hilariously mismatched pairs, and the occasional hookup. Each week, we lure two singletons to a bar and ply them with alcohol and food (in that order), then wait for their reports to arrive in our inbox. If this sounds like you, email news@critic.co.nz or FB message us. This week, Angus Restaurant/Moon Bar played host to two lovebirds.
Girl
After making the poor boy wait two hours for the date I finally showed up, feeling flustered. Scanning the room for a table, there were no puppy-eyed boys to be seen, just some random kid taking photos with a bunch of foreigners by Moon Bar. The waitress told me she’d grab my date; I awkwardly rushed to the bathroom and glared at myself in the mirror, praying Ryan Gosling would appear alone at a table. Not quite.Dinner rolled smoothly, nothing bad nothing good. The meat was amazing, and a good drop of red managed to run down my throat. I seemed to impress him with my love for red wine, whisky and steak as he then bragged to me about his passion for wedding photography, the ultimate dream. My heart started to beat and Beyoncé ran through my head. If he likes then he better put a ring on it.
Next came the most serious question of the entire date – pretty much the make or break point, and I’m not even kidding. A poster caught my eye, but no ordinary poster; it contained all the zodiac star signs. Now was my chance. I subtly said, “oh cute, star signs. Hey, this I’ll be funny, what are you?” There were only three that this mysterious man could be: Scorpio, Cancer or Pisces. This would reflect the rest of the night, and potentially, how far my legs would spread.
“Uh, my birthday’s August the third.” Leo. Is this a fucking joke? The bottle of red didn’t last and it seemed like neither would anything else. He suggested Ratbags, and it seemed that it was only full of rats. After sneakily snap chatting my friend in the bathroom as I snuck away for a breather, she told me to “bitch out and leave.” So I texted my “girls” and promised him a dance in Monkey on Saturday … haha, yeah, we shall see what happens on Saturday, you little Leo.
Boy
Twas only four hours before the date when I found out my flatmate had put my name into the dark and desperate abyss that is the news@critic email address, and it had spat my name back out. After this news I thought why not, any port in a storm.A couple of hours before the date the flatties and I went down the road to Starters, and I decided fuck it, let’s do some shots. No good story starts with a salad. A few drinks down, and feeling rather tipsy, my flatmates dropped me off. The girl was a stunner, though at that stage I didn’t know if the alcohol was acting as real life Photoshop, or I was in luck.
After average yarns, a nice bottle of red and a perfectly seasoned steak we headed off to Ratbags, where my flatmate had promised to give us a round of free drinks if I brought her in. As we sat at a table with a couple of my friends who maintained banter, my flatmate come-hither’d me to tell a story. Last year this date of mine was being fought over by two guys named Josh. After catching her having sex in the bathroom with one of the Joshes, my flatmate had to kick her out. Straight after this she went to the other Josh, who was waiting patiently outside the bathroom for seconds, and went home with him.
I headed back to the table giving her the benefit of the doubt, sometimes people just have a bad day. Anyway, she was texting her “friend” to come along. He joined us and introduced himself as Josh (the sloppy seconds one). After a bit more banter it became obvious to me that my date was avoir la moule qui baille (French: to have a yawning mussel) for this guy. After a couple of drinks she decided to ditch; I wasn’t too fazed by this as she was like the first slice of bread in the bag – everyone touches it, but nobody really wants it.
Many thanks to Critic, Cows and Alcohol.