THE WORST DATE IN THE BEST RESTAURANT

Amongst the charcuterie of botox and "songwriters" and data analysts and chicks your roommate wants you to go out with that make up the Los Angeles dating scene, I'm sure there have to be some stories of decent interactions. Maybe they got you flowers, maybe they paid for dinner, maybe they cancelled and you got to stay home and finish Arcane. I'm sure some have met their person listening to Mazzy Star in Amoeba on Hollywood Blv or keeled over in the gutter outside Rocco's on a Saturday night. Maybe they hit you while going 20 mph on an electric scooter and you were instantly, incessantly, undeniably struck by their presence (and their scooter).

I know these instances exist because I've heard them firsthand, but I have to say that the luck of the draw has not been on my side since I moved to LA in 2023; I've had a menagerie of unsuccessful artists come my way (and who can blame them, as I myself am an unsuccessful artist), as well as one very successful but also very boring STEM professional, and no date has gone quite well.

Photo courtesy of me

Bobby was somewhere in between the artists and the STEM professionals, which is a nicer way of saying that he was neither. His real name, which is not Bobby, is just as plain and just as common as the alias I've chosen for him here.

Bobby and I planned to meet at 7:00 at a restaurant in Westwood called House of Meatballs, a spot I've been frequenting since I moved to LA; I arrived at 6:55, Bobby arrived at 7:26. Over the course of the evening, Bobby:

• Did a very bad, very loud, very fake Spanish-speaking accent after I told him a lot of my family was from Spain, causing several other patrons to look over

• Ate a bite off my fork without asking (or even announcing that he was going to)

• Said: "If anyone's gonna kidnap you tonight it'll be me"

• Stood over me, gripping my arm and holding it to his face so he could "smell my leather jacket to see whether or not it was real leather"

• Sat back down and said nothing, prompting me to ask whether or not the jacket really was real leather; he picked up his fork again and said "Oh, who knows"

As if I needed any more reassurance, Bobby repeated the bit about "If anyone's gonna kidnap you tonight it'll be me" as he walked me home, then gave me a big, sweaty hug.

So, unless you get a kick out of being smelled, you can probably gather that there was no second date; not with the guy, anyway. There was, however, a second date with the restaurant, and a third, and a fourth. In fact, I'm here eating focaccia as I write this review, jazz piano playing faintly in the background, sporadically chatting with a sweet waitress wearing round glasses.

Photo courtesy of me

On my first visit, I had the eggplant meatballs with angel hair pasta, white sauce, and sautéed onions, and then had it again the following week with two new friends. At that point, I was semi-able to pull off being familiar with the area, though I still confused on the way back to their apartment.

I took the STEM professional there and a couple of the unsuccessful artists (though one was too pompous to eat at a place called House of Meatballs), and I brought my dad a month ago when he was in LA on a work trip and wanted to have dinner.

And while I'll admit that the name itself elicits visions of a green-flourescent lit Italian buffet crowded with uncles and white women named Barbara Sue, my House of Meatballs is nothing of the sort. In true misnomer fashion, the place itself is chic and low lit, offering reverberations of jazz piano and a beautiful blue bar, peppered outwardly with small wooden tables and green-vined wallpaper.

If you come in the daytime like I have today, it will be sparsely populated and quiet, offering a spectacular place to write and overhear other people's conversations. At this moment there are two cousins sat at the bar discussing people who work for suicide hotlines and the functions they employ to keep folks from killing themselves. The girl behind the bar just started showing them photos of her cat and they are oohing and aweing at it.

Today, I got the usual angel hair pasta with white sauce and sautéed onions, but opted for the tofu meatballs in place of the eggplant because I wanted to try something new. I eat beef occasionally, but I find no reason to at House of Meatballs, where such amazing confections exist sans meat. The white sauce is rich and has a distinct, buttery flavor; there is not a hint here of the bland, flavorless milk that I've seen other restaurants try to pass off as alfredo. The pasta is never too soft or too al-dente, and the tofu meatballs, polka-dotted with chopped almonds and spinach, are coated in breadcrumbs and topped with shredded parmesan cheese. Although the eggplant will always be my favorite, tofu is coming in as a very close second.

Photo courtesy of me

The jazz music has changed now to Christmas hits from the 40s, and the cousins at the bar are being taught Spanish words by the chef who brought their food. I asked the waitress for a hot chocolate and, even though she said they didn't have any and I ordered a coffee instead, she melted some chocolate chips into a mug of warm milk behind the bar and brought it to me anyway. I'm wondering how I'm going to finish this plate of pasta, which I've only worked through about half of. I'm very happy to be here alone, or at least not accompanied by someone who reminds me twice that "[if anyone's going to kidnap me tonight, it'll be them]". This is the best hot chocolate I've ever had.

Photo courtesy of me