When I first moved to New York, my co-workers over at the investment bank would meet up Friday nights and head over to BBQs in the East Village, off of St. Mark. Ironically, we never ordered barbecue when we were there. We usually just ordered some Texas-sized frozen drinks and a large plate of fried chicken wings. The wings were just there so that we weren’t drinking on an empty stomach. After that first drink, which we usually did with a shot of 151, we would have several more of them before leaving and heading up Amsterdam to a quaint little joint that played old school hip-hop, but was virtually empty. The drinks were cheap, though, and when we had done all of the drinking we had planned on doing, we’d walk a few doors down to another club, where the music was more contemporary and the girls were more plentiful. We did this nearly every Friday during my first year in the city.
As time went on, people changed jobs or moved away, and the crew fell apart. Without the comradery, BBQs just wasn’t the same. Still from time to time I would think about those drinks and those chicken wings—and the fact that I had yet to order any barbecue from what was supposed to be a barbecue-centric restaurant.
I decided to put an end to that speculation and meet date number two at BBQs in the East Village. Sarah had spoiled me in terms of what I could expect on a first date, and most of that was because we had bypassed a lot of the customary first date games. With this new woman, Taylor, I wanted to dispense with pretense even faster than I had before. In my mind, ordering barbecue, something that was traditionally sloppy and forced you to eat with your thumbs sticking out, greasy with sauce, was a way of saying almost immediately that we weren’t going to do that “cute” dining experience, where people hide behind their food. No, this was going to be a “cut to the chase” kind of date. I even set this one to start in the early afternoon and requested that she wear casual clothes that she already owned. (No point in going to Saks and dropping a grip on clothing in an effort to pretend like you just found your outfit lying in the back of the closet.) I wanted to meet the real person, not the facade that nearly every woman takes with her on that first date.
I had seen a picture of Taylor in the folder Denise sent over to me, but the picture didn’t do her justice. She was cute in the photo, but now, standing in front of BBQ’s, she looks beautiful in a way that is heightened even more by the sun reflecting off of her golden skin and curly Afro. She could easily be Esperanza Spalding’s long lost twin.
We embrace as we introduce ourselves, and I am immediately struck by her sweet fragrance. It’s subtle, but reminds me of candy. The scent makes me want to kiss her right there, but I settle on holding her hands in mine as I take in her glowing beauty.
She is dressed in a turquoise baby t-shirt with the words “funky chick” written across her breasts in white lowercase letters. Her skirt comes down to her calves and looks like a fabric that has simply been wrapped and tied around her waist. With her open-toed sandals, she has a very bohemian look.
“Very nice to meet you, Taylor,” I say. “I’m really digging your flavor.” I lower my gaze to her outfit.
She smiles and responds, “Thanks. Nice to meet you, too.”
We walk in and are quickly ushered to a table by the window. The world of New York City moves outside, and sitting here feels like we are right next to a television, where the only channel is stuck on moving taxis, wandering students, and photograph-hungry tourists. But none of that matters as I sit across from Taylor.
“Interesting place for a first date, huh?” she says, lifting the menu.
“Ever been here before?”
“Can’t say that I have. I don’t eat out much.”
We are interrupted by the server, who comes to take our drink orders.
“I’ll have a water,” Taylor says.
“Water?” I ask. “You sure you don’t want something a bit more flavorful?”
“Water is just fine,” she responds, ignoring my mild attempt at humor.
The server turns to me. “And you, sir?”
For a moment, I consider ordering water, just like Taylor, but as I open my mouth, I decide against ordering like my date again. Sarah had gotten that luxury, if that’s what you could call it. I was going to order what I wanted. “I’ll have a Texas sized pina colada with a shot of 151.”
The server looks at me, his eyes questioning if I should be ordering liquor if my date isn’t. I nod to him that my order is final, and he leaves the table.
“Do you drink?” I ask.
“No. I haven’t had a drink since I was in college.”
“What happened? You got picked up for a DUI or something?” I joke.
She smiles and shakes her head. “No, I just started meditating. That’s all.”
“So are you like a Buddhist or something?” I ask.
“Yes,” she responds.
My mind drifts to the handful of things that I know about Buddhists, and it dawns on me that, unless she’s monastic, she’s not necessarily celibate, which would have been a potential deal-breaker. “Hold on. Are you a vegetarian?” I ask, realizing that I should have asked Denise a few more questions when I had her on the phone.
Somehow I am only mildly surprised when Taylor tells me, “Actually, I’m a raw food vegan.”
This must’ve been what Denise was referring to when she hinted that my date would be interesting. I look at Taylor, wanting to kick myself. And I thought that she got that glow from cocoa butter.
“I am so sorry,” I say. “We don’t have to eat here, if you don’t want to. I feel so stupid. With all of the chicken and pork in this place, I must be offending you in all kinds of ways.”
