I promised I wouldn’t leave you on read, and unlike several men of my acquaintance, I am a woman of my word. It’s officially the Year of the Horse, which apparently means we’re galloping forward. Today’s Co-Star informed me that “your life force is a flow of electricity you can plug into any time,” so naturally I have chosen to short-circuit publicly.
In the post-Valentine’s psychic debris, I made two playlists: Yearn and Delusion. I trust this provides a medically sufficient update on my current condition.
And of course, my pain is your pleasure. For any new nibblers joining us: the ground rules remain unchanged. No names, no dates, no zodiac signs, and absolutely no LinkedIn profiles.
“But Brucie,” you say, “they’ll never know.”
Oh, they will know. Due to what historians will one day classify as my catastrophic lack of foresight, some of the subjects in question may very well be reading this. What can I say? My undeniable charm travels faster than common sense. Besides, it is a universal law that a man is only truly good if he is at least a little bit scared of you.
I have rifled through my archive for this week’s latest edition. I’ve swooned. I’ve sobbed. I’ve decided to leave my phone permanently on dnd. But as any good solider will tell you, the beatings will continue until morale improves.
Exhibit A: Casetta
For the table: Puzelat-Bonhomme, Le Telquel, Cabernet Franc, Gamay
So help me God, the man arrived wearing 1970s sideburns and an Oasis T-shirt. I have never been catfished, but this felt like the pilot program. You know when you order something online and it technically is the item, but somehow also deeply isn’t? That.
We met at a Lower East Side wine bar that I immediately realized I had been to before under significantly better circumstances. Although he had, in fact, chosen the location, he informed me within approximately eleven seconds that he didn’t actually know anything about wine.
“I just go where the wind takes me,” he said.
Now.
The wind, historically, has taken me to many places. Graduate school. Questionable apartments. A Pilates membership I refuse to cancel. But most reliably, the wind takes me to a bottle of cabernet.
“The wind,” I replied, “usually takes me to red.”
Before I could properly assess the emotional duration of the commitment I had just entered into, there was already a chilled bottle on the table.
To review the mathematics: 6 glasses a bottle divided between 2.
My training has prepared me to down 3 glasses with professionalism and grace. What I could not calculate was the pace as the entire strategy depends on synchronized drinking. If he drinks fast, we leave fast. If he drinks slow, I am trapped in what scientists call A Situation.
Somewhere between Glass One and the creeping realization that this was now a full evening, he casually mentioned he’d had multiple brain surgeries.
“To prevent my brain from falling into my face.”
I would like to pause here to acknowledge that there is no socially correct follow-up question to that sentence.
There is no branch of etiquette that prepares you for “my brain was structurally attempting to relocate.”
I nodded in what I hope was a supportive yet calmly detached manner, and immediately excused myself to the bathroom — the sacred emergency conference room of women everywhere.
I texted my mother.
Run, she replied.
Exhibit B: Emmett’s on Grove
What I ordered: a martini or 2
What he ordered: Stella
For the table: a bottle of red, crispy olives, sausage oregano pizza, bolognese
I had already committed to ghosting this man when the text arrived mid-day.
(Do not fear. This man’s brain remains safely contained within his skull.)
“Hey doll, I have a table at Emmett’s tomorrow at 8 if you’ll join me?”
Now.
Emmett’s is not somewhere you can casually “grab” a seat last minute. You either calendar or you commit to waiting in the 4 hr walk in line. And — crucially — I had not spoken to this man in two full weeks.
When I asked how this miracle had occurred, he informed me he’d made the reservation two hours after our first date.
Two. Hours.
There is, of course, a fine line between calculated and cocky. But unfortunately for my personal peace, I am deeply susceptible to planning. I could not help but blush at the idea that he’d known he wanted to see me again while I was still mentally drafting my escape plan.
And as much as I hated to acknowledge it, my evening was free. My kitchen was empty. And the promise of pizza has historically defeated stronger women than me.
So I went.
Even if you are well-versed in the spirit realm, selecting a bottle for the table in low lighting with half a martini already operational is an intimidating task. Which is perhaps why he outsourced the responsibility to me.
How brave.
Squinting heroically at the menu, I pointed to the only wine region I could confidently identify without summoning my ancestors for help.
“Excellent choice,” the waitress said warmly. “That’s my favorite on the menu.”
Please.
Stroke my ego. I can only suppress so much of my only-child heritage.
“How about we order a little taste of everything,” he suggested, “and you can take the rest home?”
Reader.
There are many love languages. Words of affirmation. Acts of service. Physical touch.
