Time to Meet Your Match(maker).
Or, #26. “Be nice to everybody—they may have an eligible brother or son.”
I’m back just in time for Valentine’s Day! If for some reason the audio is giving you any issues, you can also listen on Spotify :)
My mom is in a Facebook group called “MOT Jewish Matchmaking Moms” aka Mothers of the Tribe. (I wish I were kidding). It is, as the title suggests, for mothers of single Jewish young adult children. Seemingly a cross between a support system and a matchmaking market, I’m not quite sure how it works. All I know is occasionally my mom will text me a version of, “Josh S. may reach out!” Josh S. is presumably someone whose mom met my mom in the Facebook group, and the parents thought their kids would get along.
It’s sweet, if a little overbearing. Yet, something about it brings me comfort. To know there are scores of worried parents taking their children’s love lives into their own hands and learning up close and personal just how abysmal dating can be these days? At least they get it now.
And, while I’m skeptical of the group, I understand the logic behind it. It falls in line with list item #26. “Be nice to everybody—they may have an eligible brother or son.” I think this is actually pretty sound advice from our lovely antiquated listicle: people love to set people they love up. Romantic or platonic, there is a sense of pride to be had in connecting a couple or fostering a friendship. Set ups are awesome! It feels safer, like the odds are better. Like choosing a doctor, we’re usually more inclined to pick someone who comes recommended and in-network; vetting can save a lot of grief, cost, and potential headaches down the road.
“I have someone I want to set you up with!” Still, no one is prepared for when their mother or grandmother or long-lost aunt excitedly calls with this news. I figured my mom meant someone’s son whom she’d met in the group, or a stranger she encountered at Trader Joe’s, or a friend’s daughter’s husband’s brother’s co-worker. But instead, she gave me a woman’s name and number. A matchmaker.
Welp.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little amused. Matchmaking fascinates me—and evidently, I’m not alone. Shows like Indian Matchmaking, Jewish Making, and Million Dollar Matchmaker are smash hits both on Netflix and in real life. The actual services of these professionals can cost tens of thousands of dollars for a few matches… and people pay.
It’s not like this is a new concept. It’s the opposite. The name “Yenta” is so embedded in our culture that the character has transcended the Fiddler on the Roof debut to become a societal eponym. But while Yenta may be the poster child, as long as there has been media, there have been matchmakers on screen.
We see it in Mulan during the iconic “Honor to Us All,” where our heroine’s set-up ceremony goes disastrously wrong, and she does not bring honor to anyone. (Fear not, she will later.) There’s Dolly Levi in Hello Dolly!, wherein our widowed lead searches for a miserly “half-a-millionaire’s” match and ends up marrying him herself. (Matchmakers need love too.) And Hello Dolly! is based on the 1954 Thornton Wilder play The Matchmaker, which is based on Wilder’s 1938 play The Merchant of Yonkers, inspired by John Oxenford’s 1835 farce A Day Well Spent. (There are no original ideas.)
Matchmakers go way back. The first record of such an individual appears in Genesis 24 when Abraham sent his servant Eliezer to find a suitable wife for his son Issac. Eliezer devised the now infamous “Camel Test,” in which he waited by a well until eligible maidens appeared. Eliezer, appearing a weak and weary traveler, asked for a drink of water. Whoever not only obliged but also quenched his many camels' thirst would be Issac's bride. The test was to show devotion, lovingkindness, and responsibility. And it worked. Eliezer found Issac a wife in Rebekah, one of the most famous women in biblical history.
Ironically, this does satisfy the prompt #26. “Be nice to everybody—they may have an eligible brother or son.”
The idea of a “Matchmaker” is evident in nearly every cultural history. The Japanese practice of Omiai can be traced to 16th-century Japan among the Samurai class. The arranged marriages, brokered by a Nakōdo, were viewed as a way to consolidate power and protect wealth. In ancient Greece, where marriage was considered a public interest, the task was often left to the Promnestria, women thought of as professional gossips. And in frontier-era America, farm families would send their children to “social dances,” where chaperones could observe burgeoning romances.
