At some point during college, probably while I sat drunk moribund
glued to a booth in a club birthed by a pomade-slick headed
Philadelphian, a forgettable hip-hop jam shivering my sternum, at some
point I realized this is not the best arena to showcase whatever it is
I have to offer women. Now, a couple of years later and back in Los
Angeles, those clubs and plenty of overcrowded, overloud bars in my
rear-view mirror, the thesis hasn’t changed. I have friends1 who,
god-bless them, don’t require that (trivial) intermediary step of
exchanging coherent words in between seeing a girl and kissing her.
Some sort of atavistic ceremony played out to the new Kanye. I don’t
know. Maybe I should let more chest hair peek out of my button-down
shirts.
The point is—I know I’ve missed the generational hover-craft—if I’m trying to win over a girl, I’d much rather go on a date. Like, take her out to dinner. Talk to her. Impress her with my knowledge of wine.2 Which defense of an increasingly archaic3 form of courtship is probably making you think either a) what a chivalrous young squire or b) kids still watch Woody Allen movies? What you aren’t considering is how many variables have to be weighed when deciding what place of repast will translate into the appropriate setting for a first date.
A few weeks after I met my future husband, he invited me to a fancy dinner party for some very dear friends of his from Milan – Neil and Maria Empson, exporters of great Italian wines. It was the early 80’s, Northern Italian cuisine and wines were just catching on and many of the ingredients he wanted for the dinner, including the wines, were hard to find. We spent almost a week shopping for the food and a variety of their wines to serve that Saturday evening.
My mother had a way of inventing traditions. “It’s Lizzie’s birthday!” she’d proclaim periodically and everyone in the family would don a party hat and sing happy birthday to one of our English Springer Spaniels. The announcement of the dog’s birth and subsequent celebration of it could occur at any time – on April 5, say, or December 12. It could happen twice a year or once every few years. But however haphazard, it became a tradition. 
I am addicted to chocolate. I don't mean that I just like to eat
chocolate, I have to eat chocolate. There is no twelve step program,
there are no support groups but I know it is genetic. My mother is also
addicted to chocolate as are two of my six little nieces. Sometimes the
four of us sit around the kitchen table in silence eating chocolate. I
am the enabler. I buy chocolate every time I pass through a duty free
store in an airport. I stop in every bakery I see to buy anything
chocolate they have. I know exactly where all the nice chocolate shops
are in New York City. You get my point?
