The café curse: modern dating has gone irl

Much to my glee (and, surprisingly, simultaneous dread), dating is becoming traditional(ish) again. As a writer, I spend a tedious amount of time in cafés. One might confuse me, even, with the other listless patrons indulging in matcha lattes and ennui if it were not for my relentless typing and scribblings between sips of a decaf americano (which, as a new coffee drinker, I have realized two things: 1) it has the same effects as caffeinated and 2) I spill it all over myself every time I happen to wear white). A writer in a café is perhaps one of the most trite images, but it is my frequent secondary experience in said establishments that I wish to discuss, and its implications on modern interpersonal relationships. I will color my point with recent personal anecdotes because, let’s be honest, although you may appreciate my perspective on contemporary cultural happenings, you also came for the tea. So, I shall happily boil the kettle. I am nothing if not dutiful. 

I always thought writing in a café too clichéd an activity to enact until I had to escape the oppressive lack of air conditioning and boys without cologne that was my school library a few months back. It was also until I realized that Mayfair cafés have better drinks, food, and ambiance than the one crustily perched in the back of the university science library. Thus, I began preparing for exams at a café in my neighborhood famous for its relaxing interior and delightful waitstaff–not to mention the joy I had in watching the menswear fashion shows displayed outside the front window during private equity lunch hour. It was at this café that I became familiar with the sight of a fellow frequent customer who himself looked as if ripped from the Loro Piana website. This adorable and well-dressed man, whom we will call Izmir for anonymity purposes, returned to the café at the same time as me for a week, making eye contact that lingered a beat long before, finally, saddling up to me. Did he speak? No, but a girl’s intuition knows what a man wants to say before he says it. Did I, in a manner very unlike myself, utter the first word? Yes, I reveal to you, dear listeners, whilst clutching my necklace in scandal. I told him I liked his style. I am, after all, a sucker for a Summer Walk. Izmir quickly proceeded to ask me for my phone number. And, later that week, he picked me up in his fast car the same color as the flags we girls routinely ignore, whisking me to a dinner date at one of my favorite restaurants. 

This is all a wonderful, if not retro, meet-cute, right? Wrong. See, Izmir was handsome, made me laugh and, I would like to say, was rather gentlemanly in his perfunctory enactments of courtship ritual (an honorable mention of which is that the bill never came, a move my brother calls the “nuclear bomb” of a date, which is, I guess, supposed to make a girl fall head over heels. My brother does not live in London, however, so he does not realize this is many a Mayfair man’s sourdough and olive oil–which we will get to with man #2). Izmir, it seems, agrees with my brother in that he assumed his moves would all work to carry me into his bed chamber. I am someone who says “courtship” and “bed chamber” unironically, so, obviously, that was never going to happen. Did I fancy Izmir? Yes, yes, I did. Was Izmir going to take me out again after realizing that my idea of romance was further dates and a possible kiss, not the peeling off of my Chanel dress? No, no, he was not. Sigh. In this way, we see the haphazard meeting of traditional courtship rituals with modern values (or lack thereof). Izmir did something that rekindled the flame of hope quickly burning down to its wick inside me. He made a move in person, the elusive thing you only hear about from your parents or in Sex and the City episodes. He made dating a human, interpersonal, tangible act again. It was not some hypothesized, digitized, awkward “hang out” that Hinge and Bumble and, God forbid, Raya want you to believe it is. Modern dating wants your values so low and transactory that you keep swiping. See, he understood the in-person bit, the actual take-a-girl-to-a-candle-lit-restaurant bit, but not the continuation of traditional conduct. We cannot input earnest romance and expect an output of modern-day casual sex. Just as we cannot assume a casual hookup to yield a relationship.

This brings me to man #2, whom we will call Ahmed. I began working on my screenplay like the trope that I am in a café down the street from the first one, as I had ostensibly, and to my melancholy, been pushed out. This next one possesses the word “Hide” in its name, which I found fitting–until I didn’t. It has fantastic (albeit overpriced) pastries and great fodder for stories in terms of its patrons. Once, I was in the middle of writing a short about a girl whose sugar daddy breaks up with her, only to turn my head and watch a real-life sugar daddy breaking up with his real-life sugar baby because he “met someone age-appropriate, which is so unlike him.” I was only a few days into writing at this rebound establishment when a man spotted me through the window and proceeded to sit beside me at the counter. Again, this is not me tooting my own horn; a woman’s intuition just knows. If anything, I am routinely chastised by my mother for being “painfully oblivious.” Within twenty minutes, I was frustratingly pulled away from my work by his conversation about—shocking!—himself. He soliloquized about all of his previous consultancy jobs. I use the specific verbiage of “soliloquize” rather than “monologue” because, after two mentions of the “big four” firms, I realized that my presence made no difference. Often, I wonder if I replaced myself with a cardboard cut-out, would the men even notice? He also kept trying to convince me to move to Riyadh. He droned on about Adam Smith, his internships (Ahmed’s, not Mr. Smith’s), his watch collection, and why I should invest in Saudi real estate. 

