"The Best Date I Ever Went On"

Stories from Los Angeles in celebration of Valentine’s Day

Today is Valentine’s Day, famously my favorite holiday. It’s corny, sure, but it’s also warm and sweet. I loved exchanging Valentines in grade school, and I love boxes of chocolate. So, in honor of 2/14, I crowdsourced best date stories from across Los Angeles. “Best” doesn’t necessarily mean good, as my friend Ed (whose wild date story you’ll read below) smartly pointed out. It can mean funny or weird, so long as the date was definitely memorable. I hope these stories give you a laugh, a cry, some inspiration for future dates, even courage!

Before we get into it, a short announcement: I need an emotional breather right now (and some time to work on a few assignments), so I’m taking a brief writing break from The Angel. You’ll still see Plugs in your inbox every Saturday, and I’ll be back in two weeks with more long-form stories, lists, and the like. In the meantime, listen to my episode of This Is TASTE, which is all about the L.A. food scene and The Angel (released this past Monday).

Happy Valentine’s Day, angels! <3

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The best date I’ve ever been on in L.A. was last year on Valentine’s Day, at Tower Bar. I was feeling lonely, Valentine’s Day being a difficult holiday for the single and all, and had been in a snit all day looking at the endless couple Instagrams. But then a guy visiting from Antwerp asked me out for the night, and I decided to go, because he was super hot and I wanted to, and maybe a first date on Valentine’s Day isn’t weird in Antwerp. He sold beautiful vintage furniture for a living and the first thing he said to me was that my shoes were very chic. We had martinis and shrimp cocktail and talked for three hours in the (shockingly empty, except for a pair of Riverdale stars) bar, and then I went back to his friend’s stunning mid-century house in the Hollywood Hills and had sex with him. The date was special because it restored my confidence on a dark day, and made me feel like life was fun and exciting whether I had a man to spend it with or not. Little adventures are always around the corner for single people, and I was always single until I met my boyfriend a few months after this particular slutty endeavor. He made a reservation for tea at the Huntington next month, after which we will be taking mushrooms and walking around the garden, and I’m sure that will be my best date ever in L.A. But I don’t think I would have gotten there without the boost from the Belgian. –Anonymous


I was sent an address in Marina del Rey and told to bring a bathing suit — normally concerning for a first date but we met through friends. When I arrived, he met me with a basket and took me to a small boat he rented for the afternoon. Now this wasn't anything fancy, you didn't even need a boat license, but it was perfect for two. We followed the coast north towards Malibu and stopped halfway to jump in. He had a great playlist going and the basket was full of delicious snacks and small wine bottles. We headed back towards the marina as the sun was setting. A hard to beat perfect date! –Kate


Firing the menu at Mh Zh (R.I.P). –Anonymous


Once when I was living in Chinatown after graduating college, I had an urgent and necessary need for lumpia, which I knew I could get at the then-operating lunch counter at Lasa. We walked down the hill in our actual pajamas—stained Kirkland sweats and worn grey crewnecks, expecting to grab a quick order and eat it on the walk back home. We ambled down into the active part of Chinatown, surely passing a joint back and forth in the balmy evening.

We didn’t know they stopped their lunch counter operations and rolled up, disoriented, to a bustling, upscale restaurant experience at Lasa, whose smells were so intoxicating, and the promise of coconut milk brown butter dumplings was so alluring, we had to say “fuck it” and sit down, despite being incredibly broke recent college grads. Everyone around us is dressed impeccably, as if they’re all extras in a film, and here we are, seated in the middle of the dining room, surprised and slightly embarrassed by our lack of knowledge and proper apparel.

What followed was the most joyful, vibrant dining experience any couple could ask to have together. They brought us out a shiny metal teapot—“the red tea you ordered.” We did not order any red tea nor did we see it anywhere on the menu. Worry ensues—this meal was already going to blow our budget for the month—who ordered this? We open the pot to find two generous glasses worth of natty red wine, on the house. We must’ve missed the wink our server gave us as she set it down on the table. We imbibe, we giggle, and we feel like we’re the only two people in the restaurant in our matching groutfits as we marvel at our luck and timing over painstakingly beautiful plates of food. This wasn’t even supposed to be a date night, but it was one of the best. We went to Lasa nearly every anniversary after that, or whenever we wanted to feel like we were the only two people in the room.

