If you recall the post about me meeting that hot South African guy, you may be wondering what ever came of it. The answer: Me crying through the streets of Manhattan in a bad neighborhood that I wasn’t familiar with. In a dress. At night.
Part 1 of the torturous tale:
The night started off terribly when he made me wait twenty minutes for him outside the dumpiest little take-out place anyone has ever seen.
“Where do you want to go?” I had asked via text the day before, when he said he wanted to take me to dinner.
“I love Indian food,” he replied.
The nausea was immediate. Really? Of all food in all the world? Indian? I have never eaten, nor plan to eat anything that smells like Indian food. (Sorry if you like it; I just don’t. You could make fun of fried chicken and sweet potato fries – my favorite food – at your leisure.)
After telling him I’d never had it, and was afraid, he told me it was delicious and spicy. I told him I didn’t like spicy food. He gave me the address to an Indian restaurant anyway.
This is my life.
I got off the train and eventually found my way to the restaurant (only had to ask 3 people for directions, go me).
“Carl, hang on a second,” I said to my friend on the phone. “This can’t be right.”
I scrolled through my texts to check the address and verified. Then verified again. And again.
“Are you KIDDING me?!” I screamed.
“What happened?” Carl asked, already having heard me rant about how this guy couldn’t care less that I hate Indian food.
“You should see this DUMP!”
I was staring up at the dumpiest little take-out place with two dirty tables in the front and a sketchy-looking cashier.
“I’m not going in!”
“Okay, calm down. You don’t have to go in. Just go home,” Carl said.
“I can’t go home. I’m here. And I’m freaking early for once in my life!,” I replied, fighting back tears.
Miraculously, I was early. Twenty-five minutes, as a matter of fact. However, now I had to stare at this “restaurant” for an extra twenty-five minutes.
After five minutes of debate, I texted the South African .
“Listen, I really can’t eat here. I’m sorry. The San Gennaro Feast is going on a block away. Let’s just go there.”
“Carl, if he doesn’t want to meet up with me, he doesn’t want to meet up with me. I don’t even care at this point. All I know is he’s not worth walking into that Hell hole.”
The South African finally called me to tell me that there had been a mistake. It turned out that he had Googled the name of the restaurant he liked and it gave him that address, which was probably its old location.
I was beyond relieved to see that he wasn’t planning a romantic date at a take-out dump. But then he made me wait an additional twenty minutes while he met me at the address he had originally told me, totalling my wait time to 45 minutes alone in a scary neighborhood.
Have you ever been taken to a dumpy restaurant for a first date and thought, Really?!