In modern times, the matchmaker is still very much employed—in Japan, many use a Nakōdo, for example, but the stakes and standards are different now. We have evolved. No one gets paid via dowry. Women (allegedly) have autonomy over their bodies and decisions. The internet and travel have rendered the world far wider than a small village or an isolated farm.
The need to marry for a strategic partnership or to preserve familial power is largely gone. In its place is a different driving factor: love.
Despite what Austenian fantasies and Shakespeareian sagas would have us believe, marrying for love and dating is a relatively new concept. Or maybe Austen and Shakespeare meant to poke holes in the system and show stories outside the norm to prove that love can usurp logic. Maybe that’s part of why their work is so endemic and everlasting. The point is that dating didn’t really enter the conversation until the 1920s when women started to gain independence.
But we don’t have time to go into the transformation of courtship that ultimately led us here to 2025. I wish we could make a pit stop in 1958 and examine the cultural forces and historical context that inspired and made plausible a list like “129 Ways to Get a Husband,” but I am trying to be concise here. We haven’t even gotten to my matchmaker or the blind date it led to.
What’s important is that matchmaking is nearly as old as Eden, whereas the Statue of Liberty has had a longer tenure than the concept of dating. Taking that into account, it makes sense that modern romance is such a shit show. In the timeline of human history, it’s pretty new. Maybe we’re still figuring it out.
I certainly am, so I humored my mother and decided to meet my (match)maker.
Modern matchmaking can often sound like a real racket—I implore you to go to the sites of the professionals who claim to charge men $1 million for their services and make it make sense—but my matchmaker seemed in it for the right reasons. In fact, she wasn’t even a matchmaker; she emphatically stressed that she just wanted to facilitate introductions. She was not in it to make money but to help others make sensible connections and find love.
So I gave it a shot. She had helpful, though somewhat harsh, insights. She seemed genuinely invested. But unfortunately, I wasn’t. After a few weeks, it all felt like more work than it was worth. Perhaps five hundred years ago, or even a hundred years ago, when there were fewer options and getting water from a well was the deciding factor in a partnership, it would’ve been easy. But these days, a simple match doesn’t seem possible. Why settle when you have a planet of people to pick from? Dating feels like trying to order off the menu at The Cheesecake Factory—overwhelming, endless, and you’re never quite sure you made the right choice.
In my case, I knew I wasn’t in the headspace to walk down the road she paved for me and that, at least at this moment, the whole endeavor was doing me more harm than good. So, I made the difficult decision to break it off. I hope we can still be friends.
The night after I ended things, I was sitting at home when something peculiar happened. A text message: “hey emily this is X! I’m your Bookbear match.”
Bookbear match? I ignored it. Twenty minutes later, another message from another number. “Emily! This is Y. We were set up via Bookbear Express.”
With a jolt, I remembered. Two weeks before, while in the throes of what I am calling my matchmaking month, I got an email from the Substack Bookbear Express. It read: “Last day to fill out the matchmaking survey!” What the hell, I thought as I completed the 67-question form. It required value ranking, favorite books, partner preferences, and a few photos. Without a doubt, it was the most comprehensive and thoughtful questionnaire I’d ever filled out.
X and Y were my matches. I checked my email. I’d also been sent two different people and was given only their phone number, favorite book, and a blurb. It was up to me to reach out.
Evidently Match X and Match Y got my info and decided to roll the dice. I was delighted and set dates with both. The lack of information was invigorating. If my foray into matchmaking taught me anything, what more does a person need if you have shared values and a common connector?
Well, for Match Y, it was a picture. A few days before our date, he asked if we should exchange photos so we know who to expect. I immediately responded with a resounding but polite “No.” It was slightly off-putting that he asked and even more disappointing when he “got busy” soon after. In hindsight, I can’t blame him. Perhaps he was scared or worried about being catfished and wanted to prepare. But the fun of the experiment was not preparing. Why ruin it?
