An Odd Lesson in French

The gym was one of the few places where I could relax and take my mind away from the stressful pressures that pulled me in different directions throughout the day. I’ve been training in kickboxing for a number of years, and I looked forward to the physical escape of a particularly hard session. That, and I had an ulterior motive…I needed a small favor from my friend and coach.

François, the owner of the gym, a coach, and a former professional fighter, ran today’s class and had pushed everyone to the edge of their breaking point. He'd been telling me for a few weeks that he was thinking about taking another fight, and when he had the notion in his head of getting back into the ring, he trained us all like he would himself leading up to a fight. Whether or not the class knew it, we were getting a taste of the physical grind a professional fighter goes through.

After training was over, I sat on the ring and leaned back against the ropes, completely spent. François stood a few feet away and was fist-bumping one of the last students to leave. With the gym finally cleared out, and just the two of us left, I asked, “Hey, François, you speak French right?”

“I wouldn’t have survived long in Cameroon if I didn’t,” he replied.

More out of reaction than thinking, I said, “You’re from Cameroon? Shit, I thought you were from Africa.” The words fell out of my mouth before I thought about what I was saying, and Francois turned and looked at me with disbelief at my stupidity.

“Cameroon is in Africa,” François shot back.

Wanting to slink back into a corner and hide in case I had just offended the former professional fighter, I sheepishly replied as he rolled his eyes, “Yeah, of course. I knew that.” I started thinking to myself that I may have made a mistake in looking to him for help, but I had already dipped my toe in the water, so I may as well cross the Rubicon. “Can you help me out with something?”

His disbelief now disappeared as it seemed I’d piqued his interest, “How would I do that?”

Despite my initial reluctance, I tell him my plans. “I’ve been talking to a girl from Montreal, Kim, on social media and I’m flying there tomorrow. We are meeting for dinner and I’m hoping to impress her, but I may have exaggerated about working on my ‘Francais’ and that I’m health conscious, so can you help me out and let me know how I can order a salad with vinaigrette dressing in French?”

François raised his eyebrow in a way that would have even impressed the Rock and looked at me. I honestly expected him to ask, “Can you smell what the Rock is cooking?” Instead, he slowly changes his expression to a smile and asks, “A girl, really?” His question dripped with sarcasm and the look on his face was one where he almost couldn’t hold in his laughter.

“Your confidence in me is overwhelming,” I replied.

François regained his composure, “Salad with vinaigrette, huh? Don’t worry, brother. I’ve got you covered. This is all you have to say…”

The next day, the flight into Montreal’s Trudeau Airport was on time and uneventful. After quickly getting through customs, I Ubered downtown to the Hotel Saint Paul and, since traffic was unusually light, made it in great time. Everything was moving along according to my plans, and that had me worried.

Once in my room, I started to get anxious and thought I would go back through her social media account. I wanted to look for things to talk about, but it was mostly fashion, health food, and skin care...all interests I know nothing about. Where were her pics of guns, war movies, football, and the UFC? Fuck!

I also looked for things to avoid bringing up. One time I was on a date and tried breaking the ice with a joke. “What do you call a girl with no arms or legs? It doesn’t matter as she won’t be able to come anyway.” What I didn’t realize, and would have been clear to see on her Instagram page, was that her brother had lost both of his legs in a car accident and she volunteered with wounded veterans by helping them transition to wearing prosthetic limbs. Ouch!

Because Kim was local to Montreal and knew the city well, she’d made dinner reservations at a popular restaurant within walking distance of the hotel. It was well-rated on Yelp and, when I inquired at check-in, the hotel concierge had high praise for the place. So far so good. I shot her a text to confirm and make sure she didn’t get cold feet. “Hey Kim, I just got into town. Are we still on for 7:30?” Within a few minutes I received a succinct, “Oui!” Another win.

Arriving at the restaurant, I entered and immediately saw her at the front desk, with her back slightly turned to me, but where I could easily see the gorgeous outline of her figure in the black pencil dress and heels she was wearing. If I was nervous before, I now found myself a complete wreck seeing her in person. As she continued talking to the maître d, unaware of my arrival, I took in the moment to slowly look her up and down and admire her beauty.

“Bonsoir, Henri!” I hear a familiar voice say from behind. “Would you like me to introduce you?”

Holy shit! If I had the opportunity to die on the spot instead of turning around, I would have taken it. The blood in my face immediately drained, my legs turned to jelly, and my body began to shrink as I turned and saw a familiar face. I am greeted by Kim’s inquisitive smile and an expression that, if it could speak, would be asking, “WTF, really?”

