Finding a location for a first date is a lot like finding a home in the real estate business — it’s all about location, location, location.
It’s also impossible to predict how a first date could end. A hug? A kiss? A trip to the emergency room? The potential outcomes are endless.
The date I’ll be rehashing today ended with one of us choking on something long and wet.
Now I know what you’re thinking, but the lengthy and moist choking hazard in question was a pho noodle. It’s a bit thinner than you were probably expecting, but nevertheless, eating pho for a first date is never a good idea.
Love, or the lack thereof, lingers in the air leading up to Valentine’s Day and remains once it’s passed. Whether you’re single, taken or in a polyamorous love pentagon, this Hallmark holiday stirs up our emotions like ingredients in a witch’s love potion.
Either way, love is a convoluted and bittersweet cocktail of emotions, especially around Valentine's Day.
Keeping this in mind, I found myself reflecting upon Valentine's Day dates that didn’t end well.
A few years ago around this time, I matched with a woman named Nancy (not her real name) on Tinder. Following a couple of days of flirtatious exchanges and banter, we agreed to meet at a local pho restaurant.
After our initial meet and greet, we were seated by the hostess and began perusing the menu. Having grown up on the east side of San José, I was no stranger to Vietnamese cuisine.
Unaware that my meal choice would cost me the date, I placed my order along with Nancy’s.
We hit it off instantly. There was undeniable chemistry. Our euphoric bliss lasted until my first slurp of soup. Shoot, I was already imagining what our future children would look like.
My romanticized fantasies of consummation were dashed the moment I inhaled my food instead of swallowing it.
Picture this, you’re in a crowded restaurant, sitting across the table from a beautiful stranger as the aroma of soul-soothing soup flavors the air.
Nancy’s conversational attempts were cut short as the situation got worse . . . much worse.
Meanwhile, the golf ball-sized wad of noodles lodged in my windpipe constricted my ability to breathe, let alone respond to whatever story Nancy was telling.
I thought I was certainly going to die.
My face turned as red as the Sriracha sauce I’d doused my noodles in.
Sweat dotted my forehead like the droplets of beef broth dribbling from my lips.
Nancy, continuing her story, didn't notice my subtle efforts to clear my throat. After 45 seconds of asphyxiation and all attempts failed, drastic measures were taken.
I shot up from my chair, wrapped my clenched fists around my diaphragm and began a self-initiated Heimlich maneuver. As 15 more seconds passed, I gasped for air to no avail.
By this point, I’d caught Nancy’s attention as well as everyone else's in the restaurant.
Instantly, with everyone watching, I dropped to my knees and tried to heave out the clump of noodles. Just imagine what a riving cat goes through while hacking up a hairball and you’ll have a comparison to go by.
After a minute of choking and multiple failed attempts to dislodge my clogged esophagus, I finally reached my thumb and index finger down my throat, gripped the clump and finally hocked it out . . . right into Nancy’s soup.
Her look of disgust intensified as my slimy, mucus-ridden noodle ball splashed soup on her face.
Despite the fact I nearly died, it was like she didn’t even care.
I think Nancy threw up a bit in her mouth, but she didn’t miss a beat in signaling for the check, which by the way, I had to pay.
Needless to say, a goodnight kiss was not on the menu.
Tune in next week as I recount my one and only date with a homeless woman.
