During my freshman year of college, a resident frat guy that I was Snapchatting attempted to booty call me at 11:30 pm on Easter Sunday. But something about “watching a movie” with a communion wafer still digesting in my stomach screamed Catholic guilt. So I responded, “I’m busy, but you can take me to lunch tomorrow.”
He said, and I quote, “aight, how’s the dining hall at 12?”
Yes, you read that right. The dining hall. The late Brower Commons, to be exact. (If you’re from Rutgers University-New Brunswick or Dave Portnoy, you’d know it closed for a reason.) I’d never been on a date before. I also didn’t have a car. Or money to spare for lunch, which I’d insist on paying half of. So I said, “sounds good.”
The following day, I tried on every shirt and pant combination in my possession while my best friend and roommate, who was in a long-term relationship (and still is), talked me off the ledge.
When I got to the dining hall, he was waiting outside for me. He was tall and pretty cute, so I went in for the frontal hug (risky move) and we walked inside. He pulled his wallet out from his front pocket and swiped himself in before turning to wait for me to do the same. In her pep talk, my roommate assured me he’d at least swipe me in, so I fumbled for my student ID and Bridget Jones-embarrassed myself.
He insisted we join the pasta station line. Ah, yes, let us stare in painstaking agony as the dining hall’s most recent hire sautés a small bowl of vegetables in our choice of Prego, I thought.
We awkwardly chatted through the aforementioned sautéing and walked to a 12-person table. Because why would we sit at a two-top? Picture Leonardo da Vinci’s The Last Supper, except the disciples didn’t respond to the evite.
Within the first five minutes, he got a drop of Alfredo sauce on his chin, which stayed there the rest of the meal. Instead of asking questions about my hopes and dreams, he talked about himself. Between the bad food and the even worse conversation, I knew a second date was out of the question.
I used to think dates like these were just a rite of passage — like getting an uneven bob or calling your teacher “Mom.” So naturally, I told everyone I knew. And now, whenever anyone has a strange dating-adjacent encounter, I’m the first to know. As the accidental Andie Anderson of Rutgers University, I’ve become a confidante to my best friends, coworkers, sorority sisters, and strangers in all things dating.
In my most recent quest for enlightenment, I’ve collected a few horror stories from friends to determine if food plays a significant role in shaping the first-date dynamic. Without further ado, here’s how four dates — and four very different meals — completely changed the course of budding romance.
Starving (ft. Pixel Pete)
Elaine Williams, 21, matched with “Pixel Pete” on Tinder. He was a guy whose only discernible personality trait was owning a Google Pixel and hating Apple products.
They agreed to meet at a local bar and grill for drinks and apps. But when Williams arrived, Pixel Pete looked quite different from his profile (surprise beard) and hadn’t called ahead for a reservation (it was a Friday night during baseball season.) They sat outside on a bench for 45 minutes, making small talk while Williams’ stomach practically screamed for mozzarella sticks.
When they finally got seated, Pixel Pete ordered water and told Williams that he wasn’t hungry anymore but could get whatever she wanted, though. Cringe. She settled for a hard seltzer because ordering a full meal felt weird if he wasn’t even touching the menu.
An hour in, Pixel Pete said they should get going; it was late, and her seltzer was gone anyway. Next time, Williams said, “I’m eating first, no matter what phone he uses.”
Finance, Trust Fund, 6’4, Chimichurri Steak
Lauren McCormick, 22, matched with a picture-perfect Finance, Trust Fund, 6’4 guy on Hinge. After texting back and forth, McCormick agreed to meet for dinner at a steakhouse about 20 minutes from their houses in an upscale, downtown area.
The afternoon before their date, he texted her
I want to see what you look like and hear your voice before we go out tonight.
It was a weird way to ask to FaceTime before the date. Red flag? Joe from You? A basic safety precaution? Maybe. But she went along with it. After all, her mom was right; it was better to be safe than sorry when dating online. “It’s probably safer to FaceTime the person you’re meeting up with, you know, to make sure they’re the person pictured in their profile and aren’t a serial killer.”
By the time they wrapped up at work and returned home to change, it was 9 p.m. They met outside the restaurant and headed inside. While McCormick ordered a salad, he ordered a chimichurri steak. That’s right — herbed flank steak — “the manliest of all the steaks” (he said it, not me.)
The conversation? Shockingly one-sided. He bragged about his job in finance, how many first dates he’d been on this year, and naturally, his height. Over sizzling steak and tasteless flexing, McCormick concluded that there would be no second date.
“He was such a good kisser, though,” she laughed. “So at least I got something other than leftovers out of it.” Turns out he was just another finance bro with more herbs in his back molars than emotional depth.
Next Destination? My Heart
It was a warm Saturday in New York City when Zara Ali, 20, showed up at a downtown sushi spot by Union Square. She dressed casually — jeans, a cute sweater, and Air Force 1s — an outfit appropriate for a casual first date.
Then, he arrived in a full-blown three-piece suit. It looked tailored. Despite their first meeting, he immediately went in for a tight hug — immediate icks.
Inside, he grabbed checklists for sushi rolls and sashimi, and they sat down to eat. After they ordered, Ali excused herself to the bathroom. She immediately texted her friends.
He’s in a suit, he’s in a suit, help.
Over spicy tuna and tempura, which turned out to be very fresh-tasting, she talked about her dream of working in the music industry. “Why would you want to do that?” he said. Without missing a beat, he whipped out his phone and pulled up his Hinge profile, pointing to a picture of himself pointing to a two-person plane — he said his dream of becoming a pilot was realistic.
“Where’s your next destination?” she asked.
“Next destination? Your heart.”
Since she has difficulty saying no, Ali politely agreed to post-sushi drinks at a rooftop karaoke bar. After all, he had put a lot of effort into his appearance, “it was the least I could do,” she said. While they watched the other couples and friends sing for a while, three-piece suit was hellbent on dedicating a performance to her. His choice? “Treat You Better” by Shawn Mendes.
The sushi was out of this world amazing, but the date itself? Boring, weird, and full of ick.
Maple Syrup, A Millionaire, & Margs
Samantha Patel, 22, told me she met with an investment banker from Canada over tacos and margaritas — the food was messy, but chemistry was there and she was hooked. Between bites of carne asada and sips on salt-rimmed tequila, they swapped undergrad stories and laughed as if they’d always known each other.
Unlike some other tragic dates she’d been on, this one felt effortless…until he invited her back to his place.
“I felt like I was walking into the Emerald City,” said Patel. The elevator shot up 63 floors, and when the doors opened, it was like stepping into the set of Gossip Girl: a $5.4 million apartment (thanks, Zillow). He said his parents, still in Canada, bought it for him as a you-graduated-and-now-you’re-willingly-immigrating-to-America gift.
“He hyped it up like he bought it himself,” she said. “I was like okay, kid.”
He talked about how much he valued quality time and couldn’t commit that much time to someone right now (after one Hinge date and three tacos). Then she gave him that look — the one she saves for guys who don’t know how idiotic they sound.
Despite the Mexican food on him, Patel deleted his number the next morning. “My friends were mad at me, they wanted a millionaire in the group,” she said. I guess good things don’t happen when you drink tequila.