Craig and I matched on JDate, and though I myself am not a member of the ‘chosen people’ I feel that Jewish men tend to be the more enlightened when it comes to courting a person of the opposite sex. I suppose Craig had an affinity for jews and gentiles alike because he invited me to dinner after exchanging some bullshit messages about the weather.
To reiterate what I have said in past blog posts, I typically prefer to limit an inaugural meeting to just drinks so I can decide whether or not I will have the ability to withstand the duration 3 courses with someone, but I had a good feeling about this guy in particular. Off to dinner I went.
Craig chose a trendy spot in the Meat Packing District that was more ‘bridge and tunnel’ than I would have preferred, but I digress.
Overall, the date was enjoyable. We feasted upon oxtail empanadas, seafood paella and the obvious bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon followed by raspberry sorbet and a pair of espresso martinis.
We spoke of our mutual infatuation of WWII movies, the creative ways we would sneak alcohol into bars while attending college in the city (because drink prices could never quite agree with our ever depleted bank accounts), and our travel bucket list for the upcoming year. The conversation was effortlessly fluid and we decided to continue our evening at a quiet wine bar in SoHo.
Craig flagged the waitress down and requested she bring the check.
“So I hope you don’t mind, but I prefer we go Dutch,” he said.
“Oh, yeah. That’s no problem.”
Now, in no way am I saying that the man is obligated to fund every meal we share together, but I am old fashioned and do believe on a first date the man should be a gentleman, especially if he wants to get into my pants. Women are the gatekeepers after all and we ought to be wooed.
After splitting the tab we arrived at the wine bar and ordered a bottle of Pinot. Craig then excused himself to use the men’s room and the bartender asked to hold my credit card in order to open a tab, to which I handed over my Visa thinking we would split it when the bill was presented.
After the last drop had been consumed I was ready to call it a night. I told Craig to grab the check and ran to the ladies room.
When I returned, the black check holder was sitting there waiting for me to sign the receipt. I looked at the bill and the $60 bottle of wine was put entirely on my credit card.
“So, are we not going Dutch on this one?” I said.
“Oh you just said to grab the check and I just told him to run the card he had. I forgot it was yours. How about I get the tip?”
Craig reached into his wallet and pulled out a disheveled one dollar bill and a few dimes and nickels from the pocket of his khakis that were covered in lint and Kleenex residue.
“That should be good. It’s not like he had to do too much work to just open a bottle.”
Craig’s text the following day was ignored and he was never to be seen again.