Page 26 of The Boyfriend List
“Why, do you have a thing for cowboys?” he says, tipping an imaginary hat at me as we wait in line behind the hostess stand.
I scan the waiting crowd: most of them are middle-aged or older, and some even have glasses chains. I feel like a child at an adults’ party, even though I’ve been an adult for going on eight years now.
“A lady never tells.” I take a deep breath, reminding myself that this is just a first date. It’s not as if Lindon will find out about my list and think I’m crazy.
The hostess leads us to a cozy booth in the back next to the window. It’s a little intimate for a first date, but hopefully I can start to enjoy myself without the pressure to impress him.
Lindon and I make small talk as we scan the menu. Well, more like he asks me questions and I give one-word answers. The menu is written almost entirely inFrench. All the titles of dishes are in French, and the descriptions don’t exactly help me even though they’re written in English, since they list words that I’ve never heard of before likepolentaandpeppadew.
“Do you speak French?” I ask him hopefully.
“I took it in high school and did an exchange program in Paris my junior year of college,” he says, causing my shoulders to relax from their hunched posture. “Sorry, was it presumptuous of me to bring you to a French restaurant? I thought it would be a classy establishment… And I thought all women liked French food…”
I like French food like croissants and eclairs andpain au chocolat.Not whatevermoules aux fritesandescargotis. Wait, I think I know the last one. It’s snails. My gut churns at the thought of eating snails.
I smile at him and try to surreptitiously wipe my sweaty palms on the white tablecloth. “No, it wasn’t presumptuous. Just, um, different from the food I normally eat.”
How could I have expected him to know about my Francophobia? It’s not like he knows me; we’ve barely had a few conversations between matchingon Hinge and meeting now. If anything, I should have suggested a few restaurants I liked.
“What do you usually eat?” he asks. Am I frustrating him? Does he think I’m entitled for not liking the restaurant he chose?
I shrug. “I usually cook for myself, so I don’t go out much. Usually I’ll have Filipino or Chinese food.”
Sometimes, London and I will eat dinner together and I’ll make Filipino dishes for him that remind me of home. He doesn’t cook much, subsisting on cold sandwiches, boxed salads, or canned soups. But when he does, we enjoy comparing Filipino foods likelumpiato Chinese spring rolls, orsiningangwith hot and sour soup, or mixing the two cultures together in a fusion that oddly works.
“Oh.” Lindon’s expression changes just the slightest bit. Now I really feel like I’m annoying him.
I want to change the subject. I don’t know why I’m expecting him to know me better than London, a guy I’ve known for almost a decade. I know I shouldn’t expect Lindon, a white guy, to understand how I feel about my culture’s cuisine.
“Have you been to this restaurant before?” I ask.
“A few times. Usually I bring women here on first dates.”
I expect some kind of jealousy or indignation to rise up in me when he says that, but none does. Of course it wouldn’t. What right do I have to be jealous over a guy I barely know?
“Since you’ve been here, why don’t you order for us? I’m sure you know what’s good. I have to use the bathroom.”
I practically shove the menu at him and walk briskly away from my date. It’s just a restaurant choice. Not a big deal. Why am I turning one culinary difference into a marker of incompatibility?
In the bathroom, I dab at my lipstick even though all I’ve had is water, check my makeup, and reread my list that I’ve already memorized. I should ask him about his hobbies. Maybe he collects something interesting like… pet rocks. Okay, not pet rocks. And hopefully not flashy race cars or gambling debts.
“I ordered for us,” Lindon says when I return to the table.
“What did you get?” I ask.Please, don’t say something gross. Maybe this is ironic of me, since back home I regularly eat meals consisting of pig’s snouts and offal, but I don’t consider those things to be half as gross as the thought of eating snails.
“I got the steak with fries for both of us. Is medium rare okay?”
“Oh. Thanks. Medium rare is great.” A safe, normal meal. With a safe, normal guy. Who is not London.
My phone buzzes with a text, and the signature ringtone tells me it’s London.
London
How’s the date? Do you need me to rescue you yet?
I roll my eyes as I read the text, because how could he have known how I was feeling right at this moment?
“Sorry, that was my friend. He’s just making sure I didn’t need anything,” I say, texting back.
