn't until the first bite of your '8-Hour' osso bucco that I knew something was off that night. This was supposed to be your ace in the hole, the sure thing, your coup de coeur. Perhaps someone shaved a few hours off of the braising process, or your chef had the day off, but this dish was not fairy tale material. Osso bucco should pull easily - if not fall - off the bone, and it should melt down your throat on its way to warming your belly. Instead, every mouthful required more than a few grinds of the molars before swallowing. The parmesan reggiano risotto wasn't a complete loss, but every subtly that this side dish might have had was erased when it became a collection pool for the sweet and sour braising sauce.
Your char-grilled sirloin was merely an expensive and distracting accompaniment to your tasty bistro fries. For $38, I could easily have done without the flavorless steak, which wasn't remotely arousing and gave me pause to reconsider vegetarianism.
Only one item, had I tried it at the exclusion of the others, might have lead to a second date. Your 'Peanut Butter and Grape Jelly' HALIBUT was a complete and unexpected surprise. It was as if you were imparting a goodnight/goodbye kiss that suggested, "see what you'll be missing?" The hint of your sweet corn-truffle-nut succotash lingered on my lips, the delicate suppleness of your white flesh delighted my senses, and the PB&J reference connoted your sense of humor. Oh, if only I could get to know more of this side of you...
Alas, a long-term relationship was not meant to be and a long-distance relationship, a practical impossibility. Our first (expensive) date flamed briefly and brightly, but then quickly sputtered out, like a match. read more