Double-Blind Taste Testing

“All my dates have been blind dates. That’s right, totally blind, in case you couldn’t tell. It happened when I was fourteen as many of you know, but many of you may not know the whole story about my first—and only—double-blind date.”

I enjoy talking to people online. Online, they don’t know that I can’t see. They don’t see empty sockets where my eyes once rested. People just know me as (E@gleEyEs93). I know. A terrible name, being blind and all, but I’ve come to terms with it, and sometimes when we can laugh at ourselves, it lets others know we need not have indulgences poured out.

I’m pretty upfront about my lack of sight overall, unless I’m on a dating site. You would not believe how many women change tone after learning I’m blind. The communication drifts slowly down like the last leaf from a maple tree in late fall, leaving my message box bare. Now I wait to see if there is a spark before I let them into my dark world. It had been about a year since I had an in-person date—just one, no follow-up. I hadn’t hit it off with anyone since then, but that was all about to change.

She messaged me first, commenting on my profile picture. It’s a splendid picture of me, shot with my back to the camera. Chocolate, my seeing-eye dog, faces the camera. Every girl loves to see a dog in profile pictures. At least, that’s what all the magazines say. She’s a golden retriever, and before you ask, no, I didn’t name her. Though the picture is of my backside, I am slender, tall, and appear to be looking at a majestic sunset. Of course, the photographer had to tell me this, but I could feel the sun’s scattered rays hitting my face. They just feel different at sunset.

AglowHvet: That’s a mighty fine Golden you have, and what a beautiful sunset.

I asked my computer to load up her profile before I replied. My computer asked me if I would like to have the screen read, and of course, I did. It was short and to the point. My favorite kind. It read:

Hello there. I will be brief, as I don’t want to waste your time or mine. Likes: good food, pleasant conversation, animals. Dislikes: poor manners, wild parties, self-importance. Must-haves: a source of income, enjoys pets. Can't stands: violence, BIG drinkers, sulky people. Want to know more? Let’s talk.

“Computer, compose a reply to AglowHvet,” I said.

E@gleEyEs93: Why thank you. It was a fantastic sunset for sure. It is my favorite time to walk.

We had more back-and-forth conversations, in which she learned my name—Burel—and I learned hers, Heather. The opening conversational salvos were good, sometimes even great, but nothing substantial. She never asked for more pictures. A total blessing. Now I just hear my computer tell me (Heather is typing) and nothing else. Then she pulled the pin, hit the send button, and potential became movement.

AglowHvet- How about we get together for dinner?

E@gleEyEs93- That sounds great. When and where are you thinking?

AglowHvet- How is tomorrow around 5? The address is 63-79 St John Street.

E@gleEyEs93- Awesome. See you then.

AglowHvet- Wonderful

Excited. No, I was ecstatic. My first date in over a year, and she had asked me! Next up on the buffet of emotions was mortification. Heather would actually see me. She would see my blindness, no matter how I covered it up, then run away. Even worse, she may stay, all the while showing nothing but pity for me. The chemicals that come with emotion flooded me. Or do the chemicals cause the emotional flood? Either way, my mind raced. I didn’t even realize that Heather never told me where we were going. It never crossed my mind until much later. I stood up and took hold of the house cane. Time for a drink, just a little nip to drown the emotional flood.

After getting to the kitchen, a more tricky task presented itself. Finding the right bottle. I picked up the first, sniffed the cork, and put it back. It was white and slightly sweet, probably the riesling. Next was a bottle of red wine, but this one was for a special day. It was my 1993 Petrus Pomerol, given to me by my mother on my twenty-first birthday. I could tell just by feeling the label. The third bottle. Now that was the one I wanted. An excellent Australian Shiraz I picked up on holiday. As I pulled the stopper, the weight told me this would be the last glass from this bottle. I took the bottle straight back to the computer. I didn’t even use my cane. There was a close call with the archway that connects the kitchen to the front room, but I made it.

I had my computer read me the news while I drank. Aerating the wine helps release the aroma, but I wanted calmed nerves more. My butterflies settled down a little. A chime sounded for bedtime rituals. I’m a routine person, with different alarms in each room; they help me know where to go and why I am going there. Nightly ritual finished, I made my way to bed and fell asleep almost instantly.

I woke up just over eight hours later to my morning alarm as "Take Your Best Shot" blared from the speakers. It always gets me pumped up and ready to take on my big, imperfect, dark world. I showered, shaved, did the necessary, then headed toward breakfast. The thought bloomed in my mind on how to handle this situation. I’ll just get there early and let it all happen as it would. That which will be, will be. That which will not be, will not be.

I remember that afternoon, as though it were happening all over again. Three o'clock, time to go, Chocolate at my side. Walking out of my flat, the smell of flowers—most definitely daffodils—entrance my nostrils with their aromatic bouquet. Reaching out, caressing petals, then grasping the stem, I pluck a single Daffodil while walking toward the tube. Stout stem, velvet petals, with pleasant smells, give me hope, and bolster my confidence, while walking to the platform. Getting on the Hammersmith tube, I rode with butterflies in my stomach all over again.

“Next station, Farringdon,” the voice on the speaker told me as the train slowed into the terminal. The doors open, and, as always, I am told to “mind the gap.” I left the flower on a seat, hoping I would find a fresh flower blossoming over dinner.

It is a five-minute walk to 69-73 St. John street by GPS, but for me, it took ten minutes. I still arrive ten minutes early.

The hostess opened the door and said, “Welcome to Dans Le Noir.”

I told her I was here for a date, under the name Heather, but I would like to be seated now if possible.

“I am sorry, sir, but we seated your date just moments ago,” the hostess says with some regret.

