My silver screen date with Steven Silva

You don’t need to look any further than Josh Duhamel’s seminal work Win a Date with Tad Hamilton to realize that dating a celebrity is not always what it’s cut out to be. Of course, having no knowledge beyond pop-culture observations, I’ve always been curious to know what it’s like. So when I was offered to go on a date with Steven Silva, I might’ve jumped at the chance a little too eagerly. (I took 10 lipstick swatches the night before just to get my “look” right.)

I never got to ask him or be asked by him, though. Prior to the date, I spoke exclusively to his handlers about the time, the venue, and any other details that a girl and guy might discuss. It irked me a little bit that I was being as efficiently handled as the artists that they dealt with every day, and it made me feel like I was coming in as a sacrificial lamb, not as a date.

Having come in 15 minutes early, I walked into the servers and assistants arranging the tableau, as my date quietly observed the chaos in his seat. I got lost in the small crush, unable to announce myself as they were listing off task after task with frightening efficiency. There was a lush bouquet of lilies waiting for me, a box of chocolate, a neat little present in a designer shopping bag, and of course, my date dressed like a dream. Did I mention the box of chocolate? I am eventually identified as The Date, and Steven makes his introductions. He offers me the bouquet but glances at his handlers, probably to check if we are on schedule (7:35, flower-giving ceremony).

We eventually settle into our seats and he confirms my worst fears: he thinks I’m supposed to interview him. I usually keep my wit in check, but I scramble for the words to describe our situation. “We’re, uh, supposed to be on a date,” I try to explain. “So I guess we’ll interview each other?” For a moment I feel absolutely embarrassed, almost compelled to apologize for making everyone come all the way to the restaurant, buy flowers (and chocolate!) just for this. Nothing shouts “PATHETIC!!!” in Comic Sans size 72 like a fake date with me, it turns out.

Of course, Steven brushes off the awkwardness with the absolute ease of a seasoned artista, and begins chatting with me about work. We pore over the wine list and he impresses me with his knowledge of grape varieties, which he claims to have learned from his years in culinary school.

It takes us a while to go through the food menu, because we start talking about our love for food and we go off on a tangent about a million different topics. We manage to discuss my dream of climbing Mount Everest (“I’ll support you on that,” he says, when I censure him for calling it a pipe dream) even before we’ve decided on appetizers. He convinces me to try the gnocchi, his “favorite food in the world,” but not before challenging me on how pronounce it.

We share a love for gangster films (although I freaked out when he claims to have never seen Goodfellas) and balk at the thought of vegetarianism. He talks excitedly about beer pong in the way a 12-year-old would talk about his Xbox. He is just as elated to share news and photos of his new project, The Boston Kitchen Musical, and I’m charmed by the way he really seems to love his job almost as much as he loves his family. When I share that Real Madrid is my favorite football club, his jaw drops and he wonders why we did not become friends sooner.

When I take a good look at Steven, I’m kind of amazed at how different he looks in real life. In the few photos and YouTube clips I saw (but I did admit to Steven that I Googled the shit outta him like a normal person), he struck me as the kind of cute yuppie you’d see sipping overpriced beer at The Fort Strip and nodding to his buddies about the benefits of CrossFit. In real life, he could still be that guy, but real-life Steven has a charming sheen to him, a handsome and friendly face you can’t help but gravitate to. Either that or I’m just really used to seeing fugly guys on the regular.

I probably shouldn’t have been taken aback by the casual intimacy he quickly displayed with me — offering high-fives, inviting me to taste his wine. At first I felt like I was only playing a part in a theater production whose script only he knew. I tried to be suspicious of the ease that I felt around him, because he really did make me feel like we were just college buddies catching up about our highflying careers (mostly his), and not lab rats in a controlled environment where his handlers sat, quiet, at the next table.

Pretty soon we found a comfortable rhythm to our conversation; I mostly did the asking and he supplied the talking — not just about himself but also about everything. And I mean everything. There were no awkward intervals, only brief silences to privately enjoy our food. Eventually the roles of the celebrity and the nosy writer blurred. He shared with me tiny secrets about The Boston Kitchen Musical (“If anyone finds out where it’s being filmed, I’ll blame you,” he teases) where he plays a metrosexual pastry chef. He talks to me about the project at length, seemingly happy to be able to sing, dance, and cook — all his favorite things to do — in one place.

Steven even intimated to me the details of his personal life (yes, he’s in a relationship, and all you need to know is that it is not with you or me) and we bond over shared connections. “We’re more than best friends,” I say. “We’re practically family.” I’m normally not as candid but it feels right at the moment, and Steven seems to genuinely agree.

In peeling his (figurative) layers, figuring out if there is anything to Steven Silva beyond the Steven Silva with the erroneous Wikipedia page and willingness to wear Michael Jackson costumes on Sunday variety shows, I wonder if I really dated Steven Silva, the guy, not Steven Silva, the GMA Artist Center artist.

Our date eventually came to an end, and we stood outside the restaurant as the bill was being settled. We were just as chatty as we were during the actual date, and he even asked for my number and invited me to follow him on Twitter. Perhaps that’s the biggest secret, the truest of layers in him. He really is as genuinely nice as he portrays himself to be on television. Not any more boyish, not any less charming. He seems to be a happily ordinary guy living a particularly extraordinary life.

It wasn’t love, for sure, but I felt something. A kinship? A fellowship? Indigestion? Not sure. But when I bid him goodbye, he said that it was really nice to meet me. I volleyed the compliment right back and walked off, wishing I could announce to everyone that I had just gone on a date with the most famous person in the building (only seconds after that, I ran into Bea Alonzo in the bathroom).

As I headed on home, I got a perfunctory post-date text from him, and while on a normal date this would be the part where I pick out our china pattern, I happily relegated myself to the friend zone. (Or did I friend-zone him? Murky waters here.)

It’s not just because Steven Silva, the guy, is also Steven Silva, the boyfriend. Turns out, when you date a celebrity, you date his celebrity, too. You also have to date his schedule, his people, and his fame. It was definitely something else to be whisked off to such a grand, lofty life, but I like my plainness too much. And while I did win a date with Steven Silva, maybe next time I’d like someone to win a date with me instead.

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Special thanks to GMA Artist Center.