Blind Leading the Blind

While L.A. is a city in love with doing lunch, SF is undoubtedly enamored with brunch. Ask any local worth her hiking boots, and she’ll list her top five brunch spots quicker than you can say “sugar-free vanilla Ice Blended.” The UN of social experiences, brunch draws a diverse crowd—crossing the usual boundaries of age, relationship status and lifestyle—to nurse hangovers, babies at the table or a cup of coffee with the Times. Brunch is also the consolation prize awarded to friends displaced by life developments. Be it remarriage or relocation, when life’s twists and turns result in a seismic shift between people who once toed the same line, it’s eggs that hold us together. The morning following a big Saturday night out with Jules and Sia, I was due to meet Quinn, a pal from college, in Cole Valley. Though we’d both moved to SF around the same time, Quinn had immediately fallen into a live-in relationship with her boyfriend, Rich. She periodically emerged from dinner-party domesticity, however, to catch up with me over mimosas. Donning my Olsen twin–size shades in order to best protect my eyes from the outside world (and vice versa), I made my way to Zazie’s outdoor patio and spotted Quinn at a table flanked by bougainvillea. “There you are!” she greeted me. I took a seat and listened attentively as Quinn updated me on her life—filling me in on the fact that she’d been having a few doubts about the speed with which she and Rich had progressed. I got the feeling she wasn’t entirely comfortable with facing up to reality, however, because as soon as we’d placed our orders, she changed the subject. “Enough about me,” she said. “Tell me all about your man of the moment!” Remembering that I had alluded to various love interests in the email exchange leading up to our brunch date, I broke the news that I was officially back to square one. “That’s great!” she responded. I shot her a perplexed look. “It’s just that Rich’s friend recently moved to the city, and I’ve always thought you two would hit it off. Why don’t we all go out?” “Sure,” I said, with more than a little trepidation. I knew Quinn’s heart was in the right place, but in light of her and Rich’s shaky status, it hardly seemed a good time to kindle new romance. Not to mention the fact that the idea filled me, like many singles on the receiving end of a fix-up offer, with a slight sense of dread. It wasn’t the whole “if you’re single, you’re broken and need to be fixed” implication that bothered me, but rather the transaction’s inherent mirror effect. The blind date is inevitably a reflection of the way you are seen by the matchmaker—whose opinion you value, of course. And, just as often happens in the fluorescent lighting of department-store dressing rooms, the image you’re presented with is not always flattering. “That’s exactly it!” Sia agreed when I voiced my hesitation to her and Jules over drinks at Myth. “So often it’s like, ‘Him? He’s is the guy you think I’d be perfect with?’ It’s like someone holding up a dress from Talbots and saying, ‘This is so you!’” “I know,” Jules moaned. “And I hate it when someone fixes you up with their one other single friend and automatically expects you to swoon! It’s like they’re saying, ‘Well, you are single, after all. Beggars can’t be choosers.’” “But there’s a difference between being overly choosy and having standards!” I exclaimed. Jules and Sia nodded their heads vigorously in agreement. “We know that, but they don’t,” Jules whispered, raising an eyebrow as if to insinuate that there was some sort of sinister couple conspiracy afoot, and perhaps the restaurant was bugged. The double date was set for the following Thursday night at Nihon. I arrived to find Quinn, Rich and Robert—my date for the evening—seated at a booth upstairs. I quickly drilled for small-talk energy reserves. After introductions and a round of whiskey, I concluded that investment-banker Robert, though “very nice” as Quinn had promised (cue Jaws theme music), wasn’t for me. And I was fairly certain, judging from his own shark-like monitoring of our hostess’ every move, that I wasn’t on his menu either. Robert and Rich excused themselves to go the bathroom, after making the obligatory “What will people think?” joke, and Quinn immediately pumped me for my reaction. “Well,” I said, “He’s really nice, but…” “I knew it,” Quinn answered, cutting me off. “No one’s perfect,” she snapped. “There are things about Rich that give me pause, but you have to take the good with the bad.” As the words came out of her mouth with an unnerving fembot-like automation, it occurred to me that it might have been the first time she’d said them aloud—but it certainly wasn’t the first time she’d thought them. I opened my mouth to respond, but before I could utter a word in my defense, the guys had returned. Our waiter approached, seizing the opportunity to acquaint us with the rules of the restaurant. “We recommend ordering a few dishes and sharing,” he said. My heart sank: I had no problem sharing with people who were hip to my own rules of engagement, but it was always difficult to negotiate with strangers. I don’t have a calorie phobia, but I also don’t eat raw fish—and given that we were at a Japanese restaurant, I had a feeling my restriction didn’t bode well for the table. “I’m a little particular,” I started, trying to warn my dining companions. Quinn rolled her eyes. “High-maintenance, you mean,” she said. Rich and Robert shifted uncomfortably in their seats. “Oh, Nat, I’m just teasing! You know I love you,” she continued with forced levity, leaving the unspoken “and I’m probably the only one who ever will” hanging in the air. I suggested that the group order as if I weren’t there—half-wishing it were actually true—and said that I’d fend for myself. “But you’re supposed to share,” Quinn insisted. “The waiter said that’s what you’re supposed to do.” “It’ll be okay,” I replied, painfully aware that the conversation had taken on a double meaning. “I’m fine with doing my own thing.” My tone was intentionally firm. I refused to be made into her emotional action figure, and suddenly realized that this fix-up was more about making Quinn feel good about her situation than improving anyone else’s romantic prospects. “Do you know what you want?” our waiter asked cheerfully, poised beside our table. Yes, I do, I thought to myself. And I’m willing to wait for it too—whether “it” means a burrito after dinner or romantic sustenance. “I know it’s not on the menu,” I said, “but by any chance do you have a vegetable roll?” “That shouldn’t be a problem at all,” he said, smiling. “The chef makes it for me all the time, and it’s outstanding. Any preference for vegetables?” “Any or all,” I smiled, looking at Quinn for emphasis. “I’m easy.”