We live in an information era where you can FBI agent your way into anyone’s life with a few identifying details and a quick google. Ironically, Match Y’s first and last name was provided by iCloud intelligence or whatever. I could have looked. But it’s so rare to have an opportunity to walk into something truly blind and let the experience be whatever it will be, devoid of expectation or preconceived notions or extensive research. I didn’t want to know.
It was the chance to be in the moment, to take a risk (in a safe, public setting), and to challenge convention.
So Match Y and I rain checked, possibly indefinitely. But Match X was game.
On a chilly night in early February, I hopped on the subway and headed to the West Village for dinner. I was terrified but determined to see it through. This was happening. This was real. An actual Blind Date.
What is a blind date anyway? On the train over, perhaps to calm my nerves or to convince myself I wasn’t being crazy, I researched it. This, I did want to know.
According to Wikipedia: “A blind date is arranged by a mutual acquaintance. The two people who take part in the blind date may have never met or seen each other, hence the phrase "blind date". Sometimes one person is more interested than the other, which may make it more difficult on the person arranging the date to judge whether the date will be successful.[6] The date is usually two hours or less, as it is just a first date.[7] The date is also very adventurous in the way that neither party knows what to expect and whether or not they will hit it off. The location is also affected by the spontaneity in that it is often a public place so that both parties feel comfortable.”
Look, we all know how a Wiki rabbit hole goes—especially when you’ve got time to kill on the train. Next thing I know, I stumbled upon a 1940’s radio show called Blind Date.
Blind Date was launched in 1943 as a means to entertain servicemen at the Army Radio Technical Training School in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. The premise was simple: two military men compete for a date with one woman. After an interview with the host, they get on the phone for a call with the lady in question. She then walks through the door to meet her match. Cute.
The show was so successful that it was sold to NBC Radio and moved to New York City. Hosted by Arlene Francis, the national program was a hit and the precursor to the television show The Dating Game. On Blind Date, winners were given a night out at The Stork Club (a piece of NYC history on par with Studio 54 and The Copa) and $5. Losers received $15, tickets to a Broadway show, and their mothers got lotion. Seems like a pretty sweet deal either way.
Sitting on the C, I queued up an episode—September 28th, 1945. The program was a blast from the past. A robust orchestra scored as Francis joked with painfully awkward sailors on furlough and military men finally home from war.
I was struck by two moments in particular: one, with John from Oakland, CA as he made his case to his potential date, an American Airlines stewardess.
JOHN: “This is John from Oakland CA. How would you like to go out with me at The Stork Club?”
STEWARDESS: “Heavens, yes. Do you think you can you carry on an interesting conversation?”
JOHN: “Uh huh.”
STEWARDESS: “Can you discuss the arts and sciences?”
JOHN: “Uh huh.”
STEWARDESS: “What do you think is the most vital question right now?”
JOHN: “Well it’s like this, since you picked me up, it’s up to you. And well you know how it is!”
Suffice it to say John did not win. It was nice to hear that in almost 100 years, not much has changed. An interesting and vibrant woman, eager for conversation, met only with “uh huh.”
But then came Corporal Martin S. Belefant, a recently released soldier and POW during the final years of WW2. He was competing for the affection of another American Airlines stewardess, Mona, who had just had her moment with Ed, a Navy man from New York. Ed’s big line was, “Hello, Mona, I’m scared.” So, the bar was high.
In the interview before his call, Arlene asked Martin about his time at war.
ARLENE: “Were you in the bulge, is that when you were taken?”
MARTIN: “I WAS the bulge!”
Audience endeared, the laughter carried the room as Martin phoned Mona.
MARTIN: “This is Marty Belafant, the Bronx cowboy. Bet you’re glad I’m from the Bronx.”
