I booked the prettiest restaurant in Bath to impress a man I’d never met. What actually saved the whole night cost four quid and came in a paper bag.
I’m Ellie, 33, and I live about twenty minutes outside Bath, which means I’ve spent most of my adult life telling visitors where to go and almost none of it working out where I should go myself.
So when Tom and I arranged to meet on a Thursday in June, I did the thing I’d told a hundred tourists to do. I booked the beautiful place.
Tasting menu. Candles. A wine list with its own contents page. The sort of restaurant people put on their Instagram when they get engaged.
I thought I was being thoughtful. I was actually being terrified.
Why I Chose It, Honestly
I’d been on eleven first dates that year and nine of them were in the same three pubs. I was bored of myself. I wanted one night that felt like it mattered before it had earned the right to.
And there was something else, which took me longer to admit. If the date was a disaster, at least the food would be good. I’d built an escape hatch and called it romance.
Tom turned up in a shirt he clearly didn’t wear often. I’d changed four times. We sat down at 7pm in a room where you could hear other people’s cutlery.
Then the waiter explained the first course for ninety seconds and left, and neither of us knew what to say.
The Problem With Beautiful Rooms
Here’s what nobody tells you about the nice restaurant. It has expectations built into it.
You’ve both spent money. You’re both dressed up. The room is quiet enough that you can hear yourself being boring. There are seven courses coming, which means you’re locked in for two and a half hours whether it’s going well or not.
We talked about work. Then about the drive in. Then about a course involving fennel that neither of us understood.
It wasn’t that Tom was dull. It’s that the room was doing something to us. We were performing being on a date instead of actually being on one.
By course three I’d asked him what he did for a living twice.
The Bit That Actually Worked
We left after the fifth course. I’d like to say it was a bold romantic decision. It was mostly that I said “shall we get out of here?” and he said “God, yes” faster than anyone’s ever agreed with me.
And then Bath did the thing Bath does.
We walked down to Pulteney Bridge and stood watching the weir go over in that ridiculous horseshoe shape it makes, with the light going orange behind the buildings. Nobody has to say anything clever standing in front of moving water. That’s the whole trick.
Then we walked up through the Circus, which was empty, and he told me a genuinely mortifying story about his brother’s wedding. I laughed properly for the first time all evening.
We ended up on a bench near the Royal Crescent with a bag of chips between us, watching the grass turn grey, both still a bit hungry. Four quid. Best part of the night by a distance.
What I’d Do Differently
I’ve thought about this a lot since, because Tom and I have been seeing each other for a while now and he still brings up the fennel.
The mistake wasn’t spending money. It was choosing a venue that demanded we already be comfortable with each other before we’d had the chance to get there.
A first date needs an exit and it needs something to look at. That’s it. The restaurant gave me neither.
Wisp data shows the first dates most likely to lead to a second one last between 90 minutes and two hours, and the ones that overrun three hours are actually slightly less likely to go anywhere. Not because long dates are bad. Because dates that can’t end early are dates you can’t leave when the energy dips, and every date has a dip.
Where I’d Send You in Bath Instead
Start with a walk. Genuinely. Meet at Pulteney Bridge, go along the river towards the Rec, and give yourselves twenty minutes of moving side by side before you have to look at each other across a table. Walking dates work because silence stops being a problem when you’ve got somewhere to be.
If it’s raining, and this is Bath so it will be, the Holburne Museum at the end of Great Pulteney Street is small enough to do in forty minutes and has a café at the back that isn’t trying to impress anybody.
For a drink afterwards, go over to Widcombe. It’s five minutes from the station and it feels like a village that hasn’t noticed it’s in a tourist city. Nobody’s on a date to be seen there.
And if it’s going well, the chips are on Kingsmead Square.
The Thing I Actually Learned
Romance isn’t a venue. It’s what happens when two people stop trying.
I spent £180 building a stage and then had the actual date on a bench for four pounds, which is either very sad or quite funny depending on how the week’s going.
If you’re picking somewhere this weekend and you’re tempted by the beautiful room, ask yourself one question. Are you booking it for them, or are you booking it so you don’t have to be interesting?
I know which one I was doing.
Wisp exists so you can stop overthinking this bit and get to the walk by the river. Ask them out, pick somewhere easy, leave the tasting menu for month six.