100 Emails, 20 Dates An SF girl's systematic quest to end her singlehood

The Cop, the Preacher, the Pat-Down, and the Kiss

B. came to my gig on Friday night, which was in a little neighborhood bar in the East Bay. He happens to be on the police department for that town. He came with R., who's a minister in the same town. During the show, B. was the perfect friend-audience member, yelling things out (I always love it when the stage banter becomes more of a dialogue) and bringing us drinks from the bar.

Afterward, we all had another drink at the bar. I walked back over to the group while B. was in the middle of revealing a plan. "We're going to the Serenader, you in?" he said to me, with a glint in his eye. "They have a great band crammed onto this tiny dancefloor and they play everything from jazz to blues to funk. It's great."

The place was tiny but hopping: people talking, coming in and out, and everyone dressed to the nines. There was one lady in a skin-tight snakeskin-print jumpsuit. Another guy, just inside the door, was in a full suit and hat, looking like he stepped out of the 1950s. An older gent was wearing a full military uniform. The sign outside said that the club is 21 and over, but since this is a mature club, they prefer 25 and older.

B. went in first, and put his hands up to get patted down by the security guy, a big dude who could look imposing when he wanted to and had a pencil-thin goatee tracing his jawline. He found something in B.'s pocket. "Is that a pistol?" he said. B. nodded. "I'm a cop," he said, pulling out his ID. The security guy looked sideways at him. "A cop?" he asked. "I won't tell anyone if you don't," B. assured him. The guy let him in. "I'm going to have to see inside your purse," the security guy said to me. I unzipped it halfway, and then he caught himself, "What am I saying? I just let him in and he has a pistol! Go ahead." R. made it through without incident.

The postage-stamp-sized parquet dance floor was filled with people dancing to the recorded R&B playing over the sound system. "There's no band!" B. said, clearly disappointed. Feeling flush with my gig cash, I offered to get the first round and moseyed up to the bar. The bartender was a tall guy with super curly hair, who was on top of everything: without acknowledging anyone, you could tell he knew exactly when each person got up to the bar, and served them all in order.

It was already late, and I was feeling a bit fuzzy-headed from the couple of beers I'd had on the gig. "I'll have a Capt. Morgan's on the rocks [for R.], a Maker's and diet [for B.], and a Corona [for me]," I said. "We're out of Corona, we have Miller and Bud," the bartender told me, setting up the glasses for the other two drinks. "I'll have a gin and tonic," I said. "We're out of tonic." "How about a gimlet?" Done.

The bartender made all the drinks fast -- and with pretty generous pours. So much for taking it easy. R.'s rum on the rocks came in a wine glass.

The music stopped briefly and "Signed, Sealed, Delivered" came on, sung by a woman. There was a band! We made our way through the small crowd and staked our claim on a spot just off the dancefloor. There were three vocalists, one of whom also played horns, another horn player, drums, 5-string bass (played by an older guy who looked like he was born to wear hats), guitar (played by the only other white person there), and keys. The female vocalist was tiny, but man, she could sing.

B. pulled me over so we could get a better view of the band. "Two opposite ends of the musical spectrum," he commented -- bluegrass to Bobby Brown. At 1:15, they called last call and started shooing people out the door the minute the band stopped. I heard the manager tell the band, "Anything that's not out of here by 2:30 gets put out on the street." They run a tight ship over there.

I put down my half-finished gimlet, and we watched people file out the door then filed out ourselves. B., R., and I chatted for a bit on the street, then B. walked me to my car (parked directly behind his), and leaned in for the kiss.

Now let me digress for a moment. First kisses are always weird -- it's the first truly intimate moment between two people who, often, don't really know each other that well yet.

It's my theory that the weirdest part of the first kiss is the seemingly interminable time span when the guy (or girl) starts leaning in and the only thing you can look at is the kiss initiator's face -- which, let's be frank, usually has a ridiculous expression. It can't be helped -- there are too many other things to think about at that moment, and controlling your facial expression is really quite a minor point. But it does lend a feeling of absurdity to the whole thing.

That's why first kisses between a short girl (such as myself) and a tall guy (such as B.) are particularly weird. The guy has a much greater distance to travel. It's just geometry. But that means that you have more time to look at his expression. And that means that the short person needs to make sure she doesn't get the giggles.

So he kissed me. I didn't get the giggles. And it was nice. He showed me which way to go to get back on the highway, said goodnight, and told me, "Drive fast and reckless!" And when I got home, I saw I had a text from him asking if I made it home OK. Fun AND thoughtful. I love it.