“Don’t sweat it. I’m not political about my food, and I don’t push my lifestyle on other people. You’re not the first guy I’ve gone out with who likes to eat meat.”
“Still,” I say. “We can go somewhere and get a salad or something.”
“I can get a salad here. I see it on the menu,” she says pointing to a grilled chicken Caesar salad that would have to be stripped down completely to a pile of iceberg and romaine leaves to be vegan.
“I tell you what. Why don’t we just get the drinks and then maybe you could take me to a restaurant that you enjoy eating at.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” I say, still shaking my head at how my plans for this date are backfiring.
“There is a dish I would love for you to try. It’s a vegan chili!” she says, becoming more excited about the process of introducing me to something that’s probably a beat away from being rabbit food.
“You said raw food though.”
“It is raw food.”
“So not only does it not have meat, but it’s also cold?”
“I’ll make a bet with you,” she says. “If you don’t like it, then I will stand on any corner in this city and sing a song for you.”
“But can you sing?” I ask.
She looks at me, attempting to hold a straight face. “No.”
“Well, I guess I’m in for a surprise either way then.”
The restaurant is called “We Like It Raw,” and although I understand the name, my thoughts revert back to sex. I look at Taylor and look away quickly. Too much, too soon, I tell myself.
We walk through the sparse population of people eating various raw concoctions. I had expected to see people who looked like they got off the last train from Berkeley, but what I see are ordinary New Yorkers having quiet meals. I could easily be walking into any Mom & Pop restaurant in the city.
I look at the menu posted on the wall behind the young lady at the register. Each of the combinations looks more horrifying than the next. Worst of all, I can feel no heat coming from the kitchen.
I see Taylor eyeing me cautiously. “You’re still okay with this, right?”
I nod slowly. “Yeah.”
“Want me to order for us? I think I can find a safe meal for your first raw vegan dish.”
I inhale slowly, still baffled by the foods listed on the board. Pizza? Chili? Potato-less Potato Salad? I have to think hard on that last one, until I realize that you have to cook potatoes for a potato salad, so clearly they can’t use actual potatoes in whatever they are calling a Potato-less Potato Salad. There are even chocolate chip cookies up there. Never have I conceived—in life—of a cookie that was not baked. Clearly, they must be talking about cookie dough and not actual cookies.
I look at Taylor and say, “Yeah. I think it would be best if you ordered.”
She orders me the raw vegan chili, some of the Potato-less Potato Salad, a small side salad, a chocolate chip cookie, and a strawberry juice. I can’t believe that she actually puts together a meal for me so quickly. Either she knows something that I don’t or she’s about to really push this date into the direction of “not gonna be pretty” territory. She orders herself a bowl of chili, some kind of grounded nut concoction, a side of the Potato-less Potato Salad, and a cookie.
“No salad for you!” I say, attempting to mimic the Soup Nazi from Seinfeld.
“Not this time,” she says, smiling.
When we get our dishes, all served on what looks like recycled paper plates and bowls, I see her bow her head. I don’t know what to do, so I just wait patiently for her to finish. When she does, I pick up my spoon and cautiously approach the chili. It looks like chili, but because I know there are no beans (which would have to be cooked), no meat, and no heat, I am preparing myself for the worse.
Rather than start her food, Taylor waits patiently for me to take my first bite. I suddenly become acutely aware of the journey of this first spoonful of chili from the bowl to my mouth. As I eye the spoon moving closer, almost like someone else is serving me, my mind flashes to an image of Taylor standing on some arbitrary corner singing her heart out for me, off-key and all. I part my lips and brace myself for the first bite. When it hits my tongue, the flavors spread out and I start to chew. Outside of it being room temperature, it actually tastes pretty good. There’s even the texture of meat in there from something. I look at the bowl and suddenly realize that I can polish it off with no problem.
“What do you think?” she asks.
“Not bad at all.”
She nods, chuckling.
“What’s so funny?”
“I’m so glad that you didn’t make me sing. That would’ve been really embarrassing.”
I laugh with her, as she begins to eat.
The Potato-less Potato Salad is all right, but nothing to write home about. It actually tastes more like bitter apples posing as potatoes, beneath this mayonnaise-type flavoring. Up until now, I haven’t even considered why the French would refer to potatoes as apples of the earth. They must have eaten this stuff, apparently.
Ordering the salad was definitely a safe move and a solid palate cleanser. But my mind is already racing ahead to that final piece of food on my tray: the chocolate chip cookie. I figure this is the deal-breaker right here for whether or not this meal will come together.
“It won’t bite,” Taylor says, nodding at my cookie.
“How can you have a cookie when you don’t bake it?” I muse, lifting it from the small plate.
It feels like a ball of firm dough between my fingertips, and I playfully wonder if it’s safe to eat. I bite in and begin to chew. As the taste of sweet cocoa spreads across my tongue, I realize that I’m actually eating a real dessert.
“How do they get it this sweet? Is there refined sugar in here?”
