The "Baffling Buffet" Knight

At the very beginning of this endeavor I wanted to make sure I was being diverse with who I was going on dates with.  Diversifying seems to be a strange word when talking about dating, but I wanted to leave no stone unturned in my dating endeavors.  I had recently gotten keen on reading about this whole investment diversifying thing, and felt that broadening my horizons with the Knights I dated should be no different. 

I was going to date men of all races, heights, sizes, hair colors and backgrounds. I was going to try to not just have "a type". Why pigeon hole myself? Why not try for a Heinz 57 selection. . .

With this theory in mind I decided that I was going to take a chance with a man that had emailed me on the dating site.  He had been very complimentary and cordial in his introduction, and I figured that this was a pleasant start. I found his niceties to be flattering and found myself smiling whilst reading his email.

I clicked on the link to his dating site profile.  He had a picture of him on a yacht out at sea, one of him at what looked like a Monte Carlo racetrack, and his third and final picture, was of a sunset over a tropical island.  All unique and beautiful locales.  He travels. Plus.

The thing that I thought was odd about all these pictures, was that the pictures looked like they could have been shot from space. I strained to see what this man looked like. He appeared to be in his mid 30s or 40s (who can really tell these days), well dressed, with longer wavy dark hair and what looked like a strapping physique. He had olive skin that had been tanned by the sun.  Fantastic! He wasn’t afraid of the beach!

His physical description was 5’ 11 “with a few extra pounds”. Hmph.  I didn’t see a few extra pounds.  But who cares anyway . . .

A “few extra pounds”, is a more than OK with me.  I prefer only that the men I date not be smaller than me.  Here is why. . .

My criteria for men and fitness is as follows: You need to look like you can carry me.

This may seem like an odd request. . .but here is my reasoning.

1.    I am one of the most accident-prone people you have ever met: In your life.  Or, for that matter, may ever hear of meeting.  I have fallen off curbs, (something that I have inherited from my mother apparently), injured myself while WATCHING a roller derby bout and have had the kind of freak accidents have the ER doctor looking at you like, ‘this is the worst story someone has ever made up’.

And sadly, it’s all true.

I generally look to my partner to help me hobble away or sometimes even chauffeur a piggy back ride or a fireman’s carry from one of my debacles to safety. 

2.   After a long night of drinking, some people get frisky; others are looking for a fight.  I just really want a nap. Wherever it is that we are, I am knocking out if the spirit, and spirits move me. Whether it be on public transport, after a long day touring, during the car ride home from the concert, or on the couch watching movies after a few glasses of wine: I am more than likely going to be toast. I have inherited my father’s ability to sleep ANYWHERE.  I’m not kidding. . .anywhere. 

My poor father would take us shopping for school clothes or prom dresses and fall asleep in the chair, next to the main walkway in department stores, minutes after we disappeared into a dressing room.  He slept as if he had been knocked out by Mike Tyson even in places like Grand Central Station. All he needed was some elevator music, the room temperature around 68 and no real moments of responsibility, and wa-la, he'd be out like a light. Following suit in this familial trait, I need only a few glasses of red wine or spirits and a comfortable chair, bench or even airport waiting area floor.  I’m out.

  

3.  When passed out for any reason, I am a 400 lb woman.  Whatever it is about me, men of yesteryear have all commented on how I somehow double in weight when  I am passed out asleep.  My otherwise small 5’3 frame now reconfigures itself into jumble resulting in the same affect as trying to carry the 50 Foot Woman.  Even the surefire fireman carry is a production. . .for two people. . . when I am in la-la land.

I think we can just let her sleep here. 

With these factors in mind, I am more than happy to take applicants from the “a few extra pounds” (as the dating website identifies this group) club. I like my men strapping, in whatever direcetion they strap? 

I emailed him back telling him that I was appreciative of the compliments.  I asked him if his race track pictures were from Monte Carlo, how he learned to sail, and where the lovely beach shot was from.  I figured that this was a good enough ice breaker. I gave it a C+

He emailed back nearly immediately. . 

