Today, though, the Moll had made it an easy choice.
My asbestos-lined trenchcoat was no match for Blondie's hairdryer treatment.
"Look Buster, you promised me a night on the lash," she hissed. "If you're not up to the mark, I'll find someone who is."
You mean there's another schmuck out there like me?
I decided to use my loaf to check out a new place in town called Meat.
The name sounded pretty unappetising unless you are a carnivore at the top of the food chain.
Truth is I'm not a great fan of leaf eaters so I was happy to Meat and greet this basement burger joint. And right away its Hemingway vibe had me dreaming the American dream.
That and the rootsy Johnny Cash sounds coming from the speakers.
I ordered up a Samuel Adams Boston draught beer to wet my whistle while the Moll kept up the cold war with a vodka and Coke.
I did a recce and let my peepers do the walking over a joint full of wooden bench tables, low-slung lights and a kitchen built for two.
I could just make out the wannabe Gordon Ramsays applying their masterchef techniques.
I had a quick scan at the scran and decided I was hot to trot for a starter with a real kick.
At a fiver, the crispy pork cheeks were a bit on the high side for a culinary kick-off.
But I hadn't banked on a pretty generous portion.
One mouthful told me they had been cooked properly - slow and crispy, and the piccalilli veg was a crunchy delight.
I could sense Blondie felt I had made a pig of myself but it didn't stop her going the whole hog with the pork slider.
And it was a real guilty pleasure.
The strips of pork were flavoured with ginger and delivered the kind of Cajun kick straight out of the Mardi Gras.
The only gripe was the brioche was a bit on the dry side
Meat has only been in the market for a couple of months, which perhaps explains why the pews were short on punters.
But I was impressed by the waiters and eagerly awaited the arrival of my grinder burger.
It arrived looking like something out of the towering inferno - there must have been five or six decks of food squeezed between the buns.
But a quick peek revealed all was not quite what it seemed.
The burger was of the small fry variety and a little bit of a lightweight.
Tastewise, though, it was a home run for Americana.
I LOVED the charcoaly flavour and the veg too was excellent, although I could have done with some chips.
I didn't read the small print on the menu - chips were extra at £3 a pop.
That left a slightly sour taste in my mouth, especially when I saw the Moll's plate stacked high with 'triple cut fries' - whatever that means.
Toots had decided to bypass the burgers when her eyes lit up at the specials and decided she fancied staking out a steak.
"Is the beef from this neck of the woods," she asked, "or is it a Kobe job from Japan?'
She was assured it was.
I gently pointed out, though, that 20 spondulecks was pretty high for an 8oz sirloin. But I was on to plums.
As it turned out, the slab of beef looked a little more than an 8oz effort.
More importantly, it was a real 'love me tender' job.
The steak really was smokin' but Blondie was underwhelmed by the taste - all the juices seemed to have been left on the grill, and the mustard mayo didn't quite cut it.
"Nice but could have been better," was the Moll's verdict.
On the flipside, the chips were excellent and the rocket salad was right on the money.
I decided to swerve dessert while the Moll couldn't resist the New York cheesecake, even though it meant me being a step closer to a fiscal cliff.
Overall, though, I reckon Meat might just find its market.