The relationship is no more, and Lasa has long been transformed into Lasita, a more casual Filipino rotisserie and natural wine bar that swapped out its $35 rotating seasonal farmers’ cheese kabocha dumplings for (still excellent) rotisserie chicken and rolls of stuffed lechon. They serve you wine in glasses now, and charge you, because their liquor license is actually active. It was a fleeting moment in the L.A. food scene that I still miss, with dishes I will never eat again, attached to a singular moment in my life; I will never be in love again for the very first time either. But, every time I walk in Far East Plaza and I pass Lasita, I think about this evening and how everything was meant to be, and it is my favorite date I’ve ever been on. –Lily


HMS Bounty (followed by Sun Nong Dan, of course). –Erika


Valentine's Day 2020 — Frieze Week in L.A. and just a few weeks before the COVID lockdown. We went to Felix Art Fair at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel and had cocktails by the pool. I turned to my boyfriend and said, "Let's just see if we can get into Musso & Frank for dinner," an impossible task at 7:30 on Valentine's Day. But I felt in my bones it was possible on a magical L.A. night. We breezed over to the bar, got the last single seat next to a solo drinker about to finish his post-work drink, and my love and I got to have a three-course dinner (shrimp cocktail, sand dabs, and a brownie) and martinis galore. The bartender made us try a Grasshopper on the house with dessert. A perfect night forever cast in nostalgia since just a few weeks later Musso’s closed for over a year. –Sophie


At age 52, recently divorced, I met Carl online, and after bantering and texting for a couple of weeks, we had our first date at Hilltop Park in Signal Hill, near Long Beach. It was about halfway between his apartment in Irvine and my house in Hancock Park. It was March, and chilly, I wore a greenish wrap and he wore a cap. We knew we would fall in love that night. I still remember leaning on my car and kissing him before we drove away from each other. That was nearly ten years ago, and he is my beloved partner forever. –Elizabeth


He picked me up at 9 pm on a Saturday night and we sat in an Eagle Rock donut shop doing scratchers until we won some money — about $10. We walked to the laundromat next door and cashed it all in for quarters then spent the rest of the night trying to spend it. $3.50 in fake tattoos and mood rings from the junk machines outside, $2 on mints, $4 on pinball at the bar down the street. There was a levity to floating around with him on a night like that. We darted in and out of busy rooms, making our way around fools who’d spend paper all night just to get a headache in the morning. Soberly rich in silver, the only two winners on San Fernando Road. –Vanessa


Emma and I were long-distance when I first slid into her Twitter DMs. She lived in Austin and I was in L.A. After we hit it off at L&E Oyster Bar, she decided to extend her stay with a Spirit flight. Following a gluttonous weekend of Cheesecake Factory, Found Oyster, All Day Baby, weed, and Adderall, we rounded out our romance bender at Little Dom's. It was golden hour, and the cacio e pepe had just arrived. Emma was reading the raw bar menu for her best friend's upcoming wedding, and a half-Asian baby that looked a little too much like me when I was a kid was coming up to our table offering us toys. I felt a rush (probably partially fueled by little sleep and feelings of limerance), and I started to cry a little, realizing at that moment that I had found my partner. The good people of Little Dom’s kindly let us take the dinner to-go.

Happy third anniversary, baby. –Rax

Interlude for complimentary tiramisu (guess where).

Dinner at Veggie Life in South El Monte, followed up with a hike under the moon in Eaton Canyon. –Anonymous


She took me to the Museum of Neon, followed by a drink and a snack at the infamous Damon’s. We ended the night at a melted cheese Mexican restaurant with some of the strongest margaritas I’ve ever had, but she curated the night based on places that just tickled her fancy, so I was appreciative of the gesture. And it’s nice as a man to have someone plan something for you. –Oscar


My first "date" with Javi was at a park where I'm now the artist-in-residence, a few years later. We talked and played fetch with my dog for a couple of hours. He brought me an iced coffee, and I happily drank it, even though I am a hot coffee girl, because he was cute. My dog really liked him. First real date was at The Prince a week or so later. The Prince is obviously the best. We ate French fries and fried chicken and a kimchi pancake in the sexy red booths and watched other people on first dates far more awkward than ours. –Jacqueline


Best worst date I’ve ever been on was a third Hinge date with a struggling comedian in 2020. I suggested we go out to dinner, and I would pick a place. He asked that it was somewhere cheap because of his financial situation. I had been hearing about this Thai restaurant called Anajak. So I made a last minute reservation on Resy. I put down a $50 no-show deposit (during Covid, this was more common). We get there and talk to the host, who excitedly tells us about our omakase meal we are about to have at the chefs’ table… which is $200 a person.

If we leave now I lose the $50 deposit and I wasn’t in the best financial situation either. We are both freaking out and I’m feeling bad that I made the mistake. After going back and forth, I convince him that we are already here and Anjak Thai is supposed to be amazing and we will split the bill — YOLO! He begrudgingly says yes.

