Oh, I had such a marvellous time yesterday! Sometimes I genuinely have to pinch myself. Do other ladies have as much fun as I do, or am I just one of the lucky ones who somehow stumbled into the perfect combination of work, play, and really good wine? This time, it was a blind date, and I must say that these dates keep getting better. This one was even more deliciously unpredictable, and just that bit more surreal.
The Restaurant I’d Been Craving
This particular adventure took me to Dans Le Noir—the famous pitch‑black dining experience serving French cuisine on Clerkenwell Green, not far from Holborn and Farringdon. I’d had my eye on this restaurant for ages. You know when somewhere becomes almost mythical in your head because you’ve talked about going for so long? That was Dans Le Noir and me. I’d read the reviews, stalked the website, listened to friends gush about it, and yet, somehow, I had never quite made it there.
Part of the problem was that I had no one suitable to go with. A lot of my friends are the type who would rather die than emerge from a posh restaurant with sauce on their shirt, hair out of place, or—god forbid—a rogue piece of spinach in their teeth. The idea of eating in complete darkness, with glasses knocking over and cutlery fumbled for, was their worst nightmare. I, on the other hand, thought it sounded like brilliant fun.
Surprisingly, none of my clients had ever suggested it either. Despite my not‑so‑subtle hints and my heartfelt speeches about organic ingredients and the four surprise menus, no one seemed willing to take the plunge. I’d mention it casually—“Oh, there’s this incredible place where you dine in the dark…”—and they’d smile politely and change the subject back to the wine list at Claridge’s. For a while, I resigned myself to the thought that Dans Le Noir would remain one of those things I always meant to do.
Enter Sam
Then came Sam.
Ah, Sam. Tousled fair hair that looked as though he’d just stepped out of bed—or off a beach—and bright blue eyes that could probably talk their way out of anything. He had that effortlessly beautiful, almost sculptural quality about him. Honestly, it felt as though Michelangelo had taken notes from Sam and then created ‘David’ as an homage. When we first met, I was momentarily thrown; I actually caught myself staring for a fraction longer than is strictly polite.
And of course, the question flickered through my mind, as it so often does when I meet men like him: why on earth would someone this gorgeous, this obviously not short of admirers, want to pay for an escort in London? Surely he had a diary full of offers from admiring females—and probably a few males too—just waiting to be pencilled in. Yet there he was, smiling at me, charmingly self‑aware, and very much booked.
Still, who was I to argue with fate, or with an excellent booking?
Guided Into Darkness
So off we went. The anticipation built from the moment we walked through the door. The usual restaurant sounds were all there—the low murmur of conversation, clinking glasses, distant laughter—but the atmosphere felt charged with something else, a sort of nervous curiosity. At the entrance to the dark dining room, we were greeted by our blind guides, who would also be our waiters. I loved that detail immediately. It felt not only appropriate but almost poetic: people who navigate the world through sound, touch, and memory leading us, the perpetually sight‑reliant, into total darkness.
They explained the process to us slowly and calmly, with a kind of practised reassurance. First, we chose our menus based on colour, each shade corresponding to a different style of cuisine or level of adventurousness. I, of course, went for something on the more daring side—when in Rome, and all that. We then placed our phones, bags, and anything else remotely glowing into lockers. No watches, no screens, no naughty peeks of light to cheat with. If we were going to do this, we were doing it properly.
Then came the moment of truth: entering the dining room itself.
To be seated, we had to form a little human train. Our blind waiter led the way, and we placed our hands on the shoulders of the person in front of us. It felt oddly intimate and trusting, especially with Sam’s shoulder under my fingers, warm and solid through his shirt. We moved carefully, shuffling forward in small steps, guided by calm instructions. And then, with one more turn and a final step, we were in.
Pitch‑Black Sensations
OK, it’s dark.
Not dim, not romantic‑candlelit, not even cinema‑during‑the‑credits dark. This was PITCH BLACK. A rich, complete, enveloping blackness that swallowed everything. I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face; I couldn’t see the faintest outline of Sam, even though I could feel his presence just there beside me. It was deeply disorienting at first, like stepping into a void.
I felt an utterly inappropriate urge to giggle. My brain seemed to be short‑circuiting, trying to make sense of a world without visual reference. I kept blinking rapidly, as though that would make a difference, comparing the darkness behind my eyelids with my eyes fully open. Spoiler: it didn’t. It was the same endless dark either way.
We felt our way into our seats with the patient help of our waiter. The table appeared—by touch—to be perfectly ordinary: cutlery, plates, glasses. But without sight, each object became an unknown shape my fingers had to decode. Sam’s knee brushed mine under the table as we settled in, and that small contact grounded me. There was a very real sense of vulnerability in not being able to see anything at all.