His race track pictures, were in fact, from Monte Carlo.

I had been to Monaco but I had not seen the race track while I toured thru Monaco on a month long jaunt with an ex-boyfriend that took me through the Italian and French Rivieras.  I instead had opted to take my “free day” in Monte Carlo.  As any good traveler who travels for any duration with a partner, there is the day during, your long haul that both need a bit of head space from the other partner.  He and I had our “free day” of independence with him departing to the National Museum of Monaco and the beach. I chose to spend my day at the local chi-chi restaurant to blow my share the nights stay on chocolate mousse and champagne. That’s just how I roll.

I digress. 

He told me that he had been sailing with some friends, but didn’t go into detail.

‘Well at least he wasn’t afraid of the ocean,’ I thought.  Plus. Ideally he hadn't drown his cohorts either.

He shared that the picture of him on the beach was indeed from St. Maarten: The Dutch side, not the French side.  That seems to be very important to those who have been to St. Maarten.  I still need to go and see what all the crazy difference is.

He asked in closing his email, if I would be willing to meet up to have lunch.  I thought this suggestion was genius.  I could devote an hour of my life to this: I could do an hour standing on my head. I would conveniently have a “meeting” scheduled just after our lunch so that I only allotted an hour.  If it went great, it would leave us eager to spend more time, and if it went poorly, well, I had my out.

He asked if I wanted to meet for Indian food at a local buffet. I happen to adore Indian food! Even if I thought there was potential for my date becoming a scene from American Psycho, I said yes. Our date was slated for broad daylight, at 1:30 pm at a lovely Indian buffet.  What could go wrong?

"See you at lunch!"

We text a few brief times on the days leading up to the date.  There were your usual, “how was your day, what did you do this weekend, how was work” sort of questions. The day of our lunch I arrived promptly at 1:30 at the buffet spot.  The restaurant was pretty empty. I wandred through the front of the restaurant and saw no one.  I stuck my head in the back room and all I saw was a large man, face down shoveling down some Indian food, on what  I guessed was a short lunch break.  As I turned around to go talk to the maître de I heard, “CHRISTINA!” from behind me. 

My name isn’t Christina, but for whatever reason I turned around.  Maybe because I was the only woman in the restaurant at this point?

As I turned back around the man who had been shoveling down his lunch was standing up from the table.  He was wiggling himself away from the table to unwedge himself from the booth.  He was waving his napkin at me.   As I strained to try to make out how this could possibly be the guy who I was meeting he approached me.  He had some sort of sauce all stuck in his beard, and his shirt had dribblings of what I can only imagine might have been Chicken Vindaloo. He was waving the napkin at me with one hand while wiping his mouth with the back of his other hand.  Which he then extended out for me to shake.  I kind of cringed as I extended my hand to shake his. 

WHO WAS THIS PERSON??

With his mouth still full he started in "I didn't think you were coming!"

"Umm," I stammered.  "I thought we were set for 1.30.  Did I miss a message?" 

"Ohhhh," he replied.  "I thought it was for 1pm. I didn't think you were going to show."

Now I wasn't sure I should have. He still had a full mouth, and was half chewing, half conversing with me.  He gestured to the table where he had three plates full of Indian food.  These three dinner plates were stocked to the brim, teeming with Indian goodness. 

As I sat down I thanked him for grabbing me a plate of food.  He quickly waved his hands in a "no" gesture and swiped the plate away from in front of my seat.  He swallowed down the mass he was eating long enough to say "Oh no.  That's my lunch."

Um. Ok.  No worries.  I know that the food was bangin', and clearly he didn't think I was coming, so I guess these other plates were his too. No worries. I can get my own lunch.  

He wedged himself back in between the table and the banquet.  I was now looking at him trying to get a mental image of who the man in his online pictures was.  This man I was sitting across from was very very, large, with long stringy unkempt hair that was sort of greasy.  He was wearing running sneakers, track pants, a sweater and had a scarf wrapped around his neck.  He looked like he was going out to shovel a driveway, rather than to meet at a nice restaurant for lunch.  

