Each week, we lure two singletons to The Captain Cook Hotel, give them food and drink, then wait for their reports to arrive in our inbox. If this sounds like you, email critic@critic.co.nz. But be warned--if you dine on the free food and dash without sending us a writeup, a Critic writer will write one under your name. And that won’t end well for you.
Robin
With Tinder telling me there were no new matches in a 150km radius, I decided it was time to try a new tactic for finding true love. After watching three seasons of the bachelor, I knew one on one time was the key to anyone’s heart, so the Critic blind date was the perfect option. Like any good Otago student, I’m incapable of social interaction without being a few deep, so I moved my Friday ritual of drinking a bottle of red while listening to the greatest hits of Selene Dion forwards. After crying out all my feelings I felt like I was ready for whatever lay in store, so I got my flatmate to drive me 500m down the road to the Cook. I was raised right so I arrived at the correct time, but I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t so I could claim the majority of the tab. Unfortunately I was stitched up worse than the younglings killed by Anakin when we were told we were only allowed 3 drinks each. Not letting this stifle my boundless optimism, I ordered a pint and awaited my date. Soon enough she walked in and I quickly found out that between us we had already drunk enough to kill a small child, perfect. We sat down in our booth and the conversation quickly wined and so did the flow. Luckily she turned out to be older than I am so we discussed the current socio-economic climate, and our respective escapades over the year. We were surprised when it turned out we had to actually order something so we decided to get something to share; it was a date after all. Soon enough we’d burned through our tab, but problem alcoholism shared is problem alcoholism halved, so we got another round of drinks. This part does get a little blurry but I know we had the excellent idea of getting $2 sundaes from night and day. I didn’t quite get this though as I bought an ice cream that my bank statement tells me was $3.50, a real pit of the night. I know you dirty minded readers want to know what happened next but a gentleman never kisses and tells, so like any good story you can make up your own ending. Cheers Critic and Cook for the spread, and happy birthday to my mature student of a date.
Marian
Let’s rip right in: I arrived 16 minutes late, a bottle of wine down (after Hyde, that was rough), to find a superfecta waiting for me: tall, dark, handsome, and (as I’d find out later), with excellent fine motor skills. Like the 4th and 5th year scarfies we were, there was no problem drinking the bar tab, although my poor date didn’t fight me when I forced him to drink sickly sweet cider and Carlsberg, which I drank half of anyway. I vetoed beef cheeks (what ARE beef cheeks??), he vetoed the seafood platter, and I ended up eating 2/3 of the beef ribs while he was in the bathroom (soz bud). After making fun of his academic failures and smashing a glass, I dimly recall the rest of the night. There was ice cream involved, running (I don’t run, so I don’t know what that was about), and a Nab-A-Cab back to his. An obvious pacifist and gentleman, he paid for everything. The most important point here is that he went down on me multiple times—a true HERO—(take note, boys), and was a superb cuddler, although he needs a less noisy bed. Cheers to his flatties, who I met both when I was still looking cute and again when I looked like a homeless potato, and thanks to my date (and his rich parents) for the ride home the next morning. Sorry to the uni for not making my tutorials and taking a test hungover—a girl has needs.