The modern-day dating rulebook is anything but simple. If anything, it’s become more layered, more niche—almost like building a dish. It’s about finding the right pinch, the right flavour, the right balance. And sometimes, sending it back entirely.
We like to think we’re easygoing. But we’re not. Or at least I’m not.
Gen Z is often labelled “lazy,” “fidgety,” and “non-committal.” Fair enough. I’ll take it further: I am mildly chaotic, highly specific, and constantly in pursuit of things that feel just right. Anything that doesn’t meet that internal benchmark quietly exits consideration.
It shows up in the smallest ways.
A shade of blue that’s slightly off. A blazer with buttons that feel a little too enthusiastic. A dish that misses the mark.
Just this evening, I sent back a plate of exotic dumplings because the meat wasn’t cooked to my preferred level of perfection. Not proud. Not ashamed. It just is what it is, right?
And that’s really the point—we know what we want. Or at least we think we do.
It’s not just Gen Z, of course. It’s anyone living in the age of endless and infinite opinions. We’ve travelled, scrolled, eaten, dated, rinsed and repeated. At some point, experience becomes preference. And preference becomes non-negotiable.
As wonderfully satisfying as that sounds, I’ll admit there’s a catch. We always want the upper hand.
And nowhere does this become more apparent than when food and dating enter the same room.
“See, Delhi is always late,” shrugged S., a former sportsman seated next to me. Crisp white Ralph Lauren shirt. Hair slicked back. A physique that suggested he treats alcohol like an occasional guest, not a habit.
That evening, I found myself at Call Me Ten—one of Delhi’s most talked-about restaurants and bars—for League’s singles mix-up.
Thirty guests, one long evening, and several carefully optimistic introductions waiting to happen.
My six-seater table had already settled into itself: a lawyer, an architect, two marketers, a former sportsman, and me—a writer quietly taking mental notes.
“So, what has your experience been like on dating apps?” K. asked, ordering a mango sticky rice cocktail.
“We’re still figuring it out,” someone said. A chorus of polite agreement followed.
The truth sat somewhere in between; some were fresh out of long relationships, some actively searching, others just testing whether connection still worked the way it used to.
No one said too much. Which, in itself, said quite a lot.
And then somehow the word “batata” cropped up, aka potato. And oh boy, the way the energy in the room shifted. The Mumbai crowd lit up with recognition. The Delhi crowd leaned in with curiosity. In a matter of minutes, a table of strangers became the chattiest bunch around.
It was funny how quickly connection can form— through the smallest shared references. Food does that. It slips past guarded conversations and creates familiarity without asking permission.
The night was all about letting loose—let fate take over. At the centre was The League Fortune Table, which decided drinks, food pairings, and even seating arrangements, all assigned through a series of fortune draws. What you ordered, who you sat beside, and how your evening unfolded were all slightly out of our hands.
My draw was 1… lucky no. 1? I have yet to decide.
After the draw, cocktails started flowing in. I started off with the gin based Concoction Elitara soft cream cheese dim sums. Around me, conversations softened as glasses emptied and people leaned in a little closer, as if volume was something they had collectively agreed to lower.
The Polly—a Paloma twist with bright grapefruit notes—gave way to Nigiri.
Between sips, A., a young marketing professional, discovered that I was, in fact, a food writer. Her expression changed instantly. Within minutes, we abandoned small talk and started swapping long gatekept recommendations, a.k.a top underrated food joints in Delhi– go!
And just like that (smiles in Carrie Bradshaw), food became the conversation that didn’t need forcing.
Around us, strangers flirted over cocktails, twirled their hair mid-sentence, leaned into laughter a fraction too long. I remember thinking— just observantly—that I had found my kind of company.
There’s something endlessly fascinating about conversations that begin with food—whether on a weekday, or inside the slightly heightened reality of a dating event.
Personality matters. Chemistry matters. But it would be naïve to ignore how often connection starts somewhere simpler—over what we order, what we recommend, and what we quietly refuse to compromise on.
We live in a time where we know exactly what we want on our plates. We don’t hesitate to send something back if it misses the mark. We are precise, opinionated, and—if we’re being honest—quite confident when it comes to food. So the question naturally follows; why are we often less vocal about what we want in a partner?
Taste, after all, is not limited to cuisine. It extends into the people we choose, the spaces we enter, and the experiences we’re willing to return to.
At the League singles mixer, what I did learn was this; letting go of control often opens far wider doors—whether to unexpected connections, new experiences, or crossing paths with people you least expected to click with— in ways you wouldn’t have imagined.
Maybe the irony is this, the moment we stop trying to perfectly curate outcomes, we’re more likely to stumble into the ones that actually fit.
Great taste matters in food, and should matter in dating as well.
Afterall, we are all in a league of our own.