He did, however, also drop a nuclear bomb when he, after taking my number, went to the till to pay his bill. Later, I asked the waitress for my own check, and she told me that the gentleman already paid it. He walked me home, and I kept my head low while passing café #1. When he messaged me a children’s song with no additional context, I figured it best to leave that interaction to rest. I was thusly not to return to my second preferred place. 

Unfortunately, after being pushed out of my favorite cafés, I—shudder—had to venture out of Mayfair and into Marylebone in order to write without anxiety rattling a low hum in my muscles (or perhaps that was just the coffee). Recently, a man approached me as I was in the middle of writing an essay on the thematic interplay between setting and character. I feared the first time he spoke to me, just after overhearing him complain of his French toast being “too oily,” that I was on the precipice of having to find, once again, another spot. There truly are not enough establishments with good coffee for this to continue. It was also then that I was thoroughly missing the baristas with whom I engaged in talk of cinema at my original café. Nevertheless, I digress. He was considerably older than I, and we shall call him David. “Don’t let a twelve-year age gap stop you from finding your husband,” my friend, albeit ill-advisedly, said to me once as we, ironically, waddled to a café. If Izmir was a Loro Piana ad, then David was Ralph Lauren. He was quite lovely, asking each time we ran into one another if he could pay for my order, but I routinely declined. Although a “bomb” is appreciated, my dating life was basically rubble at this point, and, quite frankly, I was beginning to grow apprehensive of the move altogether. He suggested we get dinner, but it was followed by a question of how “school” was going, which was the unintended nail in the coffee bean coffin. There is something off-putting about a grown man asking after my academic assignments. It reveals, as if breaking the fourth wall, the fact we both are attempting to ignore. With a button-up smile and scratch at his scruff, the illusion that these interactions were normal was shattered. Still, I believe in giving everything the “old college” try (two words that rather explicitly described our jointedness), and I, along with my enthusiastic friend, piled into his Range Rover on our way to his member’s club. There, we, I will admit, had riveting discourse. But, again, when I spoke of my traditionalism, he said my “parents must be so proud.” I really could not ignore the silver fox in the room any longer. Alas, I prefer my guys with thick brown (or the occasional blond—I don’t discriminate) hair. What can I say? Also, that evening, I met his friends, and one of them repeatedly emailed me (you read that right) afterward, asking if I wanted to go out dancing. That’s another thing—if I am too old for clubbing, certainly a 35-year-old is.

But really, God bless them all. Because the last time I left you, dear readers, it was with my pontifications on why society should abandon dating apps. So, at least we know these men can follow direction. However, I question, does any man who frequents a café at 11 am on a Wednesday have a real job? 

In all seriousness, however, these anecdotes are to be looked upon positively. One great, glimmering beacon of hope shall be derived from my dating misadventures: there remains the opportunity to meet people in person for those who share my repulsion to dating apps. All you have to do is go to a café (by yourself, this is a crucial point) and do work instead of sitting like a Russet potato in your apartment. This is what I concluded in my previous article—go out into the world! Make sure to keep a “soft, quiet face,” like Ahmed (complimented?) me on, try not to spill coffee on yourself, and smile at those ordering overpriced eggs and whisked grass. We must embrace this reversal back to the 90s with great enthusiasm. Although detailed before you is an amalgamation of more wacky dating escapades, the excitement that thumps in the chest when meeting a real person in real life cannot be paralleled. Getting to know someone upfront, through their unconventional toast habits or possession of every color suede loafer ever sold on Bond Street, is actually what makes dating fun. It’s not the click-clack of your own phone whilst engaging in stilted conversation alone in your apartment on a Tuesday night or unexplainable ghost that inevitably leaves one party feeling low on themselves. It’s all the people who stick their necks out just a little and approach you on your way into, out of, or right in the middle of a morning café jaunt. Life is about putting yourself out there, and quite frankly, I would not have had any thwaps of butterfly wings in my sternum if not for serendipitous encounters. So, maybe Izmir didn’t understand my meaning of courtship, or Ahmed was too preoccupied with his role as Saudi tourism advocate, or I saw David as a figure with whom I could engage in thoughtful discussion and nothing more, but, hey, maybe fourth time is a charm. 

If anyone needs café recommendations, I have loads. But, I will say, my “hiding spot” is now serving a seasonal peppermint hot dark chocolate, and I miss my discussions on three-act structure. So, I guess you’ll know where to find me. And if conversations with well-dressed, handsome men (drawbacks notwithstanding) are the price I must pay, oh, how difficult my life. 

(Disclaimer: This article was written from the safety of a library.)