ONE-NIGHT STAND...on a date with L.A.: WATERLOO AND CITY love the accent

I’m sorry, I didn’t understand you. Can you say that again? Waterwho and what?

Thursday. 10 pm. Late night Happy Hour.

Classic style British gastropub meets modern tea room meets school cafeteria.

I’m a little late. Heels pound the pavement, straight back to the bar where my first date with Mr. Accent waits with a beer. Was drawn to his foreign-sounding speech and thirst for adventure.

Like most foreign men I know, Mr. Accent lives on the edge of his seat, or in this case, his bar stool. Right away, he leans in to kiss me as his elbows hang on the bar ornamented in rose-colored copper.

His lips meet my cheek as my eyes take in the British accents of Waterloo— brightly painted recycled church pews, black high-back wooden chairs, and hanging antiques. Design speaks clean, comfortable and chic, but the large dining hall, vast cement floor and all the space between leaves me with too much breathing room and loud echoes. Must have been a Sizzler in its former life. Tucked in the corner I do see a touch of patterned blue and white wallpaper that just tickles my fancy.

The lady bartender greets and pours behind the bar. A Dark and Stormy to sip on a hot summer night. Rum, ginger beer and candied ginger.

The bartender is probably from somewhere like Ohio or Indiana. But with a long lash blink of an eye, hands to curves, slight shoulder shrug and corner smile, her laissez- faire attitude seems foreign territory for an American gal. I thought only European women and Jolie had that je ne sais quoi. She has her way with men I am sure, and tonight, with me. Whatever she says… I do.

Chalk board specials written on the wall. I defer to her. Rabbit and pistachio brioche? Or how about braised short rib pizza with stilton? She swears by the chicken liver and foie gras mousse and double swears that this is an unusually slow and sad happy hour.

Persistent Mr. Accent leans in and tries to kiss me again.

Like most women, I am drawn to accents. Monotone suddenly turns melodic with a single voice inflection and grand hand gesture. I’m a world traveler when it comes to dating. Greece, Australia, New Zealand, Japan, you name it. My boyfriend of two years in college had me at “where’s the loo?” and I’ve been into foreign drawl ever since. Everything just sounds more interesting, like I’m always on vacation. But, admittedly, after awhile it just gets me into trouble. I insist on finding his accent so adorable even when he’s being a complete shit. The sex can be great, but at the end of the day, sometimes the culture is just too exotic. Exotic is great for fruit, not for communication.

This time Mr. Accent’s lips meet mine. A simple peck. Nothing more, nothing less, and nothing more tonight. But another drink, yes. The night is young, the hour is happy, and the lady behind the bar says we can’t possibly leave yet…so we don’t.

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