I had spent an hour on my hair and chosen my “lucky” shirt. This blind date had been three months in the making, and I was determined to be the most sophisticated, worldly version of myself.
I went on a blind date and wanted to look impressive.
The menu was written entirely in French. My date, who looked like she had stepped out of a perfume advertisement, ordered the duck. I scanned the list for the most expensive-sounding appetizer to prove I was a man of taste.
“I ordered the escargot,” I told the waiter, my voice dripping with unearned confidence.
The truth was, I’d never eaten it before. I had no idea that I was about to engage in a high-stakes mechanical challenge.
The dish arrived with a set of specialized tools that looked more like surgical equipment than silverware. I stared at the spring-loaded clamps, trying to remember the physics of leverage. I watched a man at a nearby table handle his with the grace of a concert pianist.
I decided to go for it. I tried to use the little tongs to secure the first shell. The shell was slick with butter and garlic, refusing to be tamed. I squeezed a little harder. Then a little harder.
Suddenly, the buttery friction gave way. The shell shot out of the clamp with the velocity of a projectile from a slingshot.
Time seemed to slow down. The shell flew across the room in a perfect, glistening arc. It didn’t hit a wall. It didn’t land in a potted plant.
It hit a waiter in the forehead.
The thwack was audible over the soft jazz. The waiter staggered back, a perfect ring of garlic butter marking the center of his brow. The entire restaurant fell silent. My date stared at me, her eyes wide, her mouth slightly agape.
I didn’t try to apologize. I didn’t try to make a joke. I just paid the bill and walked out, knowing that my career as a gastronomic marksman was over.
We did not get a second date.