wrapmeinbacon

My drink of choice is a vodka with water and lime. Boring? Yes. Practical? Absolutely. But when I came to San Francisco, surrounded by rainbows of cocktails and the people who drink them, I decided to venture outside of my comfort zone. The bar’s name is Cantina. They have a drink named the Misdemeanor. It starts out slow and smooth, almost seductive – which, to me, is foreign for any drink with tequila in it. The agave nectar rolls around your tongue and the flavor of crushed pineapple promises continued sweetness. It lingers for what seems a strange amount of time. Then you get the punch of jalapeño. This is no ordinary punch – it’s stealthy, swift, and powerful. It is probably the only cocktail I’ve ever really enjoyed the taste of.

This may be because it’s delicious, but it’s probably because I am an idiot and enjoy the surprise. After the first sip, I should in theory expect the jalapeño.  Still surprises me though. I just started a bit more seriously seeing someone, and I feel like it’s all pineapple and agave, and I know the stupid jalapeño is inevitable, but it’s still going to punch me like no one’s business. This guy has trouble dancing all around him – he’s charming, smart, ambitious, funny; he has a Duchenne smile (what the hell is it about those smiles?). And I am so incredibly screwed.

Here is my promise to myself – I will remember that it’s not enough to just like someone – I am more aware of that now than ever. I like lots of people, most people. This one has to be right for me. I will not, under any circumstances, promise exclusivity unless my gut says it’s right for me. Right now, my gut just understands when I want to make out. Let the trouble begin.

At least twice a week, I get a specific salad from Whole Foods. There are beans and corn and tomatoes and cilantro and onion and it seems way too many things in it. All of these things seem to fit very well together, and then there’s this strange white cubed thing. Looked it up and it’s jicama. Every time I eat the salad, I think that this white cubed thing is perfectly good, but I just don’t know if it belongs in there.

This city has been wondrous. I’ll go hiking in Muir Woods and marvel at those soaring cartoonish trees, I’ll take a Tuesday off of work to lounge on a sailboat, with the America’s cup a few hundred feet away, I’ll have a latte with a crunchy cannoli with vanilla cream oozing out of every crevice at Caffe Greco in Little Italy, but I have this weird problem: I’m jicama in a beautiful salad – I don’t know how to add to it. I look around me and I see the warmth from friends and family in SF, I feel how invigorating it is to be surrounded by brilliant, hopeful people, but I still feel a little removed from it.

Around two months ago, a man gave me the best compliment I’ve ever received; he said that ironic as it is, Miami will be losing a lot of warmth when I go to San Francisco. Perhaps that’s my addition to this city then. Because as inspiring and active as San Fran is, it certainly needs warmth. That’s a pretty good gift then, no? Maybe you do need jicama.

As a heads up, this will be an unfair post. I’m writing about a gastropub famous for its beer, and I’m not a big beer person. In my defense, if people try the food, and they rave about the beer, then this place must be truly remarkable.

True to form, I ordered the bacon wrapped shrimp with marmalade sauce from the Monk’s Kettle in the Mission. It’s not so much that I liked this dish; it’s more that the dish and I shared something beautiful. It was crunchy and fresh and sweet and it was just one of those moments I could not help but feel really happy. This unveiled yet another flaw in my dating skills: I am significantly more interested in bacon than in my date. This is not my date’s fault. He may offer funny stories, ask interesting questions, and be generally enjoyable and intelligent, but there’s really no way he can compete with bacon wrapped shrimp.

It’s fun to date, but I find myself nervous to start investing emotion into someone. I keep glancing down at those scars, and wondering if it’s OK to get more, and how many I can handle.

In an ideal world, I would like to be surrounded by a bigass moat. I’d load the moat up with whales and sharks and a cross between a tiger and a sea snake (I don’t know what this would look like, but I imagine it would be petrifying). I could devise some clever master scheme to make sure the guy on the other side is good (I don’t know how to do this, but in this situation I crossbred a tiger and a sea snake sooo…). Then I can go talk to him. That might lower the likelihood of scarring.

Unfortunately, in real life, I just decide they look nice and hop over my bigass moat to go say hi. That’s how I get into trouble. And that’s why I prefer bacon to men. Never got a scratch from bacon…just happiness.

New to the dating scene, I have been trying to navigate the norms and etiquette it seems like everyone else is so familiar with.

Here are my problems: I am a fairly unattractive eater (there will be sauce on my cheek – this is a given), and I like to share my food, but in moderation. Some people seem to find the messy thing endearing. I like these people. My last date gently poked fun at me, which I welcomed. Mid-meal, though, I took a break. I wanted to re-energize and then sink back into the most delicious burger I have ever eaten. But the date took my burger! Mid-burger! All was forgiven, though, because upon seeing the horror on my face, he offered to make me kugel. Ladies, I found a secret: a cute man who knows the best burger in town and who can make kugel. Yes, he steals delicious food…but he makes kugel.

This find warrants celebration, but let’s revert to the burger. Hosted in Maven, this burger stands out with its simplicity – they do not load strange sauces on it or smother the buns with butter. The burger screams with juicy tenderness and a tangy, but not overpowering pickle. This is not just any burger – this is THE burger.

I will warn you – not all the dates I’ve gone on or will go on will result in this kind of foodie happiness. The one before this guy took me to try aged cheeses and he talked about boobs for 20 minutes.  Aged cheeses: good. Boobs: good. Places that serve aged cheeses and pretentiously explain the difference between a 12 month aged cheese and a 15 month aged cheese (and how foolish people who eat 12 month aged cheese are): profoundly annoying. Techy boys who giggle when discussing boobs: surprisingly, not sexy. Needless to say, this was not a win. And despite my best efforts to try a restaurant, the next dude insisted on taking me to see Alcatraz this week (If it goes poorly, I will be in a prison on an island. This is bad.).

This process has been so interesting to me – food tests compatibility so well. When someone takes you to their favorite place, you immediately gain insight into their personality: fancy or low-key, a focus on presentation versus taste, how adventurous they are, how research-oriented, how frugal, how healthy. You see manners, generosity. It’s caused me to examine myself in those aspects too. Learning while eating’s not so bad.