“No,” she responds. “It’s agave nectar. Sweeter than sugar, but natural.”
“It’s not bad. It doesn’t feel like a cookie when I touch it, but it definitely tastes like one,” I say.
“So,” she says, as we clean our plates, “how was your first raw vegan meal?”
“I kind of dug it,” I respond. “But I won’t lie to you. I’ll probably be craving a steak later on though.”
“Fair enough,” she says, as we empty our plates into the recycle bin by the door.
After our meal, we walk around the Village and eventually wind up at Washington Square Park, where we grab a bench across the street from NYU.
Students walk back and forth, their backpacks and computer bags draped across their shoulders. A group of older guys, possibly veterans, huddle over a chessboard, and off to the side, a group of tourists are photographing the various activity around them. I look over at the arch where two statues of George Washington stand across from each other, framing the entrance. 5th Avenue dead-ends into the park, and across the street are some very expensive-looking row houses, nearly identical to the ones in Will Smith’s movie I Am Legend. I look back at Taylor who is also taking in our surroundings.
“Can I ask you a question?” I start.
“Sure.”
“Why did you agree to do this date?”
She watches the students moving aimlessly about the sidewalk. “Why not?”
“So is this like a bucket list item for you?”
“No,” she chuckles. “I don’t have a bucket list. I just do what I feel compelled to do. I saw your picture on the website, and I thought to myself, ‘He might be a fun person to hang out with.’”
“I see,” I say, looking at her crossed legs, one of her sandals falling away from her heel. “So you’re not really looking for anything serious then?”
“Serious is a matter of perception. Let’s just enjoy the moment for what it is. If it leads to more, we’ll follow it there.”
“Okay,” I offer, but I realize that I have no idea of what that would mean if she ended up being the woman I selected from this process.
She turns to face me, her smooth leg brushing against my khakis. “I know you had a good time on your last date. I can tell she struck a chord with you.”
Damn, I think to myself. That’s definitely one of the downsides of this entire thing being blogged about on the Soul Sista site. No telling what my third date will think of me by the time she reads through the accounts of my other two dates.
“We had a good time,” I offer, hoping to neutralize any further discussion of Sarah.
“So are you having a good time now?” she asks.
“Definitely. I don’t think I’ve felt healthier in my life.”
She laughs, and as her body bounces, her curly Afro jiggles. The gesture is very charming, and I want to reach over and touch her hand, but I don’t feel an opening just yet.
“So tell me a little bit about yourself,” she says.
“I’m from Mississippi, but I went to school in Atlanta. Fell in love. Got my heart broken. Moved to New York to work on Wall Street. Now I own half of a record store in Harlem.”
“God, Cool! You know how to suck the life out of a story, don’t you?” she jokes.
“Well, that’s pretty much been my life so far.”
“So you define yourself by what has happened to you, not by who you are?”
I know the question isn’t meant to be a heavy one, but it feels like it. I sense I’m getting judged on a level, and that makes me feel a bit uncomfortable, as if I am not a complete person. The sad thing is that I start to wonder if she’s right.
“I think I have a good idea of who I am,” I say, careful to project confidence this time.
“So tell me.”
“I’m a good man who wants to do the right thing. I love music more than anything in the world. In fact, I believe there’s no ill that can’t be cured by Earth, Wind & Fire or Stevie Wonder. I believe in the possibility of love—even after all of the shit that I’ve been through. Someone once told me that there’s someone for everyone, and I guess I’ve always questioned if somehow I might’ve been the one exception to that rule. This experience is definitely a new one for me, so I’m just trying to see where it goes.” When I finish I do a fake wipe of my brow and ask, “What about you? Who are you?”
“Didn’t you read my t-shirt,” she says. “I’m a funky chick!”
“I see,” I say, admiring her dimples.
“I’m a simple girl who grew up in South Jersey. I don’t really care a lot for labels. I love music, and I think that Minnie Riperton and Nina Simone are the closest things to angels to ever walk the earth. I love art—I sketch and write poetry. I believe very much in love and in living in the now. I love smelling the roses, not just admiring them from a distance. I don’t know. I guess I’m just an open person like that.”
“Really?” I respond. “When you say that you don’t care for labels, what do you mean? Clothes? Titles?”
“All of it. To label someone is to confine them to being just that one thing. I don’t like labels in any area of my life.”
Now I am curious, so I ask, “So you don’t believe in labels like girlfriends and boyfriends, husbands and wives?”
“Don’t get me wrong. I do believe in commitment, but I have noticed that people behave differently when labels are involved. I like just being with someone because I want to, not because I feel obligated to.”
As I listen to her, the truth of her words has a calming effect over me.
“So,” I say. “What would you like to do next?”
“I’m good just being with you.”
She smiles, her lips curving upward sweetly. I find myself unable to do anything but smile along with her.
“I can dig that, Funky Chick.”