…I had a very nice first date last night.

The food was simply awful (but my date was rather gracious about it, even when the restaurant owner stopped by to visit). I ordered: Crepes Provencale: Sauteed beef tenderloin in crepes with a fresh thyme and mushroom cream sauce. For the starch, I chose pasta with red sauce. I got: thick, rubbery pancake-type “crepes” with what seemed to be overcooked stew meat, topped with a sauce that seemed to be from Campbells and canned mushrooms; spaghetti that could well have come from Chef Boy-r-Dee. My date’s steak had more tendon and fat threaded through it than I’d expect to feed my dogs. Horrendous. At least the salad and wine were good.

And the company? Great. There’s a good click there (chemistry, too), and in theory, he’s asked me out for next weekend. I say “in theory,” because until we have formal plans, I take anything with a grain of salt. That’s the cynic in me coming out to rain on the parade.

What a nice change of pace to have a date with a man instead of a “guy.”