Andrew and Amber are done. And, I mean, they totally are. They put their shoes back on (did they eat in their skates?) as Andrew confessionalizes that conversation is -- wait for it -- a "two-way street," and that he felt "awkward" all night and responsible for "filling the space." So then, worst date ever, right? I think we saw that pretty clearly. Let's see what the not-at-all-deluded Amber has to say: "There's definitely a chemistry there and I definitely enjoy his company. I kind of think we do have a vibe." A vibe of "hit the road, Amber of the Proletariat." But then, even weirder, in the limo on the ride home, Andrew's final, valiant attempt at "filling the silence" is trying to kiss her and being rebuffed. He leans in. She whispers "not yet." He apologizes sheepishly. As well he should. They share some excruciating conversation born of Amber segueing, "I was telling the girls, 'I hope I don't fall asleep on him again.'" Ouch. Silence. Silence. Silence. Quick! Make with the hand puppets again! They're the only chance you have!
Next day. L'il Andy shows up at the house decked out in a leather jacket and sunglasses befitting a biker chick with a man grudge (Chickenman! Chickenman! Chickenman!), and we're off to the Moroccan restaurant which is called, according to the letters on the wall outside the establishment, "Moroccan restaurant." They call it something else, but really, that's what it's called. I wonder if Amber would be intrigued by their "all the free nan and chutney you can eat" policy. And don't even tell me nan is Indian and not Moroccan, because I already forgot that I wrote it. Thanks.
Oh, yum. That looks awesome. The inside of the place looks, well, like what you might imagine the inside of a Moroccan eatery to look like. Exotic, red-hued flair. Eating with hands. Belly-dancing waitresses? Ah, the Other, filtered through L.A.'s food scene and restaged by the very, very devilish hand of Mike Fleiss. Christina feeds Andrew, and she notes that Andrew spit some food back out and Christina pants and dives into his backwash and re-eats it because when it comes to Christina, neediness is at the top of her own emotional food pyramid. An insanely insipid plot development develops, in which Andrew feeds Liz a piece of lamb and she chews, swallows, and cops to not having eaten a piece of meat in twelve years. She defends the whole deal in a confessional: "I don't know if it was in the name of love or if it was just a spur-of-the-moment decision to go ahead." Or if it was a spontaneous decision to abandon twelve years of ideological principles in the name of impressing a guy who doesn't even know if he wants to be alone in a room with you yet, even if that room is a public ice-skating rink. If only we could just belly-dance our troubles away. Oh, look!