“I’m sorry, I thought she was…” I started to recover but my reply was cut off with a curt and sarcastic, “n'importe quoi!” I didn’t know exactly what she was saying but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t complimentary. Shit, strike one!

“It’s good to finally see you in person,” I say while stepping closer and moving in for a hug as she extends her hand. There is a clumsy pause as we both try to adjust to the other’s intention before she retracts her hand and reluctantly leans in and continues with a weird, cumbersome hug. I wasn’t sure but I thought I heard a drawn out “Tabarnak” under her breath. Okay, slugger. We’re now on strike 2.

Thankfully, I am saved from the awkwardness of this embrace when the maître d called out, “Madame Cloutier!”

“You eat here often?” I asked since she came in after me and never spoke to the guy. She dismisses me and smiles at the maître d before they hug and kiss each other on the cheek. She tells him, “C'est si bon de vous voir.”

She turns to me, “My cousin isn’t here tonight but he is one of the owners and the maître d, Claude, and I are friends.”

Claude gives me a sideward glance and smirk before snidely telling us in English, “Your table has been prepared, are you ready to be seated.” I’m certain the moment I walked into the restaurant he immediately saw an American and had visions of me driving a pickup truck, bad mouthing the United Nations, and thinking if it isn’t English I don’t want to know how to speak it. On top of that I’m trying to steal one of the hottest women in Canada. Well he is right, but fuck him!

She glances my way. I give her a smile and a nod yes. Kim turns to the maître d and says, “Oui!”

We walk through the restaurant and are seated in a secluded area toward the back of the restaurant by a wall of wine lockers. The table was a little larger than many of the two-person tables we walked past, and nicely arranged. The lighting was low, but not too dark, and it set a romantic stage. Our waiter then walked up, introduced himself, handed us the menus, and explained the evening’s specials before disappearing.

I try to break the ice with some light humor. “This is nice. Places where I normally eat, dining there is optional and what you eat off of is thrown away at the end.”

Unimpressed with my attempt at levity she replies, “Sounds…enticing. I hope this isn’t too over the top for you.”

“Not at all!” I smile and answer. “I’m cultured as fuck!”

She rolls her eyes in response. Shit, I’m thinking that I’m not making the best impression right now and my attempt at being funny was a flop. Where is that witty person who engaged her for hours on Instagram? Am I this nervous? I attempt to snap out of it as the waiter returns.

I look up at the waiter and try to speak in proper French, “Un instant, s’il vous plait.” I then turn to Kim and give her a look that just begged for some sort of validation on my linguistic triumph.

“Remarkable! It’s like you grew up here,” she says dismissively before returning to her menu. After another moment she breaks the silence, “The specialty of this chef is fish and I think I’m going to have the salmon dish. Have you thought about what you are going to have...perhaps a glass of Merlot to relax?”

Wow, was my nervousness that evident? “I'm not much of a wine drinker so probably just something light like a salad,” I say to her as she nods with a forced smile. After another moment of awkward silence and reviewing the menu, the waiter comes back.

“Madame....êtes-vous prête à commander?”

Kim gives him a friendly smile, one that I have yet to experience, and says, “Oui! J'aurai le saumon aux épinards et au fromage, s’il vous plaît." The waiter enthusiastically answers, “Oui, madame! Excellent choix.”

He then turns to me, “Monsieur?”

“Oui!” I answer while thinking I just need to repeat what my friend François taught me to say. I give Kim a quick glance with an air of confidence to let her know that I’ve got this, and I look at the waiter and say, “Je voudrais commander une salade avec vagin!”

The waiter’s face drops and he turns to Kim like I just kicked his puppy. Meanwhile, her face goes blank and she stares at me with wide eyes. Sensing that I dropped the ball on this one, and that neither of them can understand me, I quickly think of where I had trouble when rehearsing with François and try to correct my mistake.

“Oh, pardon….comand-eee une salade avec vagin.”

This time, the waiter’s face turns beet red and his anger is apparent. Still looking at me, but speaking to the waiter, Kim quietly says, “pardonnez-nous, un instant, s'il vous plaît.”

As the waiter turns and storms off, Kim erupts into deep laughter while I am left confused. She looks directly at me. “You just ordered salad with pussy!”

At this point, you could have knocked me over with a feather. Man, I fucked this up and it was a big strike three! “Are you sure?” I nervously ask, hoping for some avenue of escape, but already knowing that I had struck out.

Kim looks at me, tilts her head with a mischievous smile, and raises one of her eyebrows.

“I only ask because I didn’t see that on the menu,” I blurt out.

She again falls into laughter and the underlying awkwardness that had been there from the start disappeared. Thanks, François!