You know you’ve reached a tragic point of a date when the food on your table proves to be more interesting than the person on the opposite side of the table.
My blind date (set up by a friend) on Saturday night turned out to be a FREAKING BORING guy. Reponses to my questions of what he does on weekends and what interests/hobbies he has were “Actually, I’m very lazy lah. I just laze at home all weekend.” and “At the moment, I have no hobbies.” respectively. Wow, that got me REALLY excited. And isn’t it only polite to ask me the question in return? Apparently not. So in order to keep the conversation going, I had to volunteer information about myself.
We had agreed to meet at Sebastien’s at Greenwood Avenue at 7.30pm. I was on time, but the guy, let’s call him Mr. B (for boring) sent me an sms at 7.20pm saying he would be 10min late. In the end, he turned up 25min late. dimsumdolly wasn’t a happy person because (1) she hates it when people are late (2) she was so hungry she could eat a cow after dragonboating at Kallang in the morning and outrigger canoeing in the late afternoon from Tanjong Beach to Sisters Island and back. Anyway, thank god for the brown bread they served together with a thick slice of butter which Mr. B didn’t touch at all.
Mr. B obviously wasn’t into food at all when one of the first things he said to me was, “I don’t usually do fine dining. I usually just eat at hawker centres. And I go to restaurants usually when I’m with clients.” Fine, I’m OK with a guy not being into food but just that it’d be nice if he did. But this was my choice of restaurant ‘cos he had no opinion whatsoever. I was the one who did all the arranging. I’m OK with that, but again, it’d have been nice if a guy had some opinion or some assertiveness. If not for the fact that he were my good friend’s friend (I don’t understand how they’re friends), I wouldn’t have bothered.
For starters, I had the French Onion Soup. The brown soup with its generous amounts of onions came with a slice of bread with melted cheese placed inside the soup. It was a clear soup and not the creamy soup. I enjoyed the soup but felt that it could do with a little less salt.
Mr. B (surprise surprise) chose the foie gras with salad. He asked if I wanted to try the foie gras and I, of course, said yes. It was lovely–so soft and tasty it melts in your mouth. I asked if he would like to try my soup in return. He said no. How unadventurous. He left all his greens on his salad and I really would have liked to eat some greens, but decided against picking off his plate–I didn’t think it was a very nice thing to do. dimsumdolly DOES have her limits!
For mains, I chose to have the Duck Confit with salad and potato wedges. I was absolutely delighted when it came as it was a wonderful distraction from the boring conversation that was ensuing. The only thing Mr. B could talk about was his work. I’m fine with people talking about what they do ‘cos after all, work is a big part of our lives and in SOME ways, defines who we are. But no, for Mr. B, that was it. He was as bland as water. No wait, even water differs from one to another.
So Mr. Duck Confit (yes, I began to personify my food) was infinitely more interesting with his plump drumstick of a thigh. Just as I was baked in the sun all Saturday, his salt-rubbed leg was also baked to perfection, rendering him with an Adonis bronze gold skin which was so delightfully crispy when bitten into. Mr Duck Confit was encased (and drowning) in his own fat and placed in the oven to achieve such a perfect tan. The amount of fat under that layer of skin is definitely not the best thing for someone suffering from cardiovascular disease, but man, was it delightful to eat. Mr. Duck Confit’s flesh was tender and tasty. The garden salad with the vinaigrette helped to balance the richness of Mr. Duck Confit.
Mr. B had the beef stew with mash potatoes. He complained about it being full of muscle and fat. I tried it but I didn’t think so. I thought Mr. Beef Stew was delightful. One bite into it, and I could taste so many flavours which I found hard to identify with only one small morsel of it. Again, Mr. B didn’t want to give the duck a try. Anyway, Mr. Beef Stew was definitely more flavourful than Mr. B who certainly was no beefcake.
For desserts, we went for the chocolate foudant. Not really very different from all the ones I’ve had at different places, but still, who can resist warm molten chocolate? Miss Chocolate foudant was resplendent in her dark brown, almost ebony skin. Like a graceful dancer on stage, her fluid motion was so pleasing to her watchful audience. Miss Chocolate foudant was accompanied in her performance by a scoop of Miss Vanilla ice cream, who provided a lovely contrast with her creamy white skin. She was, I think, made with pure vanilla bean.
Anyway, the only good thing I got out of those two hours was a free meal. I think the number of questions he asked me about myself throughout the evening could have been counted on one hand. Or two hands at most. The evening with Mr. B ended when I spied an empty cab, hailed it, and chucked HIM into it. And then I happily crossed the overhead bridge and took a bus to my cousin’s place to rant about the evening. ;p