#002 DINNER AND WE'RE THE SHOW

There are theaters everywhere for those with eyes to see, or however the saying goes. 

Sometimes you’re in the audience, and other times, on certain special occasions, you’re the one on stage, trying not to forget your lines. It’s either dinner and a show, or dinner and you’re the show. 

This week, the Project 2026 ensemble was a bit of both. 

We begin our latest escapade on a Wednesday evening. January 21st. My room. Mathilde, Lam, and I are preparing to go on our first official date as a trio. Until now, we had avoided having to actually go out with any of the men on our alternative-dating-app-that-shall-not-be-named, but we had reached a point at which we decided it might be worthwhile to take the leap. Our subject of choice is a 35 year old finance executive who promised to “spoil” us, that verb that has grown to mean everything and nothing. He also has a girlfriend already, which is made obvious by the app’s feature which allows already coupled users to add a partner to their account, who also has their own separate profile. 

Unexpectedly, the hardest part about this whole situation was deciding what to wear. The three of us texted back and forth, attempting to coordinate, but failed to pin down exactly what it was we were trying to accomplish with our self-presentations. Usually, the goals and expectations of a given scenario are rather clear cut – we go out to a bar or club and must perform desirability tempered by the specific location or event, parties at school are either themed or are suitable for a sort of personal uniform that can be worn to death, and the garb of everyday life is up to interpretation. But this situation was utterly confounding. 

What was expected of us? 

How much allure were we actually interested in performing for this man we have no intention of sleeping with, but recognize that his desire to sleep with us is essential in this dynamic? 

And perhaps more importantly, how much of ourselves are we comfortable showing? I don’t mean skin-wise; I mean something more intangible: the true identities we’ve been concealing behind our hive-mind persona. 

I choose all black, a void I can take comfort in. As I’m dressing I remember what Roland Barthes once wrote about the art of the striptease and find some relevance: 

Mathilde originally arrived at my house wearing a long and flowing floral dress with a white knit cardigan and giant turquoise cross pendant. We looked like we were going to two different events in two different states. The more she thought about the date, Mathilde said, the more she wanted to cover up. I put her in my black skinny jeans, black long sleeve, and thrifted boots made in Yugoslavia. Lam sprints down my block as the Uber he ordered for us pulls up, and we realized we all ended up in black. Hive mind, etc. 

We meet our man at a bar in WeHo called Laurel Hardware, across the street from the restaurant. We approach the counter with extreme caution – none of us want to be the one to lead the group. He spots us anyway and greets us each with an awkward hug, before asking a terrifying question:

“So I assume you all go to USC, right?”

Alright, I mean…he does know where I live, at least approximately, so it wouldn’t be hard to deduce based on our proximity to campus, but it was still a little jarring. I sent him my neighbor’s address for the Uber as some kind of backwards security measure, but I realize now that it would’ve made no difference if I gave him my real address. 

He tells us that he went to USC as well – class of ‘13 – and we begin grilling him about what student life was like back then. All I remember was that Big Sean was the SpringFest headliner the year he graduated, and if any of you out there live or have lived in Gateway Apartments, you might have slept in the same room as the man who is currently buying me an overpriced matcha flavored cocktail. You really never know. 

As we prepare to leave for the restaurant, the group of men seated beside us notice our crazy vibe and ask if we are all with this one guy. We just kind of smile and nod. All I hear as we exit the bar is “wow that guy has three women with him!!!!!”

The crowd is going wild for our performance, apparently.

He walks us over to Delilah, the restaurant where I assume he takes all of his dates from this app, because the waitstaff greeted him with a “welcome back” that in this context felt a bit sinister. The waitress guides us to a table, and before any of us can make contact with the chair I hear him quietly request to move to a booth…so we can all sit together. Sure…

Yet again we find ourselves in a velvet cushioned booth, it’s not quite a full circle feeling from NYE but certainly another contour of the experience that is being unlocked. We jam into one corner of the comically large seat, but again, before we even settle in he has another request:

“Do you guys mind if one of us swaps places so I can sit in between you guys?”

We shift around nervously until Mathilde bravely offers to sit on the other side. 

So, this establishes early on that he’s a needy one. I’m beginning to understand that tonight will be a night of negotiation. All I’m thinking about when the waitress hands out our menus is the $80 steak I already pre-picked out while I was googling the restaurant in the Uber on the way here. This is no time to hold back. 

