Herb's Big Dinner Date

Herb’s Big Dinner Date

“Anyone who can only think of one way to spell a word obviously lacks imagination.”

-Mark Twain

What’s in a word? Herb was about to find out.                                              

Henry: hĕn’-rē;  Henri’: hĕ-nrē’.

Herb forgot the lessons of Sister Mary Margaret. It matters what syllable gets the accent. Likely a distinction of no consequence in most instances, other than revealing your lack of understanding of the English language, but if you are operating on a limited budget and trying to impress, the difference can be disastrous.

Herb was spellbound, mesmerized by the vision sitting before him. The candlelight was perfect, bright enough to reveal Marcie’s stunningly beautiful features and her golden blond hair, yet dim enough to leave Herb wanting for more. When Marcie licked a touch of wine from her rosy, red lips, Herb nearly passed out. He might have stayed in that near catatonic state the remainder of the evening had Marcie not raised her menu to study the restaurant’s offerings.

You need a little background, a summary of the seemingly harmless events that led to catastrophe. A brief digression will also mercifully allow poor Herb a few more moments of unsuspecting, ignorant bliss.

Herb was smitten the first time he saw her walking to her car in the company parking lot. Her parking spot was near the loading dock so Herb could suffer the pangs of unrequited love everyday. Marcie worked on the 3^rd floor in accounting, but Herb would often see her close up in the cafeteria. This gave him additional, bonus time to wish, dream, and agonize.

“Just ask her out. The worst that could happen is she says no.”

“She’s out of my league, Hank. She’d probably laugh at me.”

“You’ll never know unless you ask.”

Remarkably, Herb found the courage to ask. Even more remarkable was the fact she said yes. Many of their co-workers thought it was an act of compassion on Marcie’s part. The more cynical thought she lost a bet. Either way, there they were, seated across the table from each other, the glow of the candlelight, the soft tones of a violin, and the sheer beauty of Marcie fulfilling all of Herb’s dreams. And then that damn menu popped up and spoiled it all.

This is where the error in diction comes in. Herb’s social life was pretty close to that of a monk who had taken the multiple vows of poverty, silence and celibacy, so he was hard pressed to come up with a suitable dining establishment for his big date with Marcie. Hank was the coolest, smoothest, most sophisticated guy on the loading dock, so Herb sought his counsel.

“I usually take my women to Henry’s. It’s not real fancy so you won’t get killed on the price. But it’s a step up from, you know, like a Denny’s or a Perkins. It’s a nice, quiet place. It’s never busy, and they have nice “special” Saturday nights. And with seven TV’s you’ll be able to catch some good college football. I think you’ll like it.”

The second piece of the puzzle of doom was the fact that Herb did not know where Henry’s was located. That would not be a problem because Marcie had been to Henri’s many times, and she would navigate for him. Note the critical distinction, Hen’-ry vs. Hen-ri’. The failure to catch the difference in the placement of the accent put Herb on a collision course with the fanciest, and unfortunately most expensive, restaurant in the city.

Explosives and dangerous chemicals come with warning signs. Menus don’t. A still happy Herb picked up his menu and read.

Herb had a confused look on his face. He flagged down their waiter, the charming, disturbingly good looking, Renaldo.

“Excuse me, Renaldo, could you tell me what these numbers on the right side of the menu mean?”

 Renaldo gave Herb a skeptical look.

“Those are the prices, sir.”

“Prices for what?”

“For the items on the menu.”

Herb glanced at a puzzled Marcie and turned down the volume.

“Excuse me, but there seems to be some mistakes, or typos, on your menu.”

Renaldo sensed the problem and spoke in a whisper.

“There are no typos. Those are the prices.”

“I think there are. Here, look at this. Rib eye steak, $110.00. That can’t be right.”

“I’m sorry, sir. That is the correct price.”                                                                        

Suddenly Herb looked ill. He was in that uncomfortable place that lurks somewhere between a heart attack and throwing up. He had budgeted $75.00 for the entire evening. That left him with a $25.00 cushion of “just in case” money in his pocket. His credit cards were maxed out long ago.

“Oh, could you please bring me another Merlot, Renaldo?”

“Certainly, madam.”

