Escargot Catapult: A First Date Disaster

My first date with Bartholomew was at 'Le Petit Poireau,' a place so exclusive, the maître d' wore a monocle *and* a judging stare. Bartholomew, aiming for cultured, insisted on ordering the 'Escargots à la Créme de Moutarde Ancienne,' a dish that sounded less like food and more like a medieval torture device. 'One must truly appreciate the nuanced texture,' he pontificated, brandishing a tiny snail fork like a surgeon about to perform a delicate operation. I, meanwhile, was cautiously eyeing my risotto, wondering if I could slip a stray grain into my handbag for later.

The snails arrived, glistening with a suspicious viscosity. Bartholomew, with a flourish that would make Zorro blush, speared his first victim. He raised it to his lips, a look of profound gastronomic contemplation on his face. This was it, his moment of culinary triumph.

But alas, the snail had other plans. It clung to the fork with the tenacity of a politician to a scandal. As Bartholomew attempted a gentle tug, then a slightly less gentle yank, the snail finally capitulated. It flew, not into his mouth, but across the pristine white tablecloth, describing a perfect greasy arc before landing squarely in the décolletage of the woman at the next table, a woman who looked suspiciously like a minor European dignitary.

Silence. Then, a tiny, high-pitched shriek. Bartholomew, frozen mid-air with his fork, looked like a particularly guilty gargoyle. 'My sincerest apologies!' he stammered, now attempting to use his tiny snail fork to retrieve the projectile from the dignitary's chest, which only made things worse. I, for my part, started discreetly spooning my risotto onto my plate like a frantic archaeologist, pretending the entire incident was merely a particularly aggressive olive pit. The maître d', monocle now fogged with existential dread, glided over. Bartholomew, still stammering apologies to the dignitary (who was now dabbing at her bosom with a napkin and a look of utter horror), seemed to shrink into his expensive suit. I knew then that 'nuanced texture' wasn't the only thing Bartholomew struggled with. So was basic physics, and perhaps, dignified dating.