The last thing you want on a first date is to worry about anything other than your date. Too much noise? Too little noise? Lights so bright she'll wonder if you're going to get that mole checked out? Not if I can help it. If she has a place she loves to go, great. But if not, I suggest the bar at a casual Italian joint. It checks all the boxes—good drinks, good food (if it comes to that)—but it doesn't itself inspire a lot of commentary (“I've never had lingonberry bitters before!” “Really? I love them!”), which would allow you both to gloss over the fact that there's no connection. The responsibility for connecting falls on us. As it should. So when it works, it feels more like a tenth date than a first. —Andrew Goble

Counterpoint: That's Creepy

If you return to the same place for all your first dates, someone—the bartender, a waiter—is onto you. They know this is your move. You're the guy who has his first dates here. You don't want to be that guy. That guy is unoriginal. That guy is timid. That guy is, rankly, a little creepy.

I get it: Retreating to a safe space alleviates anxiety. But you're actually creating more stress for yourself. Because at some point, someone is going to say, “You're back! Chicken piccata again?” I promise, this will (or should, at least) make you more tense than not knowing whether you're enchanted with her or with the establishment's imported-spirits list. —Anna Peele

How to Pick the Perfect Spot

Follow these rules—as valid now as they were in days of yore—to locate the ideal date destination. —Lauren Larson

The bar must offereth two of the following: ale (beer), wine (wine), or cocktails.Another thing: After thy date's second drink, she shall require a few of thy fries. Thou shalt not wait more than ten minutes for a seat.

Every minute of idle small talk shall correspondeth to one fewer blow job down the line. There shall be no TV in the bar.

Thou shalt not watch the game over thy date's shoulder. Thy date is not fooled by thy lying eyes. The bar shall be close to thy date's place of work.

Thy wench can get there easily, but she doth not have to tell thee where she lives. There shall be no trivia.

The drunken masses shall not shout “Lusitania!” and “Julia Louis-Dreyfus!” to the rafters while thou art describing thy backpacking trip in Greece.

Hold the Phone

(Actually, Keep It Out of Sight)