The One Who Was French, But Wasn't. (Frenchy)

I suck at blogging. But, never the less, here is( what should have been last night’s) Awkward Date Night Installment. This one is a rather popular tale with my sister, who is a Francophile, but I do so hope you will find the humor!

I am twenty three, single and living with my parents.

Internet dating was going to happen eventually.

Now, I wouldn’t say that I am an active participant in internet dating, but both times I actually followed through and met up with someone, it has provided me with a wealth of entertaining stories. I have decided that today, I would tell you the story of the Frenchman.

This was actually my second attempt at internet dating, so I was mildly apprehensive. But a young gentleman, who I shall call Frenchy, had messaged me several times. He had read one of my favorite books (Therese Raquin, by Zola) in the original French. Literate men are few and far between in this particular geographic location, so I was intrigued. He was a recent transplant to the area (which explains a lot), and he invited me to coffee. I obliged.

I suggested a coffee shop about halfway between us. The few days leading up to the meeting, Frenchy and I exchanged more emails, and I began to get the feeling that he was a bit pretentious.

I do not handle pretension well. In fact, I have two specific approaches:

• Act as trashy as humanly possible

• Out class them

Both of these are unsettling to someone who thinks that the sun rises and sets upon them. I strongly recommend that you try it, but I caution you that if you decide to take the second approach, the real skill is in the size of your vocabulary. If you’re not good with big words, don’t use them. Using an intellectual sounding word incorrectly makes you look like you’re striving for approval, and the pretentious individual will become condescending. And that will possibly make you have to punch them. And assault and battery is no joke.

But I digress.

So, I arrived at the coffee shop, and I was…worried. I had a strong feeling that something bad was going to happen. Now, I know what you’re thinking! Negative attitudes beget negative results. But the fact of the matter is, I have incredible intuition. I also have a lot of trouble following my gut feeling.

Frenchy was waiting outside the shop when I arrived. I moved to shake his hand, and he stepped back. “Nooo I do not do zee, what you call, hundshaake. Eet is far to beeznisslike for eh persenahl eencountahr.”

I am not mocking French accents. But this is what we like to call an important plot point.

I was not about to hug a stranger, and I certainly was not going to do the whole faire la bise thing, so we stood awkwardly for a few moments, then headed inside.

We sat at a table in the back, and there weren’t many people in the place, so it was quiet and had the potential to be a pleasant evening. We started chatting about our lives, what we were doing, where we went to school, and where we grew up.

Turns out, Frenchy was born and raised in Miami. Yeah, that’s right.

His parent’s background was French, and he’d spent a few summers there, and was terrified of flying, so rarely visited.

And even though he was obviously accentuating his accent, I was forced to spend the entire night leestening to eem tulk leek zis. Ee could nut reemeember must Eenglish wurds und would uccasionalee “forgeet” and sleep unto Frensh.

Eet wus focking annoying.

So now he was pretentious, fake, and irritating.

And then! He started talking about cheese. European cheese is so much better (I won’t argue that it most likely is.) Its fresher. In France, they eat cheese for cheese’s sake. In America, we eat it as a condiment.

Pretty sure no one eats cheese and crackers for the Ritz, but hey, maybe I’m mistaken. After all, I’m the kind of person who sits down with a block of cheddar and goes to town.

Then he started in on our grocery stores. And how he’d gone to Foodland and bought ground beef and took it home and it (shockingly) did not taste like beef tartar.

First of all, and I want you all to say it with me now, YOU NEVER BUY ANYTHING BUT PREPACKAGED GOODS AT FOODLAND.

Second of all, pretty sure that when you go to a restaurant and order steak tartar, it is not a plate of ground beef.

Third of all…who in their right mind eats raw beef? Sushi, sushi I get. But…oi. I just don’t understand.

Turns out, Frenchy got sick from the beef and had sworn off steak tartar.

But the best and most memorable part of the evening had actually happened at the beginning. When we sat down at our table, I ordered my cup of coffee, and my companion looked at me and said,

“Ooh, I do nit dreenk zee café. I meent eet more as a sing zat oo say. Oo knew, leek ‘leets git a coop uff café.’”

(By the way, if you need translations, let me know. Also, the fact that this guy didn’t drink coffee should have been my first red flag. Europeans drink that stuff like water. At least, they do in all the movies.)

And then he ordered whole milk. Now this is a coffee shop. They do not specialize in milk products, and so our very diligent waiter went and checked in the kitchen-no whole milk. Instead of sucking it up and drinking skim, or ordering something else, he did something that I have never seen before, and hope to never see again.

He drank a glass of skim and half and half.

I was in shock. I didn’t know what to say. I just sat there and stared in disbelief. It turned my stomach.

I stumbled through the evening, and finally managed to politely end the night. He walked me to my car (he was a very polite person, when he wasn’t being a priss.) And I said goodnight, hurrying away before there was any awkward hugging or kissing.

And I bet you thought it stopped there. But remember what I said about not being good at following my gut?

A week later we went out again. I won’t tell you the entire story, but a few interesting highlights:

When he invited me out, he was insistent that we go out in my town. I don’t go out here. A few of our most popular bars include the one with the metal detector and full body pat down before entering, and the one where the guy got lit on fire in the alley (for more details, feel free to ask.) I had to fight with this kid to go to a bar on the outskirts of town. It’s a very nice bar/restaurant, on the edge of a wooded area with lots of farmland nearby. I pulled into the lot and headed to the door, when I noticed someone wandering around the middle of the road that runs in front of the establishment. It’s more of a back road, but very windy and hilly and people (including myself) tend to go flying down it. I did one of those squeeze my eyes shut and hope that it wasn’t who I thought it was.

Of course, it was exactly who I thought it was. Frenchy.

He met me at the door and explained that it is his tradition that when he goes somewhere new, he walks all the way around the property. (It must be a French-I mean Florida-thing.) Then, he expressed his surprise and dismay at not being able to wander around the farm field across the street.

“Zere ees a fence! I culd not even geet into zee field! Zis ees a strange sing you Amerheecans do.”

I tried to very politely explain to him that no, he could not wander around the field, because it was private property, and the sole source of income for the family who owned it.

He started in on the wonders of socialism, and I started in on the gin and tonics.

Understandably, the rest of the night was a bit of a blur.

There are two morals I wish you to take from this tale, my dears. First of all, listen to your instincts. Because they are often more right than you are. Secondly, please remember:  skim and half and half do not whole milk make.