MONA: “Why should I be happy about that?”
MARTIN: “Well haven’t you heard, the Bronx is going to be the 49th state! In fact the Bronx is what makes greater New York greater.”
MONA: “Say, are you trying to make a date with me or the Bronx Chamber of Commerce?”
MARTIN: “You, of course. I’d look pretty foolish dancing with the Chamber of Commerce.”
The chemistry was palpable. It felt like the start of something big—the start of something weird—and I found myself transported from a rat-filled tunnel under Manhattan to a radio station in 1945, helplessly rooting for Marty and Mona. This is what love at first sound is like. This is magic!
Marty and Mona head off to The Stork Club, and the program ends as my night begins.
I take out my headphones and stand before a charming Italian spot on a side street in the West Village. I’m hoping my date is more like Marty than John. I’m hoping we get along, we like how the other person looks, we laugh, maybe we end up at a Stork Club of our own. I’m hoping the matchmaking survey did its job, and we’re here for love, not logic. I’m hoping.
I go inside.
Four hours later, I’m back on the C train. I lost my scarf at the jazz show we caught after dinner. I’m buzzing with excitement and eager to call my best friends as soon as I get home. I’m not sure if I’ll see Match X again, but the night was perfect regardless. The thrill of learning someone’s life, the dance of stolen glances and first impressions, the flutter of possibility. The night was nothing like I expected; he was nothing like I expected. But then again, I didn’t really have any preconceived notions. I had gone in blind. There was nothing to lose and everything to gain.
As I wondered if we’d go out again, I returned to Mona and Marty. Did they end up together? It seemed like they would. It seemed like they should. That chemistry, that charm, that click. It was undeniable. It should be that simple. Right? When you hit it off, it means something. We get to look for love instead of marry for logic, so when there’s a connection, that should be it.
I found an obituary. Martin S. Belefant, Purple Heart, died in 2011, leaving behind his wife Eva of 59 years.
He didn’t end up with Mona. By simple math, he married in 1952; nearly seven years after his appearance on Blind Date. What happened that night at The Stork Club? They could have had the time of their life; it could have been a dud. Like with any first date, we have no idea what baggage a person brings. There are so many reasons something good doesn’t last that it’s not worth it to wonder. Maybe Marty’s decision to go on a silly show inadvertently led him to his person. Or maybe it was fated. Or maybe it’s none of my business. I am making conjectures about a man I heard on a 1945 radio show for three minutes.
There’s a larger takeaway about dating and matchmaking and “being nice to everybody—they could have an eligible brother or son (or daughter or sister).” It’s what ties this all together. Anything can lead to anything, and this is supposed to be fun. We are mere players in a process that is as old as time but now with more power and choice and potential.
So take the risk. Meet the matchmaker. Fill out the survey. Go on the radio show (or I guess like, Love is Blind). Let your mom join the Facebook group. Be open to strangers. Be someone people want to set up—be someone people root for. And root for yourself while you’re at it.
Be kind to others. It’s the easiest trick in the book.
It’s been a minute since I’ve posted a 129! I decided to take a break to reset and rebrand the Substack. (Thank you to Keepsake queen Julianna Salguero for the help). At the year's end, I felt proud of 129 but frankly burned out and like I’d lost the plot. I think I found it again. I’m going to try and return to the roots of this project—what made it fun in the beginning. What does that mean for you, dear reader? Hopefully nothing other than the promise of the premise coming to fruition. Doing weird shit and meeting cool people along the way. If you think I’m missing something else let me know, but if not…thanks for reading! xx
P.S. if you’ve ever been on a plane, train, or automobile and met someone, had an interesting encounter, or had a Before Sunrise-esque experience, will you shoot me a message? I’m searching for stories :)
Love!
This was such a hoot to read 🙌🏾 and congrats on the date! Also started watching Muslim Matchmaker (Hulu) last night and it’s so heartwarming and makes for great escapism in these dark times.