With all that’s happening in our world, a lot of it painful and dark, I thought a lighter approach might help provide an emotional intermission. I was asked to write an article for a book about embarrassing moments. My list of embarrassing moments was too long to fully process so I settled on the first event that came to mind and wrote the following story. Apart from accidentally peeing my pants in the third grade, a date in high school won the honor.

In high school, there was a classy, good-looking girl who was in an advanced French class. She caught my eye. I had just begun to learn the language. I could say “bonjour” and that was about it. I knew I had to do something special to make the right first impression. I finally got the courage to ask her out. 

Above our home in Los Gatos, California was a French restaurant known for its exquisite cuisine and ambiance. I made a reservation. I had been saving money for months from the money I made as a shoe salesman at Kinney Shoes. I put a wad of bills in my pocket and picked up my date in my 57 Chevy.

We arrived at the restaurant and were seated. It was a silver setting, white linen tablecloth, and napkins kind of place. Quiet French music played in the background. The lights were low and a candle burned at our table. The waiter had a French accent and wore a jacket. He looked like a penguin. After being seated and having some small talk, menus were brought to the table. It was all in French. I was lost. My date jumped right in like she was reading the morning paper. I was a first-semester French language rookie faking it until I could hopefully make it.

Not only could I not read the stupid menu, but the prices were also insanely expensive. I could at least read numbers. My simple prayer was, “Lord, I hope this girl is on a diet.”

Finally, I found part of the menu that listed some less expensive items. It was the hors d’oeuvre section. When the waiter came back to the table to take our order, like the young gentlemen my parents taught me to be, I let my date do the ordering first. In eloquent French, she spoke to the waiter who smiled at her language skills nodding with each selection she made. Then he turned to me never expecting such a refined young lady would bring a rube to dinner.

It was my turn to order, and in English, I said, “I’ll have the hors d’oeuvre.” I had no idea what an hors d’oeuvre was. Instead of a refined pronunciation of the word, I pronounced it like a hillbilly and blurted out something that sounded like “Whore’s doors.” 

The interaction at our table went silent. After a long pause, the waiter asked “Pardon, monsieur?” I said, “I’ll have some “whore’s doors” and smiled as I handed him the menu. My date also smiled but with an added chuckle and began to speak to the waiter in French placing my order. I found out later as an act of mercy she ordered me Coq au Vin.

After the waiter left, I asked my date what had happened. She kindly explained. My reaction was similar to what I felt in the third grade when I had an uncomfortable urge but I held my mud. All the air in my lungs left. My face didn’t become red in embarrassment. The blood simply drained from my face and formed a puddle somewhere under the table where my shaking legs were hiding beneath the linen tablecloth.

I learned a lesson that day at the ripe old age of 17. It’s better to be myself and not pretend or try to impress someone. On the next date, we were at a local pizza joint where I could read the menu. On that date, she taught me how to fold a slice of pizza and not slam it into my mouth.