After a year touring the Tinder circuit in 2018, I put down the apps and was ready for a hot girl summer. I’d just come off a dating junket full of unevenly ordered but evenly split bills, passive-aggressive rejections and a brutal ghosting.
I was burnt out from meeting new people and ready to let loose, so I travelled from Melbourne to Sydney for a long weekend to visit friends.
Over drinks in a pub, a mutual friend introduced me to Rob, who had recently moved to Melbourne and was also up in Sydney for the weekend. Rob was tall, classically handsome and exuded a calm confidence. I thought he looked cute in his blue striped pullover but immediately wrote him off as not my type.
There was a big cricket match on that day to raise funds for breast cancer, so the pub was packed with men wearing pink linen shirts and RM Williams boots. It wasn’t my scene so I left after an hour and didn’t think twice about it.
Turns out Rob did, because fast-forward a few weeks and there was a message request on my Instagram from someone called “roco202”. He wanted to hang out, being new to Melbourne and all. I figured since we had a mutual friend, why not?
Then, the night before we were due to meet, Rob asked to reschedule. I was cautious, but agreed to meet on a different day.
When we finally met up for a drink, I was surprised that he turned up in a vintage button-up shirt – a far cry from the pink linen crowd.
We exchanged stories over beers, and laughed over his decision to quit a career as a personal trainer because of the early mornings and distaste for “the hustle”. I began to think we weren’t so different – and his desire for new experiences in Melbourne charmed me.
We met up a few more times. I was cautiously excited but almost expected something to go wrong given my Tinder track record.
A few weeks in, we met at a pub near Rob’s place. It was a cool autumn evening and we sat outside and mulled over which burgers to order. We had reached the delicate stage of the relationship where a personality slip-up will either tip it into something effortless and sweet, or kickstart a fizzle.
After settling on a pulled jackfruit burger each, Rob went inside with the job of choosing a side dish. The pub was known for its poutine, but I felt nervous suggesting such a heavy dish on an early date.
I sat waiting, wondering what Rob would order. When he emerged he said: “I couldn’t decide between poutine or mac and cheese, so I just got both.”
Instantly, all my fears about being judged or not appearing like the perfect girl slipped away.
I come from a family with a history of disordered eating, and have often felt uncomfortable in a society where food choices are so stereotypically gendered. I knew in that moment I could just be myself, so I sank back in my chair and we enjoyed the meal. The poutine was perfectly squeaky and drowned in a rich gravy, but it’s the company that stood out most.
That night the scales tipped in my favour.
Recently, Rob and I celebrated our five-year anniversary with an excessive dinner in Almaty, Kazakhstan while travelling the old Silk Road.
Over-ordering at restaurants has become a key part of our relationship and it brings me so much fulfilment to dive deep into my love of food without fear of judgment.
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