Flirting in the Dark
Then, under the table, Sam’s foot found mine. A slow, deliberate nudge, a gentle press, a playful slide. “Kinda erotic,” he murmured softly, his voice low in the darkness. And he was right; there was something undeniably sensual about it all—our voices hushed, our other senses straining to compensate, the anonymity of the blackness giving everything an extra charge.
I laughed quietly and leaned in closer, whispering back to him. Of course, the thought did cross my mind that this situation lent itself beautifully to all sorts of mischief. But then I remembered the infrared cameras. Yes, apparently the staff can see everything, even if we can’t. Any hanky‑panky would be captured in ghostly, night‑vision green, and I had no desire to star in that particular feature. I told him so, and we both behaved… more or less.
Navigating the Meal
Our dining experience itself was unlike anything I’d ever had before. Stripped of visual distractions, I had to rely completely on smell, taste, and touch. The simple act of locating my glass became an exercise in mindfulness. I’d reach out slowly, fingertips brushing the tablecloth, knocking lightly against the base of the glass, trying not to send anything flying.
Naturally, it still got messy.
At one point I very successfully poured my wine straight into my water glass. The two became one, in a rather unfortunate union. There was a brief, confused moment when I took a sip and thought, “This is… interesting,” before realising what I’d done. My fork, meanwhile, decided to make a bid for freedom, slipping from my fingers and clattering onto the floor, never to be seen—or felt—again. I had to admit defeat and ask, rather sheepishly, for another.
In the absence of sight
There’s something quite humbling about being reduced to feeling for your food and hoping for the best. I tried to cut discreetly, to spear things gracefully, but I’m sure I looked like a toddler navigating solid food for the first time. Somewhere in the darkness, I heard a quiet burst of whispered laughter from another table and felt instantly less alone in my clumsiness.
We were gently encouraged not to speak too loudly to each other, which made perfect sense. In the absence of sight, sound becomes so much more intense; a raised voice feels almost like a shout. It did make me think, though—why do we automatically increase our volume when we’re unsure if we’re being understood? As if decibels and comprehension are directly correlated.
Not everyone coped as well with the sensory deprivation. At one point, a man at another table had a panic attack and had to be escorted out by the staff. You could hear the rising panic in his voice, the quickened breathing, the desperate insistence that he needed to get out now. It was quite sobering, a reminder that, for some people, this level of darkness isn’t just a novelty; it’s overwhelming. I felt a twinge of sympathy—and a little grateful that, for me, the discomfort remained mostly playful rather than terrifying.
Guessing the Menu
Meanwhile, I focused on my plate, determined to identify what I was eating. Without sight, every flavour felt heightened. I’d bring each forkful to my mouth slowly, pausing to inhale first. Hints of game, a slightly earthy depth, something leaner and richer than the usual beef or lamb. I mentally cycled through possibilities, listening to the textures against my teeth, the weight of each bite. It became a kind of game between me and myself.
At the end of the meal, when we emerged back into the dim glow of the outer room, we were finally told what we’d eaten. I felt a small ripple of pride when I identified the contents of my plate correctly for the chef: a little ostrich and venison. Hurrah for my taste buds, evidently not just ornamental.
My Verdict
As for the overall experience? I’d give it a solid 8 out of 10.
The food itself was lovely, but the real star was the concept—the enforced slowing down, the weird intimacy of sharing total darkness with a room full of strangers, and the strange way you become hyper‑aware of your own body and reactions. That said, I was more freaked out than I expected to be. I’m not great with new, ‘trippy’ experiences where my usual control mechanisms are taken away. There were moments when I had to steady my breathing and remind myself that I was safe, that the exit was metres away, that this was meant to be fun.
And then, when we finally stepped back into the light, I caught sight of myself in a nearby reflective surface and nearly burst out laughing. I looked like I’d been fed in a high chair—smudges, crumbs, and a general air of having lost a fight with my dinner. So much for seductive, perfectly put‑together escort.
Sam, on the other hand, looked maddeningly gorgeous, even with a smear of food on his chin. If anything, it made him more endearing. He was grinning, eyes bright, animated as he described how much he’d loved the whole experience—the suspense, the novelty, the way it forced us to really listen to one another. Watching him enthuse about it, still a little dishevelled from the dark, I couldn’t help but agree.
A Blind Date to Remember
In the end, our blind date at Dans Le Noir wasn’t just about the food or the darkness. It was about trust, vulnerability, laughter, and the delicious thrill of stepping, quite literally, into the unknown with someone who made the whole thing feel like an adventure.
And if all blind dates were like this, I’d happily lose my fork every single time.
Why not arrange a lovely date today with our exceptional 24hr London escorts? We’re sure you’ll have a memorable experience!
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