When I'm at a restaurant, I'll order my meal based on a variety of factors: what looks tasty, what I can afford, what's not likely to leave vast amounts of grease and/or sauce all over my face and hands. I may (repeat, may) consider the nutritional value of what I'm about to ingest. Also, I tend to stay away from the children's menu these days.
But I had the good fortune to be born with a Y-chromosome. The New York Times informs me that, if I were a woman, ordering dinner would be transformed into an intense psychological game in which I had to determine what the guy sitting across from me wanted to see me eat. Salads are girly! Get a steak or a burger instead! But not an expensive burger; only he's allowed to eat that!
I could go on about the article's suggestion that "being yourself" involves putting on a show for a man, or how the writer goes out of his way to point out how thin the women interviewed are, or the lazy "interview a few people and toss in some vague statistics" trendspotting format, or the fact that one of the subjects says that her love for meat sends a message that she is "unneurotic" when she clearly devotes a great deal of mental energy to what guys think about her dietary habits.
Instead, I'll just offer the obvious advice: ladies, if he doesn't call you back because he didn't like what you ordered for dinner, he wasn't that much of a catch anyway.