A woman strutted into Beretta, a hip Italian restaurant in San Francisco’s North of Panhandle (NoPa) neighborhood, wearing rhinestone-studded ankle boots and carrying a leather purse shaped like a T. rex. I followed timidly behind her to the host stand.
“Timeleft, table 1,” she says to the host.
Table 1? I hadn’t realized there would be more than one table. My stomach clenched—high school lunchroom horror all over again. I slipped over to the bar and zoomed in on the app on my phone: table 1. I watched as the host seated a group of twentysomethings at table 2; they were dividing us by age.
I tried to order a drink but the bar was packed, especially for a Wednesday. So I steadied myself and slid into one of the three empty seats—right across from the woman in rhinestone boots, who introduced herself as Farheen, a change-management consultant. This wasn’t her first rodeo: It was her ninth Timeleft dinner, and she naturally took the lead, introducing me to the two men at our table.
Timeleft curates dinners for six strangers—68 percent of whom are women—hoping to combat urban loneliness with interesting conversations and new connections. The app’s algorithm matches you based on interests, decision-making styles, political engagement, and astrological signs. Launched in Lisbon in 2023 by Parisian entrepreneur Maxime Barbier, Timeleft was inspired by his realization at 30 that he had roughly 600 months left to live. Barbier first built the app so that users would match based on shared bucket list activities—and then go do them together. It didn’t take off; turns out people didn’t want to skydive or travel to faraway places with strangers. Users were open to new connections, though, but in scenarios with lower stakes—like group meals. Today, Timeleft has expanded to over 300 cities across 60 countries, facilitating weekly dinners that bring together more than 11,500 strangers every Wednesday. The platform reaches people of all ages, from college students to retirees, and some, like me, in middle age, find out about it through targeted Instagram ads. A single dinner ticket runs about $16, excluding food and drinks. Feeling bold, I opted for the monthly subscription of unlimited dinner tickets at $26.
New Timeleft users take a personality test with questions like, Do you consider yourself more of a smart person or a funny person? When faced with these options, I paused, realizing this would shape my experience. Did I want to be surrounded by intellectuals or people who thought they were funny? I guess it depended on the day. I chose funny.
The night I dined with five fortysomethings, wildfires raged through Los Angeles. I felt less gregarious than usual, but I had signed up weeks before, so I showed up. I was grateful Farheen took control, welcoming the last two to the table—Mark, a Pakistani American registered nurse, and Mariana, an Argentinean architect—though we wouldn’t learn their professions until later. Farheen suggested we order first and offered to cover the bill, saying we could individually Venmo her later. Then she started the app’s icebreaker game.
Two of the men, who had met at a previous Timeleft dinner, resisted the game—they preferred conversation to flow naturally. But Farheen made sure the newbies got the full experience. The first question: If you were an animal, what would you be? I suddenly understood the guys’ hesitation. The second: What’s your go-to karaoke song? The drinks couldn’t arrive fast enough. Why did I sign up for this?
Later, I emailed Mariana to ask her the same question. She replied, “I joined Timeleft because I was tired of dating apps. Most of my friends were either in relationships or lived outside San Francisco. I just wanted to meet people nearby.” Timeleft doesn’t disclose the restaurant in advance, but it lets you choose the price range and neighborhood. Like Mariana, most of my friends have left the city, and the ones my age—the last of the fortysomethings—tend not to go out midweek.
About 20 minutes in—maybe it was the tequila or the shared plates of marinated Castelvetrano olives, meatballs in spicy marinara, and crab arancini—but I started to feel more comfortable. The group stumbled upon our mutual love for live music and comedy. The guy next to me was a classically trained pianist. Farheen played the trumpet; she even auditioned for the symphony. Another played the banjo. I shared how I’d picked up guitar during COVID. We bonded over seeing comedians like Emily Van Dyke, Ali Wong, and Dave Chappelle at Punchline, an S.F. comedy venue in the financial district.
Over the pappardelle and Neapolitan-style pizza, we talked about what we do. I mentioned that I’m the founder of Red Light Lit, a performance series and small press.
“My gosh,” Farheen said. “You look so familiar! That’s how I know you.”
“I would have remembered meeting you,” I replied.
“I was at your show last week! I loved the story you read.”
The fact that Farheen was at an event I produced felt meaningful. Maybe this algorithm knew what it was doing after all. Weeks later, Farheen got me on the list for a private hip-hop class at Smuin Contemporary Ballet in Potrero Hill, and a writers’ event at Shack 15, a social club in the Ferry Building.
Farheen and Mariana ordered another drink while the men seemed to be wilting. Timeleft doesn’t call itself a dating app, but it definitely flirts with the idea. While everyone claimed they came for the conversation, no one would have minded if the experience led to something more. In fact, when I asked the table why they used Timeleft, the response was unanimous: It felt safer and more enjoyable to meet people in a group. Two out of the five at the table had already been on a date with someone they met at a Timeleft event.
“Are there a lot of singles looking on Timeleft? Yes!” said Farheen, when I interviewed her after the dinner. “Is everyone frustrated with dating apps? Hell yes! I haven’t used them in five or six years, and I never plan on going back.”
For me, the only married one at the table, Timeleft was a better alternative to doomscrolling. It reminded me that in a world of apocalyptic headlines, there was something meaningful about gathering at a table with strangers, sharing food, and exchanging stories. Socially awkward or not, we were the kind of people who showed up. We left our homes, leaned into curiosity, and supported local arts. Maybe we could be friends?
After we Venmoed Farheen for the bill, the registered nurse called it a night, and the rest of us wandered over to Bar 821, a sleek, dimly lit speakeasy with masterful mixologists, for a nightcap. Emboldened by our night spent with strangers, Farheen and I joked about visiting SF Comedy College to workshop our tight fives and figure out how to land a joke instead of just laughing at our own. Because isn’t that the whole point—to put ourselves out there, to risk the cringe, to chase connection? Even if it means explaining what kind of animal we’d be.•
Jennifer Lewis is the editor in chief and publisher of Red Light Lit, a small press and reading series established in 2013. She is the author of the short story collection The New Low, published by Black Lawrence Press.