We sit through the most painful and awkward dinner as Justin, the owner, serves us dish after dish at the chefs' table in the alley. We got into a huge screaming fight on the way home about how much money he spent on the last three dates (picnic + bowling for dates one and two — his ideas).

I never saw or talked to him after that night. I hope he now brags that he ate at the Best Restaurant of the Year. –Devin

Walking to my neighborhood spots! Bar Bandini to Cosa Buona to Button Mash (RIP) to Ototo — perfect combination of walking, talking, and treats. Could sub in so many rad spots in Echo Park or pick a different neighborhood to explore! –Becca


He was in town for three days. A Bay Area bi boy in music who had already sent me three playlists and a photo that filled my head with nothing but thoughts of running my thumbs over his eyebrows. He called me when he got to town. I was at Milkfarm, picking up cheese for a post-date me. Ideally, cheese for us.

I tell him to meet me in Frogtown. I ask if he's eaten yet. When he says "no," I tell him to meet me at the La Colombe patio, where I will be reading my book to pass the time. He shows up, his presence as soft as the hoodie he's wearing. We walk to Wax Paper. We same side sit on the broken benches and he dives into his dating past. He asks briefly about mine. About how I liked to date: monogamy vs polyamory. We walk down the river once our names have been called, he carries both boxes, makes a lot of eye contact while he talks about his family; one of four, his mom taught voice lessons, everyone else did something in music still. We stopped at the bench under some western sycamores in front of the giant orange gymnasium. The sun set on the mountains. Ducks floated by. Cranes came to perch on rocks. He told me about his roommates; he had four. His last boyfriend and why they broke up; their needs stopped matching, they were still friends. Once the mountains started to glow warm with orange we walked back to my car. Befriending a few cats between snagging oranges from trees hanging over ivy-covered fences before making our way to South Pasadena.

At his Airbnb, we ate cheese. We made out to Choir Boy and at one point, he looked me dead in the eye, places his middle and index finger in his mouth and pulled them from between his lips. Wordlessly, I open my mouth when he offers them to me. To which he says, "Oh, we're going to get along so well."

The next morning, at 5 am, as I slip into the soft recycled cotton of my Everybody.World pants, I stare at his profile falling back asleep on the pillow and knew we wouldn't see each other after dinner, even though I was invited to dinner. Later that afternoon, I'd still check in. In the hours between messages I would make him a playlist. One of my best to date. Even the cover photo was personalized. I'd send it to him the next day, he'd love it. Our texts would slowly peter out, but that lingering dreamy feeling of watching him fall back to sleep would still bring a smile to my face. –Kelly


Harry Potter roller skating at Moonlight Rollerway. Broke my elbow, had to be cooked for and driven around, fell in love, got pregnant, and had a baby. –Anonymous


First date of breakfast at Pann’s. They got there about 45 minutes early to ensure we had a spot to sit when I arrived. Second date with same person was dinner on Sawtelle followed by Grace Jones speaking before a showing of her documentary at Nuart Theatre. Fabulous dates. Delightfully tailored to me. Felt deeply inauthentic to him and vibes were so bizarre. But loved the meals and loved Grace Jones (obviously) and Nuart is maybe my fifth favorite movie theater give or take, so good job all around except for being terribly matched as people. –Anonymous


And now, for the grand finale… buckle up.

“Poolside Cook-Off Service Sub”

The pantheon of good dates or at least date ideas must contain the ones that aren’t YOUR idea. Responding to two female work colleagues' online dating listing, “Seeking male for late night poolside service sub cook-off: must be able to actually cook” would not usually be my first idea, but sometimes you have to throw caution to the wind and just say “fuck it”.

I FaceTimed an interview with the two women who worked in adjacent art-world work roles mostly for the sake of what they referred to as “confirming I’m not a catfish or a psycho.” We talked about what exactly they were looking for, what their level of experience was, and the general comfort of everyone involved. With everyone satisfied, we made a plan for the next day.

I had a list of items to procure before I had to head to work a line cook shift at Quarter Sheets. Scrambling around Los Angeles to find pool boy short swim trunks and a comically old-fashioned life-preserver vest wasn’t easy, and waiting for them to unlock the front doors of Big 5 Sporting Goods in Koreatown to run in and buy said items felt like a submissively humiliating task in and of itself. I barely made it to work on time, and one of the few nice things about a busy line cook job is that you basically get to turn off the part of your brain that worries about anything except cutting off the tip of your finger or burning your hands for 6-8 hours. So when my 10-minute pre-close break came, I remembered the sailor attire in the back of my truck and got nervous before a date for the first time in a while.