Date 2: The Art of Dating

One thing I love about dating in my 30s: people have finally figured out how to date, myself included. Pessimists might say that it's the scarcity of available single (sane) people, driving up the "price" of dating. But really, I think that by the time you get to be my age (mid-30s) or so, you have these things, among many others, going for you:

1. You know yourself. You know what you like and what you like to do. Ideally, you're searching for a partner who fits into your life, who complements and challenges you. But you feel comfortable with and confident in yourself to know what is just really not going to work. So why bother trying it?
2. You can afford the occasional luxury. People don't need to be rich to date. Absolutely not. And god knows, I love pizza and dive bars. One of my favorite dates costs about $20 -- total, for both of us. But when you make enough money to be able to pay rent and budget for the occasional luxury, then it makes it even more fun to be able to include someone you're interested in on those luxuries. Why not use a date with someone new as an excuse to try a restaurant that everyone's talking about on Yelp?
3. You appreciate the value of making a Tuesday (or whatever day of the week) night special. Why not? Everyone likes to feel special every now and again.

B. dated my bandmate, P., in college. She'd been telling me for ages that she was going to fix me up with him -- even though she barely talked to him anymore. Last Monday night, she apparently got over the awkwardness of saying, "Hey, I know I haven't talked to you in a year, but are you dating anyone?" and convinced him to come to our show. He and I spoke about five words to each other: I mentioned I was going to get a taco and asked P. if she wanted anything. "Where do you go to get tacos?" B. asked. "At this little taqueria on Mission right around the corner," I said. "We might want to go later. How do you get there?" he asked. I told him. That, and the obligatory, "You guys were good," was about the extent of our conversation.

Over email, he suggested dinner at Canteen, which I immediately loved because:

• I've never been there
• it's a (sort-of) diner
• it had chocolate-hazelnut pots de creme on the menu. Pretty much my dream dessert.

Done!

Except -- they're closed for the week. How about Local, he suggested? Near my office, great gourmet pizzas fired in their on-site brick oven, excellent wine selection. I was sold. Plus, I liked that he knew about so many San Francisco restaurants that were completely new to me.

I got there early, figuring I could have a drink before I got there. "Would you like to sit at the pizza bar or the wine bar?" Wine bar, for sure.

Lo and behold, B. was sitting at the bar already. "I'm getting my own private wine tasting," he said. I liked his easy nature -- in his emails and even in that one line. He was confident and comfortable. I am (hopefully endearingly) awkward. I was glad I hadn't spilled coffee on myself that day.

Sampling a few whites, B. settled on a sauvignon blanc. "Do you like white wine?" he asked. "I do..." I said, trailing off. He started laughing. "She's going for the reds," he announced to the bartender. After a few tastes, including a South African Pinotage that tasted, not unpleasantly, like stinky cheese, I settled on a Dona Paula Los Cardos Malbec, which was really tasty.

B. was just ending a 12-month sabbatical that his work had shortened into a six-month sabbatical. He started off talking about the six weeks he spent in Argentina fly-fishing, among other things. That set the tone for the whole evening. Neither of us have traveled too much, but every story seemed to relate to our infrequent, but influential, vacations. Him to Rome, Cinqueterra, Tuscany (I forget the town), Monaco, and Paris. Me to Paris and London.

We ordered the special pizza -- chicken apple sausage, arugula, fig, and goat cheese -- and the truffle-parmesan fries. The bartender, Carl, recommended the duck. Cooked on a rotisserie, he said the fat is rendered beautifully, so it's not unlike duck confit. (Note: It has, admittedly, been a while since I've had duck confit, but I still don't think I'd agree with the second part of his assertion.) We ordered it. It was absolutely amazing. Rich and flavorful without tasting fatty.

B. talked about how, when he went to Italy, he and his friends would go and ask the chefs for recommendations. Whether he thought he'd like it or not, he'd order whatever they were most passionate about, and he ended up having some of the best meals of his life. We talked about the genius of sitting at the bar (a common first-date theme for me, apparently). "I always try to sit at the bar," Carl chimed in. "That's where everything happens."

Carl recommended two wines to go with the duck: Tablas Creek Grenache Blend, a French winery's American vintage, and Le Chataignier Cotes du Luberon, from Provence. The French wine was much more drinkable, especially with the duck, but there was something I really liked about the Grenache.

Carl also recommended the beignets for dessert. The raspberry sauce was so decadent. B. dropped one, briefly, on his black shirt. I felt oddly reassured: he was human, he dropped things on himself.

We talked about food and wine and travel -- three things I love but never experience enough of -- for two hours straight, covering family, jobs, school, and general background along the way. When the check came, he said, "I'll get this one. You get the next one." He offered me a ride home after, which was sweet, since he lives in the East Bay, and we hugged goodnight. "Next time, Canteen," he said. "My treat," I said, walking across the street to my house.

I can't tell if I've been lucky to meet such nice guys lately, or if maybe the dating world is really maybe kind of like this. But now -- after, what, 18 years of dating? -- I finally see the fun of it all. What a nice way to spend an evening: getting to know someone new and eating delicious food (and drinking some equally amazing wine)?