Meet Cute: Our New Dating Columnist Walks Into a Bar… to Try Dog-Themed Speed Dating

My speed-dating event ticket promised: For the Love of Pups. The dream? A dog-fuelled romance on a Vancouver patio. Rom-com energy with fur and wagging tails. The reality? Four dogs total—three hanging off shoulders in carriers like Louis Vuitton handbags—and men who’d done this enough times to call it their side hustle.

Unfortunately, this is not a love story. And the dogs wanted nothing to do with me. (A ruff realization, to say the least.)

The event unfolded at Honey Salt, inside the JW Marriott Parq Vancouver, this past fall. Guests entered through the main hotel lobby, past marble floors and cocktail bar chatter, then out to the covered back patio. It was technically dog-friendly—there were bowls and leash hooks—but by early evening only a couple of sleepy pups had made an appearance. Tables were arranged in an oval; it was dimly lit, with patio heaters humming against the fall chill. The vibe was less “dog park meet-cute” and more “networking mixer with better lighting.”

The night was run by MyCheekyDate, a U.K.-born company founded in 2007 that now hosts speed dating in more than 50 cities. Their pitch is “sophisticated simplicity”: no whistles, no cheesy nametags. They even claim to screen out people who might make the crowd “uncomfortable” (good luck!). After their events, you log into the MyCheekyDate app before midnight, mark “yes” or “no” for each person, and wait. It didn’t feel like passion so much as filing your taxes on time, but it must work: though their “matches” don’t even happen live. Globally, they’ve been profiled everywhere from the New York Times to Bravo’s Rate the Date. In Vancouver, they are prolific, running multiple events each week at venues like BC Kitchen, Karma Lounge and Honey Salt. They’re not the only game in town—25Dates.com and Flare Events also host—but MyCheekyDate dominates on sheer volume.

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On this September night, the event was led by a mother-daughter duo. The daughter had big “clipboard energy.” The mother, clearly in her retirement years, looked a little bewildered by the logistics. Honestly, same. Speed dating is like binge-watching the worst parts of dating on fast-forward: two years of awkward intros crammed into two hours.

Women stayed seated; men shuffled nervously table to table. Some forgot their water glasses when they rotated, so by round six I was hosting what looked like a hydration station at the Sun Run. And because there were more men than women, at one point a whole collection of guys ended up benched together at their own table—like substitute players waiting to be called in. Picture a mini bachelor party where no one knows each other and everyone’s nursing a glass of water (except those who left theirs at my table).

My tactic? Commit fully. “Let’s skip the resumé—what’s your biggest fear? Cake or pie? And what do you think happens when we die?” By table eight I was basically running my own late-night talk show, complete with monologues no one asked for.

Each round ended with Clipboard whispering “time” behind a man’s shoulder like a shy ghost. They jumped every time, and I don’t blame them. She got me a few times too… and I was facing her direction.

Across the oval, the women looked like marathoners at mile 18: exhausted but too stubborn to quit. We were raw-dogging (pun extremely intended) this event without the serotonin hit of actual puppies. Cruel. But there was solidarity. Every eye-roll across the room was a reminder: we’d survive this together.

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At least Honey Salt leaned into theme. The Yappy Hour menu offered cocktails with names like The Best Worst Dog Ever—a tart mix of tequila, grapefruit and hibiscus. Strong enough to remind me I was alive. By round 12 of conversation, tequila wasn’t a beverage: it was emotional support.

Speed dating isn’t for the tender- hearted. If you’re fresh out of a breakup, it could send you sprinting back to your ex. If you’re nostalgic for a cinematic meet-cute in the produce aisle, you’ll suddenly miss grocery shopping. But if you want to practice talking to strangers, test your charisma or treat dating like reps at the conversational gym, it’s not the worst gamble.

Just don’t expect dogs. As the Baha Men once asked, Who let the dogs out? The answer here: not these guys. Just a sold-out patio of women too polite to leave, men in their cleanest button-ups and just four dogs who—honestly—were the only ones with the good sense to nap through the whole thing.

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And so begins this new column: my ongoing experiment with taking Vancouver’s face-to-face dating scene one awkward evening at a time. Each month, I’ll go where singles allegedly gather, then I’ll test the waters and report back. You can even send me your suggestions—classes, events, that weird café you think has “the vibe.”

Because someone has to boldly go where no single Vancouverite seems to want to anymore: offline.