My shift cut, I jumped in my truck and headed to my first assigned stop — the Dollar Hits on Temple. If you haven’t been, the place is great, it somehow successfully flaunts the standards and regulations of the Department of Health by handing out trays and plastic bags of raw meat unendingly to customers who walk 12 paces outside to the parking lot to stand around and grill their own selected skewers, variations of marinated chicken muscles and organs over small coal grills scattered around the parking lot. I looked over the list I’d been texted of two dozen various skewers I was assigned. I looked at my phone again and saw a message “Don’t fuck up and don’t take too long, we’re watching you.” Wondering if somehow the restaurant's small closed-circuit camera system was feeding somewhere else, I went back to my task, collected my bag of raw meat, and stepped outside to see a tall woman with a video camera recording me from the balcony of the apartment complex across Corandalet St above the pseudo-Christian coffee shop Doubting Thomas — which if you don’t already know has an amazing orange sticky bun.

Making peace with the idea that everything ends up on the internet no matter what anyway, I walked over and was buzzed into the building and followed my text directions up to the 3rd floor apartment where I waited and was eventually let in by two strangers, regretting having my wallet, phone, and keys still in my pockets. I waited around for instructions in the nice one bedroom loft apartment while they got changed into swimsuits. I followed instructions to take off all of my clothes in the middle of the room and put on what's referred to as a chastity device but looks more like a cock cage that’s going to take any chance it can to pinch and destroy you.

With my junk all locked up and my sailor outfit on it was time to get cookin.

We all went down to the apartment complex pool, which was open to all of the units. I got the grills fired up and made busy work of grilling marinated thighs, hearts, and livers on the community's shared grill, making sure to baste everything properly and cook the animal parts so the glaze wouldn’t burn and the meat wouldn’t become tough and inedible. Between courses, a job was made for me to fetch towels and drinks for my hosts, along with carrying them in and out of the water back and forth from the hot tub to the pool, and push them taking turns around the pool on a large pink floaty horse. “You know horses can swim really well right?” One of them asked. I’d been instructed not to speak unless I absolutely needed something, which at around 11 pm or so, I started to shake from the cold air that drips into Los Angeles most evenings. With my jacket on and feeling more comfortable, I cleaned up the grill, plates, and packed up their leftovers.

We went back up the apartment where they changed, I remained in my 4” pool shorts but retired the life preserver. I was told we were headed to exercise class. We all went together to the apartment gym, a 20’ x 30’ workout box next to the pool with tall floor-to-ceiling glass walls that looked out to the pool area and other apartments. I followed my orders to help them through a series of stretches and lifting, moving equipment around, holding yoga poses myself, sometimes comfortably and sometimes not. Exercise class culminated in an exercise they called “Make Horse-y run as fast as he can.” I can usually keep a pretty good pace. Still, as I climbed barefoot onto the apartment's seemingly brand-new treadmill, I uncomfortably remembered the cock cage my penis was still in. I clipped the red safety auto-shut-off clip to the top of my mini-shorts and started to run. First a slow trot went on for a few minutes as one of the two lost interest and went back to her resistance bands. The other stood by the dials of the treadmill and asked if the Horsey could run any faster? I told her yes, but as she pushed the small arrow up and up into a swift canter, I started to feel some abrasion in my shorts. Cold silver rubbing against me, I started to sweat everywhere. By the time I felt like saying anything, I was in a full gallop and my dick was about to twist between my legs into a jeweled shiny mess.

“STOP! I have to stop.”

YANK!

I pulled the clip, and the treadmill slowed all the way to a halt.

I knew right away I had some blisters forming on the soles of my bare feet, but at least I wasn’t a eunuch. The girl on her rubber bands looked over to see what had happened but all she probably noticed was me half-bent over and panting. Snapping briefly out of roles, the speed pusher made the call for us all to go back up to the apartment and call it a night.

I asked for some water, and we all sat around. We debriefed for a bit, they told me thank you for participating. I said thanks for the opportunity. I asked what kind of work they were doing here in L.A. How they felt about working in art. They asked how long I’d been cooking professionally, the same questions I always get when I tell them I used to make ice cream for a living. “What’s your favorite flavor?” They asked me if I had anything else I wanted to go over. “I do have one actually, but it’s kind of personal, so you definitely don’t have to answer.” They exchanged glances but responded, “No that’s ok, ask.”

“You two both really don’t like your bosses do you?”

Without a pause, they replied, “Yeah… how could you tell?” –Ed