I make a cheeky comment as I pretend to browse the menu…oh my gosh wow this is so crazy we were JUST talking about how none of us have ever tried caviar…isn’tthatcrazy!!!!!?????

He takes the bait, and assures us that caviar will be served. When the waitress swings back around, she jots down the following:

• Steak tartare with caviar

• Caesar salad

• Shrimp cocktail 

• New York Strip (medium rare)

• Roasted branzino

He asks the waitress if she thinks this is enough food for all of us, and after pausing for a moment she reveals herself to be a true ally to our cause:

“I think you should order more.” Her tone is assured, and he complies. We add on brussel sprouts and truffle fries. 

I also order a cocktail called “Striptease” – thinking of Barthes once again. 

As the food rolls out, we chat about…honestly whatever. The conversation pulses in and out of my memory, and it’s a whole lot of ooohing and ahhhing at his stories about work or sex or money. 

We ask him about his experiences on the app, as we usually do out of some anthropological curiosity, and he tells us about this woman he and his girlfriend had a “brief dalliance” with. The word DALLIANCE catches my attention and I remember that I had brought a notepad with me in case this field work called for any notetaking.

I ask him to define the word as I pull out my pad and paper. He just equivocates it to a fling. Boring answer.

When I retrieve my notepad from my purse the next day, I discover that these are the only things I managed to write down. I’ll translate

The top part is a setlist of the live band that was playing beside our table: Ella Fitzgerald, Amy Winehouse, Elvis…

After the line break there’s the brief dalliance part (which I apparently didn’t feel the need to elaborate on), and below that is a phrase which I will now unfortunately have to explain:

“Let’s stick to one type of fish”

Throughout the night, our date had been making it clear at numerous points that he had specific expectations of us…he kept on bringing up “how he thought the night would go,” and I finally got fed up with the ambiguity and decided to ask him straight out what he wanted from us. 

He said he wanted to fuck each of us while the others watch.

As hive minds would have it, we all suddenly have the urge to hit the ladies’ room at this very moment. 

We pour into the largest stall to debrief. All of the laughter we’ve been holding bursts out at once and I nearly spill onto the floor. Once we compose ourselves, we discuss. 

One of us, whom I’ll leave ambiguous, confesses that at a certain undetermined point in the dinner, while the other two must’ve been having a sidebar, this man asked, in all seriousness, if he could finger her under the table in the middle of the restaurant. 

This information passes through the three of us like a current. I'm inspired to action.

When we return, I cozy up next to him and get to business. 

In between bites of New York Strip, I tell him that I appreciate his honesty in stating what he wants, but that this kind of negotiation is a more subtle art than he is making it out to be. He says this isn’t negotiation, but I can’t help but spit the truth back at him;

Everything is negotiation.

At this point the Striptease is wearing off and I’m no longer performing. I tell him we are women of mystery and tact and dignity and that he can keep his hand on top of the thigh, thank you. He Venmos us $100 at the dinner table and asks if we want to go to another bar after this and “see where things go.”

We take another bathroom break, and realize that, actually, we’re done seeing where things go. Everyone agrees that we’d rather be bundled in my bed. 

We finish the last of the dessert he ordered for us just because it was called the “slutty brownie,” and I peek over his shoulder as he signs the check. $480. 

I feel decently compensated for an evening of awkwardly being caressed and kissed on the neck by a man who graduated from the college I currently attend when I was 10 years old. Not only in terms of money, but in terms of personal lore, which is perhaps the most worthwhile return on investment we could ask for during this participatory experimental theater experience we call our lives. One’s life can be the greatest form of art ever created. 

So, anyways, returning to the fish comment I wrote down in my notepad. 

Basically, what I think I meant by that was that our date had his priorities all wrong…and he really should have been more concerned with the fish on top of the table instead of stressing out about the fish under the table. 

We arrive home to a slew of messages from him, with some screenshots of receipts from an online boutique that sells extremely risqué nude illusion dresses, all being shipped to his house. How we are going to get ahold of these dresses was a problem for another day…but what I know now is that, through my homegirls, all things are possible. 

~

Stop by next week to find out if it’s actually feasible to have a pleasant interaction with a man…the answer might shock you!

And drop a restaurant you think our next date should take us to in the comments – the fancier the better. 

Yours truly, 

Cheyenne