At last, a hot date with a real man

In a recent article Canadian Leah McLaren bemoaned the lack of English male crumpet and the fact that, after 12 dates in London, she still hadn't made it to bed with a Brit. We sent her on a blind date to change her mind...

Anthony's story

"You're not posh, are you?" asked the person at the Standard, thus instantly scotching the notion that I'd been plucked for a date with Leah McLaren on account of my eligibility, charm and classic profile. No, not posh, I concede. Not ex-public school either. Or repressed homosexual. Or a text message obsessive (I don't own a mobile phone). These are the characteristics which, according to Ms McLaren, form the basic template of the English male, and she disdains him.

"Stick up for our boys and tell her to piss off back to Canada," said one outraged woman on hearing about our date. So, primed with the responsibility of defending "our boys" while at the same time aware of my role as a bit of rough (ie, grammar school Northerner), I stood outside Zafferano's in Knightsbridge expecting to square up to some haughty femme d'affaires sporting clickety-click heels, a Chanel clutch and a mongoose stare that could freeze a man at 20 paces.

The woman who eventually arrived was not at all the one I'd envisaged from her prose: a girlishly open face, very pretty, fetchingly attired in a strappy dress paired with a come-as-you-are denim jacket. "Sorry I'm late," she said, "I had a tantrum with the cabbie - he got us lost."

Uh-oh, a short-fuse merchant, I thought, an impression which seemed about to be vindicated when the photographer had taken his 250th snap of us at our table. "How much more of this?" Leah asked, bristling visibly.

"Two minutes, promise," he said, sensing the goodwill evaporating. He finally departed, though not before winking at me in leering complicity. Leah noticed this, but she didn't make a fuss. I liked her for that. We then scrutinised our menus as if they were scripts that would tell us what to say. Both of us started with the squid (good solidarity), followed by prawns for Leah and tuna for me. I chose the wine and she did the tasting. All fine.

Once we'd got drinks on the go the mood relaxed and - this may come as disappointing news to some - she was a model dinner date: funny, bright, informed, and (be still, my heart) prettier as the evening went on.

Conversation began with getting-to-know-you stuff about families (Leah's mum is a journalist, and plainly a formative influence), college, jobs.

By the time we got to the pudding wine we were freestyling through favourite movies, being single and worst-sex experiences. We also swapped confessions of how we'd imagined one another before meeting: on hearing Leah's misgivings it seems that I was a bonus - actually, Quasimodo would have been a bonus. We laughed quite a lot.

It hardly seems the same woman who has inveighed against the parade of Old Etonians and assorted toffs she is pleased to think of as "English men". Did she really believe any of that stuff ?

"Well, I generalised for comic effect, but I did have all the experiences I recounted." Why such a narrow band of social acquaintance? "It was just by accident. One of the English men I wrote about in my disastrous-dates article, Mark Palmer, was a friend of my boss (she is arts correspondent for The Globe and Mail in Toronto), so I met a few people in that circle. Then others I met at dinner parties."

Graciously sensing a cue, she goes on to say how "refreshing" it is to meet someone outside of this set: "I realise I haven't spent much time here with people who have similar cultural interests to me." Interested parties, take note.

Later, we risk a nightcap in the Mandarin Bar on Knightsbridge. After more rounds of drinks, confessions and solemn oaths of discretion - the Noel Coward word "sollocks" (from Private Lives) was our shorthand - we called time at 2.30am. Outside we kissed goodnight, and, feeling a little wistful, I suggested we might meet again some time. "I would be amenable," Leah replied carefully, and I got the message: it was fun, but let's quit while we're winning.

Anthony Quinn is a 38-year-old film critic.

Leah's story

It had been a bad day. I woke with a fuzzy head. Tried to go for a run in the park and it poured - stopping at the exact moment I squelched back into the house. There was also the unwelcome news that some bouffant-haired bottom feeder had published a tabloid story branding me a lesbian because of a joke I made months ago about other people's "half-hearted college lesbian dabblings". And then there was the problem of The Date.

A first-time encounter with a stranger in a restaurant sends me scurrying to the bottom of my handbag for Ativan at the best of times, but the approaching scenario was much more ominous. Not only was it a blind date - it was an assignment.

My Saturday night had been arranged by an editor who had contacted me - and my companion - to provide accounts of our respective evenings for the amusement of Evening Standard readers. All my friends advised me not to do it.

I am going on a date for work, I thought to myself in the back of the minicab on the way to the restaurant. I wish I were dead. I arrived in my trademark style: 20 minutes late. Tony, my date, was waiting for me outside the restaurant with a photographer.

My first thought was that he was rather handsome, but I didn't really manage to get a look at him before the photographer pushed us together and started snapping away and ordering us not to "look so stiff ". Tony, to his credit, handed me a glass of champagne, and pretended not to notice as I drained it in one go.

Once we had settled in for dinner, things improved considerably. Tony was attractive and polite and set me at ease with his relaxed manner and excellent champagne-procuring ability.

He is a film critic - a job I've always fantasised about - and so I asked him about that. We spoke about movies and books and music. He told me about his recent interview with Martin Amis, which he felt had been disappointingly dull. I was impressed all the same. Tony told me not to be, explaining that Martin Amis was the most interviewed writer in the English-speaking world. This was when I decided I liked him. Tony, I mean, not Martin Amis.

Understandably, we got quite drunk. The staff at the restaurant kept bringing us extra courses of lobster and speck and truffles. It turned out Tony and I were both reading fat Victorian novels (him: The Lady in White, me: Great Expectations) and that we loved James Taylor but were slightly ashamed of it.

He was clearly concerned by my dismal view of English men. He kept saying things like: "So where did you meet all these public-school types anyway?" I found I had a lot more in common with Tony than many of the men I've been out with since moving here. Spending time with people who don't share your interests can be disheartening, however pleasant they might be. Tony not only read novels - he seemed to understand and enjoy them. Moreover, he knew that pink champagne was made from pinot noir grape. (Polymathic!)

As the evening progressed I found myself feeling better. Perhaps death was not the answer after all. We made up a code word to indicate when we were about to say something we didn't want to go into the piece(s) - "sollocks". As in, "Sollocks. I have a fetish for riding pink elephants in the nude."

I told Tony everything about myself I swore beforehand I wouldn't. He reciprocated with some shocking, unprintable things too, which made me feel much less exposed. By the end of the evening there was some serious boundary testing going on. I won't betray his trust by repeating any of the things he said in confidence, except one: he told me his ideal woman would be beautiful, funny and kind.

All told, it was a perfectly lovely date - one that went a considerable distance to resurrecting my view of the English male. At the end of the evening we had a kiss in the rain before I jumped into a taxi - alone.

Sollocks.