I deleted the dating apps and met her over pasta.

Intent is on the table — literally

When you join you set your intent: friends, open to love, or a bit of both. It's printed on every seat on the night. That one design choice deletes the entire first-month-of-texting ambiguity — nobody's guessing, nobody's performing, nobody's three dates in before the "so what are we" talk.

My table was open-to-love, balanced three and three. Everyone there had opted into the same thing, which made it the most relaxed "date" of my life — because it wasn't one.

Six people is the magic number

One-on-one first dates are auditions. Six-person dinners are just… dinner. You get to see how someone treats the waiter, whether they laugh at the host's terrible jokes, how they argue about dessert. The stuff a profile could never tell you.

The club matches the table — generation, interests, intent — and a human reviews every group. No algorithm decided she was a 91% match; a person looked at the six of us and thought "that'll work". It worked.

The secret-unless-mutual follow-up

After the night, you mark who you'd see again — no, yes, or in a heartbeat. Secret, unless it's mutual. She said yes; I said yes; surnames and chat unlocked. If she hadn't, I'd never have known and neither would she. The kindest rejection is the one that never happens.

We've been to four club nights since — two dinners, a games night, a long lunch that became our unofficial anniversary. Our circle includes another couple who met the same way, which the club claims is "not the point" and "definitely keeps happening".

And if there's no spark?

Then you had a great dinner with five interesting people and your next get-together is already on the board. That's the structural advantage over the apps: a "no" here still counts as a good night. Romance is welcome, never required — and the club means it.