Dinner on the Cheap

Who needs Langan's, Rules, or The Ivy? In the early, heady days of a relationship, especially, when neither of you is quite sure where it's going or if it's even going to get there, the best type of restaurant in which to find out (if only because it works out a lot cheaper when/if everything goes pear-shaped) is often your local fast-food joint. Preparation, however, is always the key to a really memorable, romantic evening.

Never leave things to chance. You'd be surprised at the number of couples who'll simply turn up on spec at a busy kebab house or burger bar expecting to find a table free. Sometimes you can get lucky. But more often than not, you end up having to dine al fresco in the adjoining bus shelter alongside the winos. If an evening spent debating the merits of Tennent's Super vs Special isn't really you, it's far wiser to reserve a table in advance through the maître d'. In a franchise outlet, like McDonald's or Burger King, he's the one without the acne. In Greek and Turkish flavoured takeaways, look out for the man or woman with the biggest moustache.

Diners in top Michelin-starred restaurants are rather like those at a chimpanzees' tea party, in that most of them are there, not so much to eat, as to be seen to eat. In a fast-food establishment, it's exactly the opposite. Like travellers on the Tube or the clientele of a sex shop, they'd rather you didn't look at them at all. So how do you achieve this degree of privacy when, usually, the tables are not only packed close together, but face one another, square-on?

The obvious answer - although, admittedly, it's a pain having to lug one along on a date - is to put a screen up. But it's worth it. A well-placed screen gives the illusion of a secluded corner. Of course, just like the curtain dividing Economy from Business Class on an aircraft, it's likely to entice the curious into taking a quick peek to see what they're missing. No matter. For many couples, being spied on like this is a real turn-on.

The colour scheme in most fast-food restaurants gives the impression that, at some point, they've had a serious falling out with their interior designer. In fact, it's deliberate. The combination of the garish decor, combined the harsh fluorescent lighting and the backside-numbingly uncomfortable chairs and tables, is specifically intended to discourage you from lingering. It's not that the management don't value your patronage. They do - but only so much of it. The tempo of the background muzak, too, is indicative of exactly how much they want you in there. "The Girl from Ipamena", for instance, suggests grudging acceptance of your presence, whereas "The Ride of the Valkyries", means they'd rather you upped and went home.

But you're on a date, so you don't want to be hurried, do you? No problem. Make a few subtle modifications to your immediate environment, and you could almost imagine yourselves in the Green Room of the Café Royal.

First, put down a tablecloth. Ideally something plain and subdued, to act as a counterpoint to the ambient riot of glare. Next, stick a candelabra in the middle. Don't in any circumstances feel tempted to light it, though. Far from creating a more romantic atmosphere, you'll just set off the automatic sprinkler system. Next, lay out the requisite cutlery. The management may regard their produce as "finger food", but in your eyes it's something special, and therefore demands the proper utensils. Then, to offset the furniture's arse-narcotic effects, place cushions strategically about the seats. Finally, if you can, do something about that harsh lighting. In an independent outlet, such as a kebab house, you may be able to prevail upon the management to dim the lights, or at least extinguish a few. Not so in a high-street outlet, where they're all fluorescent and controlled from a single switch. Here, don sunglasses, instead, and think "cool".

It's unlikely that, at any point in the evening, either of you is going to listen to the piped background muzak, and pause, wistfully, to say, "Darling, they're playing our song". Not unless your life's most magic moments have occurred in a lift stuck between floors or in a supermarket deli section. So if you want the romantic ambience enhanced by decent music, you're going to have to bring your own.

A gypsy violinist, although ideal for the purpose, could end up having burger wrappings chucked at him by melodically-challenged philistines. So bring a stereo system, instead. Not a ghetto blaster, though. If you turn the volume up on one of those, the management may retaliate by turning up their own muzak, forcing you to respond in kind. Pretty soon, it could come to resemble that scene in "Casablanca" where "Die Wacht Am Rhein" tries to drown out "La Marseillaise", and vice versa. Best to bring a Walkman and two sets of headphones. Or if your musical tastes differ - you're into Oasis and Blur, for instance, while he inclines more towards Rogers & Hammerstein - bring two Walkmen, then both of you can hum along independently.

What you're trying to reproduce here is a traditional three course dinner, where each course comes separately, in sequence. Fast food restaurants, however, aren't actually too wild about serving you a staggered, disjunctive Big Whopper Meal. Any more than, say, a pet shop would be especially pleased to sell you a puppy or a guinea-pig in three separate sections. It causes undue hassle and delay. So they'd rather you bought everything - starter, entrée, sweet and coffee - in one, swift transaction.

Sod 'em, though. It's your night out, not theirs. You stick up for your rights. Order as many courses as you like, and linger over them.

The first problem you'll encounter while lingering lies is determining exactly what should constitute an hors d'oeuvre in such a place. Marco Pierre White would give you a truffle in aspic or a scrambled quail egg topped with caviar. Here, you're going to have to be a tad less ambitious. A couple of Poussin McNuggets on a bed of lettuce, maybe, or perhaps a double tartar burger deluxe with cheese, split between two.

"Would sir or madam care to see the carbonated drinks list?" Some staff positively delight in intimidating you at this point by trying to show off their superior knowledge. Don't let them. There is no "right" or "wrong" soft drink to accompany a burger or a nacho. On the contrary, the right soft drink is the soft drink that you enjoy. Granted, many would argue that you need something fruity and robust, like a 1995 vintage Dr Pepper, to accompany a Chilliburger or a saveloy. But an equal number will tell you that a young Sprite premier cru, chilled to exactly the right temperature and served on ice, is a more than adequate companion to most fried foods. Chacun à son gout. Don't be afraid, incidentally to try before you buy. And, having tasted it, you find it's not up to scratch, send it back and demand another. After all, at a typical 95p per can, these drinks are not cheap.

Let's assume that the food has been delicious, the service excellent, and the ambience tolerably pleasant. You have, of course, sent your compliments to the chef (even though the "chef" is quite often a £150K machine that turns out about 600 burgers an hour, automatically). At this point, as the last dregs of the coffee are drained, the evening can end in one of two ways.

The first is the worst-case scenario. Although it's been an amicable encounter, you may feel that your time together has made you aware of certain latent character flaws. For instance, something that hints at his being a smug, arrogant, immature pretentious git with all the sex appeal of an under-endowed slug. Yet the expression in his eyes is saying, "I've shelled out five quid on this. I've got to get lucky tonight, surely." How do you let him down, gently?

Fortunately, fast food restaurants are far better at handling this scenario than the conventional variety, who'll just order you a cab. In a McDonald's, for instance, you can order something called a "Happy Hat." Nothing to do with Prozac, this is actually a cheerfully coloured cardboard hat that apparently lifts the spirits appreciably. Most outlets have their own versions. Put one of these on him, and he'll soon forget that you've told him to remove his hand from your thigh and drop dead. If not, a properly aimed party-popper, also readily available from behind the counter, should do the trick.

But if you've enjoyed one another's company, laughed at each other's jokes, and fanned the flames of mutual attraction? Then it's straight into the Jilly Cooper phase (see "Other People's Sex Lives" for full details). Having first remembered to collect your free soft drink tokens and scratch cards, of course. You'll be needing them. Such a memorable evening is worth repeating again and again.