On Wednesday evening, I walked into an Asian fusion restaurant in Denver’s Cherry Creek neighborhood, unsure of who’d be joining me at the dinner table.
Instead, I left that decision to a service called Timeleft, which aims to build relationships within a group of strangers matched through a personality algorithm over a shared meal.
Although Timeleft only held its first dinner in Denver on June 26, its reach has spread around the world since it launched last year in Portugal. It now operates in 49 countries and 185 cities, as of Aug. 15, and the U.S. counts as its largest market in terms of size.
“I didn’t expect this to be needed on the global scale,” cofounder and CEO Maxime Barbier told The Denver Post. “We forget how to talk to strangers. We forget how to connect with strangers.”
The need for social networks has never been more pronounced for Americans in the aftermath of the COVID-19 pandemic. Last year, U.S. Surgeon General Vivek Murthy referred to society’s feelings of loneliness and isolation as “an underappreciated public health crisis.” These emotions can result in tangible repercussions like rising risks of stroke and heart disease, alongside mental health issues.
In Denver, other efforts to bring people together have taken place, such as nonprofit Longer Tables’ The 528 Table, which brought 528 diners to a 528-foot table in Civic Center Park last month. It was the predecessor for next summer’s Mile-Long Table, with a plan to have 5,280 people sitting at it.
Barbier says what makes Timeleft successful is that it’s “for every age, but also for every agenda.” As an example, his 72-year-old father regularly attends dinners to socialize. In the future, Barbier plans to market the service to seniors suffering from loneliness.
Other usual suspects at the tables include recent divorcees, foodies, adventurous personalities, newcomers to cities and people in search of friendship, Barbier said.
The majority of participants are women, who represent around 70% of users, but Barbier cautions that the service isn’t a dating app.
“With Timeleft, in one click, you guarantee you’re going to meet people,” Barbier said. “That’s kind of the recipe of our success.”
A first-timer’s take on Timeleft
I learned about Timeleft through an advertisement on my Instagram feed. Intrigued, I checked out the profile, which touts: “We fight big-city loneliness. One dinner at a time.”
Soon, I was signed up for a dinner on Wednesday, Aug. 21. I chose between Denver’s two zones: Capitol Hill/Cheesman/City Park and Highland/RiNo/LoDo. No information was initially provided about the restaurant or the five fellow diners, and that’s intentional — those would be revealed later.
Details about the strangers’ zodiac signs and industries trickled in. Upon waking the morning of, I received my instructions: Group 1 at Sweet Ginger Asian Bistro&Sushi at 2710 E. 3rd Ave.
As I readied myself for the event, my parents detailed their concerns over speakerphone. Mom asked if it was a dating app — a valid question, given my committed relationship status. Dad worried about my safety. What if I was sitting down to eat with cold-blooded killers?
So, on a dark and stormy night (as the cliché goes), my heels clacked along the kempt Cherry Creek sidewalks, all the way to the restaurant’s host stand. For the past few weeks, Sweet Ginger Asian Bistro&Sushi has kept several tables reserved for Timeleft groups on Wednesdays.
Manager Yuki Lin says it’s giving her a slight boost in business by providing the restaurant with more diners, on top of the usual takeout orders. “Dining with strange people — oh, it sounds interesting,” she added before escorting me to my seat.
I had arrived first. With a few butterflies fluttering around my empty stomach, I overheard other Timeleft diners making introductions at nearby tables.
Then, Sam Smiley slid into the booth across from me, and we were off to the races. I quickly got acquainted with them: a Wisconsinite with a Leo star sign, who recently moved to Denver from Chicago to pursue their PhD in physics.
“I haven’t started my (school) program yet, so I don’t have a lot of community,” Smiley said. “I was just looking to meet new people and do something fun.”
The other three diners followed shortly thereafter, with just one no-show, whom we nicknamed “Casper.”
It was that old joke turned reality: A materials engineer, a journalist, a student, a graphic designer and an occupational therapist walk into a bar…
Our group got to work determining our similarities and differences. We all fell within the age range of mid-to-late twenties and shared an interest in art. Beyond that, variations abounded at our table, made up of one man, three women and one nonbinary person.
Three of us fell into several of the same categories: Timeleft first-timers, Denver residents, Colorado transplants and extroverts. The other two considered themselves introverted, but they committed to three-month service subscriptions after their initial dinners — even if that meant driving to the big city from their respective homes in Aurora and Parker. They’re also Colorado born and bred.
“It just feels intimidating to go to a club or to a bar or to a social event where you’re like, ‘I’m not going to know anybody,’” said Noa Baumgarten, a diner who’s used Timeleft before. “This made it feel less intimidating to know it’s just five people.”
She’s even planning a wine and craft night with women she met at another dinner.
Over sushi and Thai curry, we asked icebreaker questions that Timeleft offered as a game at the start of dinner. They gradually grew more intense. In turn, awkward pauses gave way to monologues about future hopes and past mistakes.
Jenna Sparacio found the prompts especially helpful to keep the conversation flowing. After an hour and a half, the air had lightened.
To keep the party going, Timeleft finished the night by pointing users to a neighborhood bar for an after party to meet others in the community.
We weren’t strangers anymore, and we weren’t friends yet — but acquaintances with a deeper appreciation of the humans around them.
Tavis McMahan compared the experience to childhood summer camps.
“You put a bunch of people in a room together, and you’re gonna find friends,” McMahan said. “Nobody does that anymore, right? So, that’s why I wanted this experience.”
Originally Published: August 27, 2024 at 6:00 a.m.
