PEASANT WINE BAR, Nolita, NYC
Part of my schtick as a food-savvy darling is an almost obsessive love of that classic companion to copious amounts of vino: cheese. And this is one love i don’t have to fake in the slightest—especially when it is aged to perfection and presented to me on a rustic candle-laden table. So, when my Italian Upper East Side based date one evening asked me to suggest somewhere clandestine and suited to my taste, I immediately directed him to the dark, cosy wine bar nestled under Peasant proper—reminiscent of my Italian grandfather’s wine cellar, and always smelling deliciously of slow cooked Mediterranean meals, I surmised it would be the perfect place to start myself a nice post-work cheese coma while stroking a tipsy Executive’s ego. And generally there is a large quota of chatty, boring men there, which doesn’t hurt the ambiance when I feel like being a sparkling gem.
True to form, when I waltzed in, Suit was at the bar chatting to the server, who in his odd 70s fur vest and aging shag haircut was the perfect bloke to encourage confidence in my date (confidence, I probably do not need to explain, is a serious aphrodisiac to a physically sub-par but financially top knotch gent, and usually spurrs loads of culinary pampering in the hopes of maybe, someday, getting to treat me to another more personal type of load…).
After a carafe of Chianti, a plate of delectably pliant bufala, and several rounds of discussion about New York real estate, I was rosy cheeked and ready to scour the menu for one of the more obscure, aged fromages, but apparently my luck for the evening had run out. This Italian Executive, who up to now had maintaned a rather presentable facade, began to discuss his opinion on WOMEN. Now, I am no 70s-era bra burning feminist; nor am I a Chelsea Girl Princess demanding Louboutins on her first date. But somehow in this deluded, slightly intoxicated gent’s mind I deserved to sit and take shit on behalf of both parties. No girl, he asserted, “deserves a gift just for meeting up with me. Hell she doesn’t deserve dinner unless she gives like the most amazing BJ ever. What is it with chicks these days, they think they’re so important, I could take home a girl from any bar in the city if I wa-“…ETC. Petulance and bitterness seemed to be the only things on the menu for the rest of the evening. I can make listening to a guy whine about his mother look interesting if it’s over scrumptious food, but this was too much. I don’t know if it was the retro music or the fact that my date could tell I was not going to swallow anything other than wine and cheese that night, but dude was in a serious funk, and even the most perfectly suited venue cannot make a true douchebag into sugar dating material.
At one point, though, between fuming bouts of overgrown adolescent angst and puffs of Acqua di Gio-infused body odor, my date wolfed down a breadstick or two and proclaimed, “these breadsticks are way better than the bread”. I’ll give him that, they are fabulous, and from now on I am going to save this little downstairs joint for sharing a glass of wine—and, yes, the delectable and coplimentary breadsticks—with friends.
BLUE BALLS RATING: Discrete and Knowlegeable Service - 5 Flattering Lighting - 5 Risk of Running Into Peers - 2 Rape Meter - 0 Overall Daddy Dating Ambiance - 5