The man date
Last month, I was having dinner with family at Wurstkuche in downtown Los Angeles — a kind or avant-garde beer hall with a warehouse aesthetic and to-die-for sausages. I spotted two men — the pinstripe navy suit and Ted Baker tie sort — sitting across each other at a corner table. Each had a fistful of sausage-in-a-bun in one hand, a mug of deep-amber Belgian beer in the other. Both had smiles on their mustard-streaked mouths, jawing away and mumbling through every bite.
Hmmm, wait a second… I thought. But no, several seconds of watching them later and I knew, instinctively, that they were not a couple. I can’t say exactly why; I just knew. Everything about them screamed, “Hetero males here, people!”
Anyway, it got me thinking why I don’t see that a lot more back home — two men sitting down to a meal and simply having a conversation. Mind you, not having a rip-roaring, hooting, fist-pumping good time at a bar, but really sitting down to a meal at some proper restaurant. And I don’t mean a business meeting either, but an honest-to-goodness one on one — a “man date,” if you will — a time that one blocks off to spend with a good friend, one whom one doesn’t see often because of those things called family and career.
I was always of a mind that men don’t do that, until I spotted those two guys at Wurstkuche. I can’t imagine my two brothers, who are best friends, doing that sort of thing. They used to spend a lot of time together before family and career happened but they would do it over a round of golf, family get-togethers, shopping for sporting equipment, or catching a game on the sports channel — anything, really, as long as it’s tied up with some other activity. I just couldn’t imagine them making a date with each other to simply sit down to dinner together. At home, yes. But out? Not!
Is it our culture? Is it because we, wives and girlfriends, have always believed that when two or more men go out for some downtime that they are automatically up to no good — every time? Yes, there is plenty of reason to think that but I would like to believe that most “adult” men don’t have the desire (translation: the bank accounts, the handlers, the private jets) to get into Tiger Woods-caliber trouble.
I believe in the man date. A man, a good friend, and a great meal. Men should do it; it’s healthy. Why? Because random single men with seven free nights a week will always opt for the evening activity that will allow them to “score,” whether or not they do, in fact. With the older, more settled, middle-aged male, the man date offers no such uncertainty anymore. The meal is no longer a means to an end; the meal is the end itself. It is to be savored.
Given that the man date participants are good friends, they can now conduct a real conversation about marriage, career, finances. They can be as heartfelt (or not) as they want because when it’s just two people, one can’t help but engage in substantive discussion.
Of course, there are parameters. An Asian-fusion place with sake-tinis? Maybe not. Eating at a restaurant bar or a good steak or burger place is a safe choice. One’s masculinity won’t be called into question when there’s a low-ball of vodka and a greasy cheeseburger in front of you. Italian joints are generally perceived of as manly (thank you, Scorsese and Coppola). As magazine writer Adam Rapoport said, “You go to a man’s restaurant for a man’s meal. You’ll know one when you see one.”
My three best male friends have no qualms about doing this. However, the evening has to involve some element of “viewing” at some point. “Viewing,” according to them, is a harmless, wholesome exercise in feasting visually on beautiful women. It’s unlikely that beauty of the face is the only thing they refer to, but of course, they will challenge this until the cows come home. I’ve been with men on occasion when they go about this “viewing” business and, as nature would have it, the “beautiful” part is sometimes hard to come by. But they’re not picky; they take the “pwede na; sexy naman” sort any day. Whatever for? Well, as in all things, a beautiful view enhances any activity, any exercise — or so they claim.
I am an honorary man to these three friends and we do have our one-on-ones periodically, when we are at liberty to speak of all that may be no-woman’s-land topics to queasy prim debutantes or prim debutante posers.
Recently, I took one of them to lunch at Hooters. Yes, that Hooters; isn’t there only one type of Hooters? Anyway, over their signature Buffalo wings and his beer and my margarita, we tried — scratch that — we labored to make conversation. There was moderate success, which is remarkable, considering the perennial obstacle of good-sized mammary glands roaming the entire joint courtesy of servers in short shorts and tank tops.
He kept saying, “Like you said, these chicken wings are good!”
“Uh-huh,” I told him. “What else is good? The view? Are you liking it?”
He clearly was. He was very civilized about it, though, given it was his first time at Hooters. I was impressed. There were no jaw-dropping, goofy faces from him; no drooling, no ogling. There were a lot of furtive side glances and very few full-on, frontal stares when the best-sized of them paraded by well into his line of sight — a totally expected, totally human reaction. We made an afternoon out of calling each other’s attention to which server had the longer pair of legs, the shapeliest figure, and sundry other appendages. Hmmm, come to think of it, beauty of the face hardly ever came up.
What was unforgettable was the concluding segment to this pseudo man date of ours. He didn’t know that, at the end of every meal, when the check is delivered, every single server is required to come over to the customer’s table to autograph a souvenir Hooter’s postcard. So they do that famous lean-over to afford diners that million-dollar up-close-and-personal view just so that they can imagine the depths of the esophageal tracts serving them. I mean, the knowledge of just how deep another person’s esophageal tract is useful information, right?
I watched his reaction closely as each girl did the dip maneuver at our table. My friend appeared very composed and collected but, because I know him well, I espied that very telling glint in his eyes — that almost imperceptible squint indicative of a good time that he was not quite willing to share with anyone just yet.
“You liked the place?” I asked after we had exited the joint.
“Yeah, the wings were great.”
I was itching to pry some more. I wanted the satisfaction of getting a cave-man ugga-bugga reaction from him. He did, after all, just have the viewing of his life.
Several more steps but still no reaction. I waited still.
And then, from out of nowhere it came — finally.
“I love Hoooooters!!!”
I anticipate that another man date with him is in the offing.
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Thank you for your letters. You may reach me at cecilelilles@yahoo.com.
