My date leaned over to the next table and did something disgusting

I’d only been in New Zealand for a couple of months when I met Bryan*.

It was 2008, I was 22 and there on a working holiday visa, but had quickly bagged a job at a magazine. The money was terrible but the perks were good, with lots of freebies and a plethora of invites to parties. 

Another assistant and I took advantage of the free hospitality whenever we could, including an after party of an awards ceremony one night. 

My friend and I got chatting with Bryan at the bar. He and his group of friends were fun – we were all a bit tipsy – and there were lots of TV personalities and minor pop stars in attendance, which meant there was a chance he could be famous.

I wasn’t au fait with the who’s who of New Zealand, and Google was no help given that I only had his first name, but with his height and broad shoulders, I figured it most likely he was an amateur rugby player. 

So when he asked for my number at the end of the night, I happily gave it to him.

He messaged me the next day, and suggested we meet up at a local tapas bar to continue our conversation from the night before. 

I dutifully swotted up on my rugby trivia just in case he was a player. I felt really excited. I had been in a long-term relationship throughout university and hadn’t had a first date for a while.

I had no idea things would go south so quickly. 

We met outside the bar and I was pleased to see he was as attractive as I remembered.

We sat at a long bench by the window, jostling for shoulder and elbow space with others on either side, enjoying the last of the summer sunshine. 

We’d only ordered drinks, which I was secretly pleased about – that way, if the date was going badly, I could escape without having to wait for the main course. 

Bryan was a good conversationalist and asked me lots of questions about back home, about work, and what I made of New Zealand so far. The atmosphere was friendly and fun, and I could feel myself relaxing into it. 

I found out that he did in fact play rugby, though not professionally, and had attended the awards after-party with a friend who worked in TV.

An hour in and I was fairly sure that a second date was on the cards. 

This wasn’t the case for long. 

Mid-conversation, Bryan leaned over to the plates left by the couple who had been sitting next to us moments before. They had yet to be cleared and still had a selection of padron peppers and patatas bravas the pair hadn’t eaten.

As I watched on in disbelief, he helped himself to their leftover food. He even took a sip of what was left in a glass.

I froze. I wanted to jump up and shout, ‘What do you think you’re doing?!’ But my British aversion to making a scene kept me seated, furtively scanning the room as I half expected our neighbours to return, indignant that their meals were now considerably depleted.

‘Sorry… are you hungry?’ I managed to ask, while trying to process this affront to humanity. ‘Do you want to order some food?’

‘No, I’m good,’ he replied, merrily chomping away.

Perhaps this was acceptable in New Zealand, I thought to myself. 

Then came the ick – that sudden pang of disgust towards someone who you were previously attracted to. 

For many of us, it’s only a matter of time before the ick strikes. Failed relationships are littered with them. 

In 2024, ‘the ick’ even made it into the Cambridge dictionary, firmly securing its place in our cultural lexicon.

In that moment, sitting next to Bryan, time seemed to slow as I watched him reach over to those plates again and again. I felt the blood rush to my head, as my cheeks started to blush. This was embarrassing. 

I still can’t make sense of why Bryan did it. Maybe he was an early food waste campaigner and trying to save the planet? Or a conspiracy theorist who doesn’t believe in the concept of germs? 

Either way, I wrapped things up shortly after that, telling him I had an early start at work the next morning. He seemed surprised and a little disappointed but didn’t try to convince me to stay for too long.

It wasn’t my best excuse, considering it was a Friday night – but it did the trick. I was disappointed our date hadn’t gone as well as I’d hoped, particularly as Bryan had seemed like he had potential. But I had no doubts about my decision to get myself the hell out of there. 

That should have been the end of the story. 

However, as I left, I texted some friends to find out where they were, and jumped in a cab to meet them at another bar in the city. I was desperate to tell someone what had happened and didn’t want to waste the opportunity for a good Friday night out.  

But the city we were in was small and at the time, there were only so many places to go out.

A couple of hours and a few more drinks later, Bryan walked into the same bar with his friends.

I tried to hide on the dance floor, but it didn’t take him long to spot me.

‘I thought you had to go home?’ he asked. I gulped. He seemed annoyed.  

I gestured towards my friends, more than a little embarrassed. ‘They insisted I came out,’ I replied. 

He raised his eyebrows and walked away. I didn’t hear from him again.

It’s not the best way to tell someone you’re not interested but he seemed to get the message. 

I never saw or heard from Bryan again, which was just as well. I’m thankful I didn’t try to justify his behaviour to myself, or explain away the ick. 

But I never did work out exactly what Bryan’s food swiping was all about – I had lots of other first dates and thankfully no one ever tried that again.

*Name has been changed

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