“If you please, take my arm. I will guide you to your table, sir,” she continues.

I allow her to take my arm and lead me toward the table. As we walked, I overheard strange conversations.

“It feels like a hamburger, but there’s no bun.”

“How am I supposed to know what this is?”

We got to the table, and the hostess placed my hand on the chair.

“Here is your seat, sir. Do be careful sitting down. Would you like the red, green or blue menu, sir?”

I didn’t know what this meant. I asked her to explain.

“The red menu features meat courses, while the green is vegetarian, and the blue menu is seafood-based,” she explains.

I sat there thinking, I haven’t even heard Heather make a sound, and to hurry the hostess away, the idea came, “I’ll have whatever she is having,” I say.

“Well, I see you are also an early bird.”

“Yes, right, well, I was sort of hoping to get here before you, so that if… When…” I stopped putting my foot in my mouth at this point.

“So that if I didn’t look right, you could leave,” Heather said with a laugh that let me know this was a joke, yet not a joke.

“No, no, no, not that at all,” I stammer. “More like if you didn’t like my looks.”

She laughed a genuine laugh and said, “I hope you like meat. I picked the red menu.”

“I do like meat, but what kind of meat is it?”

“That’s the beauty of this place. We don’t know, and we won’t know until the end,” Heather said with delight.

Our first of five courses came out, and I knew right away that we were also getting wine with our first course. I smelled smoked duck as the waitress, with a slight bit too much perfume, set the plate down. With the first bite, I taste goat cheese and some earthy leaves, maybe arugula or radicchio. The wine was sparkling and yet seemed to be a cabernet. Piece of cake.

“What do you think this is?” Heather asked, and without a pause, gave me her thoughts.

“I think it is some sort of hummus with some fowl, maybe a game hen. Oh, and the wine is one of my favorites, a Cabernet Franc.”

I knew exactly what both the dish and wine were, especially after tasting, though the wine had been a little harder to determine the vintage.

“It’s smoked duck breast, with a soft goat cheese spread, on a bed of radicchio. You are right about the wine, it is a Franc. A 2011 Lu Perri I believe.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“But of course I am, madam,” I said, using my best French accent.

“Well, we’ll just see about that, soon enough.”

The server came back over to tell us about the dish. Smoked duck with a creamy goat cheese compote, and, you guessed it, a bed of radicchio. I got the wine wrong though; it was a 2012 vintage, not a 2011.

“How did you know? Are you some sort of dining aficionado?”

“No, no, nothing like that, I just have a talent for smelling things out.”

“That’s quite the talent, if I do say. Think you’ll go two for two with our next course?”

“My magic eight ball says all signs point to yes,” which led us to both come over with a case of giggles.

Our second course came, and I went two for two. In the brief silence mastication invites, my thoughts whirled, as if a racehorse waiting for that gate to fly open. Why hadn't she said anything about my dark glasses? No mention of my blindness, just two people talking, seeming to enjoy the other's company.

Heather broke the silence, snapping me out of my dervish. “How long have you had your golden?”

“Um, I got him about two years ago, when he was eighteen months. Do you have any pets?”

“I do, a small heinz, named Roger.”

The main course arrived. Heather didn’t ask if I knew what it was. Maybe she had grown tired of the guessing game where I was always right. Instead, she hit me up with an odd question.

“Looks or personality?”

“What do you mean?”

“Which is more important, looks or personality?”

The tone of that question, a truly useless one for a man in my position, gave me pause.

“I don’t come to a restaurant to look at food. Most anyone can look, but personality is the smell, the taste, the texture, that makes food good.”

After that answer, Heather ordered another glass of wine, her third. The servers cleared our dinner plates and set down our dessert. I drove my spoon into my chocolate mousse, taking bite after bite, until I noticed a silence stretching across the table. Once I trained my attention away from food, I could hear the picking of fingernails. In the middle of summoning my courage to ask what was wrong—

The speakers crackled, “Attention guests, in a minute, we will turn the lights on. Please prepare yourselves. You may wish to close your eyes to let them readjust.”

Close our eyes? Had we truly been eating in the dark this whole time?

I couldn’t believe it. I've been dining in the dark my whole life

Heather spoke up just then, “I have had a lovely time, and I do not want it to end, but I haven’t told you a few things. I thought you’d ask for more pictures and then see…”

“I haven’t told you a few things as well,” I interrupted.

We were both desperately trying to tell each other something vitally important, possibly a total deal-breaker. We both started talking again when the lights came on.

“Please don’t look at me. The scars—I’m ugly. You won’t want someone who looks like this.” Heather stammered through tears. That extra wine, stirring slightly sour, a voice that once sounded sweet.

I heard a chair quickly pushed back; she was up and ready to run.

With great synchronicity, Chocolate barked, and I stood to let out my secret.

“Heather, I will never see your scars, not now, not tomorrow, not in a year.”

Pulling off my sunglasses, for the first time in ages, another person saw the hollows where my eyes should be. Heather didn’t gasp as many do; she just walked toward me. I can’t imagine the look that must have been on her face, but the sour tones vanished and her sweet voice reminded me of the daffodil I left on the tube.

“Oh darlin’, I did not know, you’re… can I steal a hug?”

“I would rather like that.”

As she came in for the hug, I kissed her on the cheek, right above the scar. Just because I am blind doesn’t mean I can’t time things well, and it went well. We hugged, and then the three of us, Heather, Chocolate, and I, walked out of Dans Le Noir hand in hand.

“Friends, family, that is the story of how I met my wife. Would you honor us and raise your glass?”

Glasses filled with the 1993 bottle of Petrus Pomerol rise in the air. For this, the most special occasion.