love burgers

We were only halfway down the street before I started professing my love for red meat. "All things in moderation," I heard myself stating matter-of-factly in my head, and yet, I didn't stop. He's the one who asked, but I bet he wished he hadn't. I bet he wished he had picked up a vegetarian.

At the restaurant, a customize-your-own burger joint, I resisted checking the 1/3 lb. patty and put a dark lead pencil check mark next to the box that said 1/2. "Wheat," I thought. "And sprouts," to balance out my carnivorous burst from the blind date starting gate. After quite the sweet potato fry sales pitch from our waitress, we ordered a side of those and some onion rings. My date ordered his burger on an English muffin which should have been my first clue that we weren't a match. Not that I don't enjoy an English muffin, but to me, it goes better with, say, a glass of prune juice and low-cal imitation butter spread. We handed our order sheets to the waitress and I settled in for what I knew would be the awkward first date (blind, no less) what's-your-favorite-color and tell-me-about-your-family question and answer period. Lucky for him, he could cross off what's your favorite food from the get go, what with my whole self-proclaimed red meat love fest.

Our burgers arrived in record time, a blessing from the burger gods, who either a) knew they had a serious meat-lover on their hands or b) knew the conversation had run as dry as an English muffin sans I Can't Believe it's Not Butter. I took one long inhale, and sunk my teeth into the patty. Perfection. I continued this inhale-bite-inhale-bite routine for the next few minutes, stopping to wipe the mustard from my mouth and to ask all the obligatory first date questions. It was when he told me he doesn't "like to do much" for fun that I decided to drown myself in the sweet potato fries. I dug in deeper and even added the horse-radish dip, well aware there wouldn't be any post-date shenannigans after such bon tete-a-tete convo avec du boeuf.

I looked across the table with four bites of my Martha-made burger left, feeling like a lady for not snarffing the whole thing in a minute flat. I glanced down at Mr. Muffin's plate and lo and behold, he'd taken four bites total. Clearly, he was disgusted by my manners. Or he regretted the whole muffin-bun switcheroo. Maybe he was so ready to leave it was worth the waste of meat. (Gasp! Waste red meat?! NEVER.) Or, perhaps he was being kind, and after I told him how much I love cow, he decided to join in the feasting, when really, he prefers white meat to red. I'm not sure which.

I saved face and decided to not pat my very satisfied belly. Rather, in the most ladylike of tones I said, "Thank you. That was delicious." Which, in burger speak means, "Dude! Best. Red. Meat. Ever. I could totally pound another like right now, bro!" He left a generous tip, as well as the trough of onion rings (which, for some reason, I've always felt were too greasy -- explain that one) and we were off to our post-dinner activity.

In college, my roommate's older and wiser sister counseled that to every good blind date, there are 20 bad ones. I don't know what number this one was, nor would I say this necessarily qualifies as bad. On the contrary. The night continued pleasantly. It wasn't the first time I told a boy I heart red meat. But perhaps I've never been in such refined company when I've made such an utterance. His khakis and tucked-in button-up shirt should have been the ultimate give away. Next time that will be my first clue: no meat talk unless he's in jeans and a t-shirt, something he could drip barbecue sauce on and not have to make a trip to the cleaners. As for the whole blind date thing, this much I know: one more down.