Let them eat shoes

When I first moved to New York, my then boyfriend, a committed epicurean, frequently took me to the finest restaurants in the city. Four, five, six nights a week we went out: tuna tartare here, lobster risotto there, molten chocolate cake everywhere.

At the beginning, I found it romantic—the wine, the candles, the very tiny artichokes in our salads. But after a while, the meals started to blur together. And then, I realized I had not only gained 15 pounds (a solid 15 pounds), but the very idea of ordering $28 salmon made me long for a sandwich from my deli and a night alone with my TV.

I had overdosed on dinner dates. I’m still detoxing, in fact. And I’m not the only one.

“Taking me somewhere fancy and knowing how to order wine used to blow my mind,” says Rachel, 34, a lawyer. “But alas, I’m now spoiled.”

For most Manhattan women, a year or two of being “dinner whores” gets it out of their system. It’s not that the food isn’t good—it is! And it’s not that we don’t like to eat—we do! It’s that it’s boring. Mind-numbingly, calorie-poundingly, unimaginatively, tediously boring.

“There are only so many dinners you can go on before the repetition—appetizer, entrée, wine, should we get dessert?—kills your soul,” says Meghan, 25. “The best date is when you’re actually doing something.”

You know, a walk in the park, Rollerblading, trapeze class. There are plenty of fun activities that don’t involve napkins and gratuity.

“I think most men are just unimaginative when it comes to dates,” explains Adam, 38, an entertainment executive. “They forget there are options other than $50 macaroni and cheese at the Waverly Inn. Besides, no one wants a girl to think he’s cheap!”

Ah, Adam. If you really want to stand out, buy her shoes. Seriously. Shoes. I’ve gone on hundreds of dates, and on 99 percent of those outings, the guy spent a great deal on fancy food that probably gave me indigestion. You know, I can’t even remember, actually, since they’re all part of the jumble of my romantic dining memory. But there’s one date I’ll never forget: He took me to Barneys and surprised me with a pair of black suede Manolo Blahniks. It wasn’t so much that they were expensive; it was that no one had ever done that for me before (or, cough, since). They were the cost of two or three fancy dinners, but I still wear them three years later. I wore them today, actually. And the guy? He will live on in the coziest corner of my heart. And yes, my feet.

E-mail her at jallison@timeoutny.com