He Made Me Pasta
New York City. The city of dreams. The city of workaholics. The city of terrible dating. As a modern day cis-woman in her early thirties trying to live her best city life, would I be doing NYC justice if I had no horrible dating stories to share? Well, fear not, I have a few to share: meet Francois.
I met Francois on many of the delectable dating apps our modern technology has to offer a busy modern-day woman. I can’t recall which one, but it doesn’t really matter because they’re all trash anyway (ok, I’ll admit that Plenty Of Fish is the worst out of all of them, so I highly recommend deleting that app if you have it)?
Francois just arrived to the city from Paris for his job in digital finance. Standing at 5'2" with pretty blue eyes and blonde hair, Francois greeted me in front of the LES Whole Foods. He seemed nervous. Trying to put him at ease, I suggested we walk around and look for a place to drink. “I don’t drink alcohol,” Francois blurted with a heavy French accent. Oh? Alright then. I suggested coffee. “I don’t drink caffeine either.” Hmmm. Food? Francois agreed.
Since my date was new in town, I suggested going to Katz. This was a self-serving suggestion, of course. I’ve never had Katz and I’ve been wanting to try it myself while splitting the mega-sized Reuben and the costs. This date presented me with the opportunity. We both walked into the busy restaurant, grabbed our number, and dragged our feet across the grease drench saw dust on the floor. I looked up at the menu trying to figure out what I wanted to shove into my face. I looked over at Francois: “What do you think?” My little Parisian man looked uncertain and hinted at maybe the potato salad. “No sandwich?” I quickly asked trying not to sound desperate. “No… I’m vegan,” he confessed. My plans instantly shattered.
Since neither one of us wanted to pay for over-priced potato salad, we decided to opt out of Katz. As we walked out, I was out of ideas. No alcohol, no caffeine, no animal products. What does one do for a first date? “I am hungry, though,” Francois squeaked. “Why don’t we go back to Whole Foods,” I suggested, “they have vegan food and other options.” We walked back to where we met. I got a tea while Francois got some sort of plant-based sandwich and sat upstairs with the employees on their break.
Here I got to know what Francois is all about: originally from the Basque region, Francois moved to Paris, became a serious vegan as well as a serious runner. Francois makes sure to keep his diet “pure” because his body is a temple that happens to competitively run marathons. I’m actively listening to my date while I hold my lukewarm tea wondering, “Is this typical for French people? I thought Parisians like butter and walking? And is this really a date?”
After a lackluster conversation, I for whatever reason decided to meet with Francois again. I truly don’t understand why I agreed to this. Was I desperate? Bored? Or did I think he deserved another shot because he seemed so nervous AND wasn’t a horrible person? Regardless of the reason, it was a bad decision.
Francois and I continued our lackluster Whole Foods conversation on WhatsApp, an app that is very popular amongst Europeans. Whenever I match with a European, it’s almost guaranteed that we will communicate via WhatsApp, which I’m not too thrilled about. Anyway, Francois told me how he really wanted to cook for me for our second date.
Growing up with two brothers and too many He friends who all love to cook, I’d be more surprised if a dude doesn’t know how to cook. In fact, all the men I’ve dated all seem to love to cook so much that they won’t let me cook because they all want to impress me with their kitchen skills. That or they just buy me food. Since Francois seems to have a more restricted diet than me, I agreed to it hoping he would be able to “relax and shine through”.
The days leading up to our next date, Francois made a point in constantly messaging me how much he wants to cook for me. This plus being French with a restricted diet led me to believe he must be quite the cook and maybe wanted to show off what might be a talent he can’t quite often show off (just maybe?).
“Hey,” I greeted him as I walked into his sparsely furnished apartment. Again, Francois seemed nervous; he just came back from grocery shopping (from Whole Foods lol) and was putting things away. “Can I help with anything?” I asked as he fumbled through his tiny kitchen. “No, it’s ok. Do you want anything to drink?” he asked. Knowing he doesn’t have a drop of alcohol and caffeine (it’s too late for coffee anyway), I took my glass of tap water from my host. I was surprised that the Frenchman hadn’t started cooking anything yet. I nervously took a sip of the city tap water and explored his living room. I came back to the kitchen and found a pot of water on the stove boiling. Casually, I asked, “Whatcha making?” Francois grabbed a long box, “Pasta.” He opened the box of dried spaghetti and dumped the content into the boiling water. Nothing else was added to the pot.
“What sauce are we having?” I continued. “Oh, no sauce. I’m trying to eat healthy,” he revealed. What. The only thing I could respond with: “Oh…” Did I really spend the day not eating in anticipation of a vegan feast only to realize that I was having pasta with no sauce? I took myself and the glass of tap water to the dining table. Ten minutes later, Francois comes out with two plates of pasta. No olive oil. No salt. No pepper. Just pasta.
This is when I started getting nervous. Is he a serial killer? I thought to myself. He really wanted to cook for me and this is it? I wouldn’t even offer to cook for anyone if this is all I could make. My mind was racing. Should I refuse? No. He might kill me. I should eat it. I forked the cooked pasta and ate it while trying not to show my disgust, but I think my silence gave me away since Francois nervously asked, “You don’t like it? Do you want anything else?” I declined and continued to work on the home-cooked meal that was made just for me. After pasta, Francois brought out desert which was a carton of strawberries and vegan dark chocolate. Since I have a bizarre side that has no self-respect, I stayed for dessert. I left Francois after that and never spoke to him again even though he continued to message me asking me if I didn’t like him anymore because of the pasta.
A year and a half later, I was running the Staten Island marathon. I was waiting for the ferry with all the other avid runners and lo and behold, I saw Francois. I recoiled and hid myself from his sight. I managed to get to Staten Island without running into this “former lover.” That is, until the actual race. Francois was one of the top 10–20 runners of this race. While I was running the on one side of the race course, he came running past me on the other side. I swear he saw me. I looked away and kept running forward, trying to focus on my physical agony. Despite all this, though, I couldn’t help but wonder if he ate pasta the night before to help fuel his race. Pasta with no sauce.