He had definitely missed his mouth on a few occasions during the last half hour because he was wearing a number of brightly colored stains on his shirt and pants.  I hoped, at least that they were from THIS episode of eating. In addition, there seemed to be a little bit of food dangling from not only his beard, which was bushy and long, but his hair also seemed to have flecks of food in it.  Apparently this had been a full body event for him before I got there. . .

I now noticed that he was inhaling the food at an epic rate because he wasn't even using utensils. He had cupped his hand and was eating with what looked like giant paws.  He would shovel the food into his palm by using all five fingers, scoop it upside down and then slam it into his face.  

I have seen this eating technique used before when I was over-seas.  While eating with the Bedouin (an ancient nomadic tribe) in Egypt we ate like this.  It was expected. It was unique and enjoyable.  When you don't have utensils, this is a great way to eat.  Just wasn't expecting it on our date at this pretty nice place. 

He stopped stuffing his face long enough to gesture to the buffet behind us.  "Everything is amazing," he mumbled through his naan.  He then hailed the waiter over, ordered more naan and kept eating like a champ.  

This was not a date, this was a competitive food eating competition I had stumbled upon.  It must have been.  This man was not even remotely interested in my being there.  He was there for the buffet, period, the end.

MOOORRRREEEE NAAAANNN!!!

I was starving at this point so I made my way to the buffet.  I had been kind-of turned off by some of the dishes because after seeing them as hair ornaments, I just couldn't feel excited about putting them in my mouth. I put some salad, a bit of Chicken Masala and rice on my plate, I took a deep breath and headed back towards the table.  

The one thing I had going for me was this date was supposed to be an hour long, I had showed up apparently a half an hour late: I could only hope he had some place to be at 2.

I sat back down across from him.  He told me in between bites I looked more attractive in person than in my pictures. "Thank you?" was all I could muster. 

I asked him if he had ever been to this restaurant before.  He said not really.  With his mouth still full, he told me that he usually spent most of his time out in Brooklyn in the Coney Island area.  He really like Russian girls and asked if I was Russian.  

I replied that I was not.  

"Oh, the blond hair was what made me think you might be Russian," he explained sounding disappointed. 

'The blond could be from a box, or a skilled stylist' I thought to myself. I was officially mentally checking out.

He went on to start this running monologue about how he liked Russian girls, but the ones he met out on Coney Island always seemed to want him to pay for everything. He assumed that they made enough dancing that they could pay for themselves, but they were always hitting him up for cash or to buy them things. 

I had a feeling the women he had been speaking of weren't here with the Russian Ballet.

Tutus are expensive I guess?

There was very little conversation to speak of. He pretty much talked at me. He went on and on about his traveling, his work (that didn't seem all too legitimate, now that I think about it), and the myriad of things he had to buy for these previous Russian dancing women.  I tried to eat my lunch pretending to listen and trying not to be grossed out by his gulping and sucking noises as he ate.  

I guess the time went by fairly quickly because next thing I knew it was 2pm! OH THANK GOD!

"Hey there," I said, "It's 2 and I don't want to hold you up since I know that you had planned on us only being out for an hour."

"Oh yeah!" he exclaimed.  

He quickly shot up out of his seat and began to shuffle for his wallet.  I reached into my wallet and held out my share of the buffet money. He scooped it out of my hand with a, "thanks" and added it to the crumpled bills he had taken out of his pocket and wallet.  He then gestured for the waiter to come over and wrap his fourth plate of food to go. 

As he was scooping up his phone and jacket, he turned to me and asked, "so for our next date, can we meet in Coney Island?"

I forced a smile and told him I would look at my schedule and get back to him. I told him to have a lovely afternoon.  He leaned in to try to kiss me on the cheek goodbye, and (out of instinct I think) I grabbed the linen napkin and pretended to sneeze into it.  He got me with the awkward one armed hug, that put me closer to his dingleberry food beard, which then caused me to kind of heave a bit.  Successfully stifling my heaving by covering my mouth with the napkin, I waved goodbye. 

That, whatever that was, I swore, could and would never happen again.