Pressing the buttons

The fine art of speed dating was invented in the elevator of a five-star hotel.

I can’t prove that assertion, but it does make sense. In my experience, hotel elevators are the single most popular spot for picking up strangers. I’ve never had anyone make a move on me on a bus. I don’t even get hit on in bars that often. Put me in a hotel lift, however, and chances are, someone will try their luck.

My theory is, the elevator pick-up appeals to a man who like a challenge. The degree of difficulty is high:  you only have a minute or two to make an impression. You also have to be the type of person who keeps their hotel room tidy. If you get through the first stage, and manage to lure someone back to your room for a drink, the last thing you want is for the contents of your suitcase to be strewn over every surface.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, airline pilots excel at the elevator pick-up. One of the most impressive operators I’ve encountered was a pilot for Ethiopian Airlines. In the course of our shared elevator ride, he complimented me on my style, ascertained where I came from, that I hadn’t yet been to Ethiopia but was interested in going, and offered to take me there himself – he had a plane waiting. Pretty good work for 14 floors.

Sometimes, however, the elevator interlude is just the opening move.

I arrived at a certain hotel late at night, fresh from the airport. On my way to my room, I shared the lift with a man in chef’s whites for a scant three storeys – not long enough for him to do much else other than welcome me in town and wish me a pleasant stay.

That was not, however, the last I saw of him. The next day, as I darted in and out of the hotel on appointments, I repeatedly bumped into him – to the point where I wondered whether he actually spent any time in the kitchen.  On our third encounter – late in the afternoon, as I was on my way up to my room to change – I finally agreed to sit and have a chat.

As it turned out, the chef was not a local. He was doing a guest star stint at the hotel’s fine dining restaurant, taking a break from his three-star restaurant in Paris. Tonight was his last night. Although the restaurant was booked out, he invited me to come to the kitchen, drink some champagne, and try his food.

Now, it’s a no-brainer that, if a Michelin-starred chef offers to cook for you, you say yes. My problem was, I had already organised an 11-course dinner for myself at a new restaurant I was writing about. I explained the situation to him. “Come afterwards,” he said. So I did.

It was a memorable evening. The food was fabulous. The champagne was delectable. The chef was charming, if persistent. When I repeatedly refused to give him my room number, he grabbed a marker and wrote his own room number – in very large numerals – on my arm. It turned out the marker was waterproof. For a whole week, I walked around with “305” on my arm. I guess you could say he left a lasting impression.  

What’s been your strangest romantic encounter overseas?