But nothing, and I mean nothin, wins me over more than ordering a full spread with little care nor concern for the logistics or inevitable end-of-night check. Just full-steam gluttony.
As a succession of entrées began arriving at our comically small table, I found myself conducting advanced tactical maneuvers: one hand balancing perfectly crisp pizza, the other maintaining operational control of the now-infamous Chianti, while silently calculating how socially acceptable it would be to order a second dessert “for the table” (the table being me).
We finished the final drops of the bottle.
And then he played his final card.
“Have you been to Salt & Straw?”
How sweet of him to think I did not maintain an almost liturgical weekly pilgrimage to the West Village’s most sacred ice cream stall.
But before I could even begin my standard “oh I suppose I could be persuaded” performance, he had already solved the only real logistical obstacle: the growing architectural installation of to-go boxes stacked beneath our table.
He called a courier.
A courier.
To deliver the mountain of leftovers to my apartment.
Because, as he gently pointed out, how else was I supposed to hold my ice cream cone?
And honestly?
At that point, resistance was not only futile — it was disrespectful to the system he had so clearly engineered.
Exhibit C: Le CouCou
For the table: yellowfin tuna, beef tartare, quenelle (duh), prime filet
It’s no secret I grew up gastronomically spoiled compared to most. As I approached dating age, my mother repeatedly stressed that I conceal my fine-dining palate from potential suitors. To this day, she calls before dates to remind me: let the man choose the menu. Not everyone orders an appetizer, entrée, dessert, and a coordinated cocktail progression. Apparently this is considered “a lot.”
Besides, in New York it’s widely understood you won’t even make it to dinner before three or four dates. Drinks are the standard. They’re the only emotionally and economically responsible option.
Which is why I was absolutely gobsmacked when he suggested Le Coucou for a first dinner date.
“Have you heard of it?”
Had I heard of it.
Le Coucou is only on every “best of the best” list in the city. It has Michelin acclaim. It has chandeliers. It has the kind of lighting that makes you reconsider every life choice that led to owning casual denim.
There was only one thing to do.
Panic.
I booked a hair appointment. I exfoliated like I was sanding a historic monument. I went on a three-mile run purely so I could later justify the butter. I curated multiple outfit options and submitted them to the girl group tribunal for democratic review.
And, naturally, I spiraled wondering whether he had actually heard of Le Coucou.
Because here’s the thing: there is only one dinner option. Prix fixe. And that price point lives well beyond the federally recommended First Dinner Date Spending Limit.
It’s very difficult to describe Le Coucou as anything other than aggressively romantic. Frescoes stretch across the walls. Chefs glide past in improbably tall white hats. Taper candles slowly collapse into sterling silver dishes like they’re performing their own tragic opera.
Sitting there in my double layer of Spanx — posture immaculate, circulation questionable — I anxiously awaited the menu I had spent the past week studying like it was the bar exam.
If he had blindly selected this cathedral of French gastronomy, I figured it would show immediately the second the menu arrived.
The menu is, of course, entirely in French.
I, of course, had already translated the entire thing.
“What do you want?” he asked.
I silenced the thousand open browser tabs in my brain and summoned my mother’s voice from the heavens.
“It’s all exceptional,” I said serenely. “What are you feeling?”
We went back and forth. Civilly. Respectfully. Like two diplomats negotiating a butter treaty.
“Come on,” he smiled. “I want to learn what you like. Get whatever you want.”
Now.
Maybe it was because the bread service had already stopped by twice. Maybe it was because his smile refused to hide the dimple when he insisted we should experience everything Le Coucou had to offer.
I caved.
The yellowfin tuna bathed in espelette oil. The tartare crowned with caviar. Both undeniable triumphs. But the moment I saw his face register the life-altering, borderline spiritual perfection of the quenelle, I was internally kicking my little feetsies with the kind of joy normally reserved for lottery winners.
But watching someone you like discover something wonderful for the first time?
Devastating. Lethal. Absolutely unfair to the nervous system.
By the time dessert arrived, we were the only ones left in the dining room. The once-tall taper candle had melted down to a stubborn little stub. The staff moved quietly around us in that gentle, theatrical way New York restaurants have when they are politely suggesting you are now part of the closing procedures.
And just like that, we closed out what is, by most definitions, a perfect New York night.
Perhaps passion, like dessert, is best when shared.
In this city, the right man might ghost you, the wrong man might traumatize you, and occasionally — statistically, miraculously — one will order correctly.
Until further notice, I remain professionally committed to the anthropological study of New York dating, emotionally supported by bread service, structurally stabilized by Chianti, and fully prepared to continue making decisions that will absolutely become future Substack material. My pain, as always, is your pleasure.