Oh my God. Herb hadn’t even seen anything with the drink prices on it. And Marcie seemed to be downing her wine like she was Joey Chestnut’s cousin. And, in a move designed to impress Marcie with his wild side, he took Renaldo’s suggestion and went with a foreign beer he had never heard of and with a name he couldn’t pronounce. The only thing keeping Herb upright in his chair was his adrenaline fueled desire to kill Hank when he saw him at work Monday morning.

Herb should have seen it coming. Valet parking only shows up at the pricey joints, and his rusting Ford Tempo might have seemed a little out of place tucked in between a Lexus and a Porsche. He hadn’t seen a single TV since he entered the posh dining room, and a waiter name Renaldo with the air of an aristocrat should have been another red flag. As Herb was not a regular on the city’s social circuit, he was oblivious to all the warning signs.

Herb quickly scanned the right side of the menu looking only at numbers. Soup, salad. If Marcie went with only a soup or a salad (and not both), and if she stopped guzzling down wine like Charlie Harper, and if he feigned an upset stomach and shunned food, and nursed that beer all the way through dinner, he might make it.

“Excuse me, Marcie. I have to go to the little boys’ room.”

The restroom ploy was a ruse, the first step in Herb’s clever strategy to save himself. He approached Renaldo near the entrance to the dining room.

“Renaldo, could I have a word with you?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Listen, I accidently left most of my cash in my sock drawer back home, and I had to cancel all my credit cards because my wallet was stolen, so I have limited resources this evening.”

Renaldo sized Herb up with a skeptical eye.

“So, this nice, crisp One Dollar bill is yours if you were to steer my date in the direction of the soup or salad, not both, but the soup OR the salad.”

“A dollar?”

This was said with such disdain that Herb reluctantly upped the ante.

“Ok, two dollars.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Herb felt a touch of optimism as he returned to the table and the now somewhat less desirable Marcie. He and Lloyd Christmas might both have been skating on the same razor thin odds, but at least he had a chance.

With Marcie’s face still buried in her menu, Herb snuck in a wink at Renaldo as he approached the table. Herb’s confidence grew when Renaldo returned the wink.

“Are you ready to order, Marcie? Renaldo, do you have any suggestions?”

Another wink.

“I see the beautiful young lady is still undecided. Perhaps I could interest you in one of Henri’s famous appetizers to get you started. The Shrimp Cocktail is quite tasty and not too filing.”

You son-of-a-bitch!

Herb’s smile disappeared faster than the girl in a David Copperfield Vegas show. Sabotaged! Stabbed in the back! Sold down the river! And out $2.00! Herb’s eyes popped wide open as he glared at Renaldo who added insult to injury with a mischievous smile that bordered on evil.

“That sounds delicious, Renaldo! Yes, Shrimp Cocktail would be great. Thank you for the suggestion.”

“And you, sir, could I interest you in an appetizer, perhaps the Crab Cakes?”

Herb damn near drew blood as he bit his lip. His words dripped of pure venom.

“No, thank you. The…delicious Shrimp Cocktail will be all we need.”

Herb’s mind shifted gears. Hank moved down a notch on his hit list. First it would be Renaldo, then Hank. Herb, the first serial killer born of a misplaced accent on a syllable. And it wouldn’t be quick, easy ends for either of them. Both would have to suffer.

Herb’s mind was spinning out of control. Strategy #1 backfired horribly. The good fortune of his evening with the girl of his dreams lay shattered in the in the debris field of stress, worry, regret, doom and impending humiliation. He struggled to come up with alternative strategies.  

Fess up and tell Marcie the wine and Shrimp Cocktail would be all she wrote? Too embarrassing and that would pretty well end his chances with the beautiful Marcie. Flee? That might be the only possibility. He would have to get Marcie to leave first, and then he would sneak out. Risky, and Renaldo already had his eye in him. Think, Herb, think. Make another bathroom run and call in a bomb scare? Or call his cousin Harry and have him come over to rob the place? No, you can’t do that Herb.

“I haven’t had lobster for such a long time. Maybe I’ll go with the two lobster tails.”

Herb’s mom would always tell him that things could always be worse, and they just did get worse. Herb’s barely functioning mind struggled for a response.

“Oh, I’d be careful of the lobster. There have been a lot of news reports about mercury levels in seafood. I hear the soup is good.”

“That’s just in some fish, Herb.”

“Yeah, well the fish die from it and sink to the ocean floor, and then the lobsters eat the contaminated dead fish. I hear they’re loaded with it.”

“I’m sure they wouldn’t be serving it here at Henri’s if there was a problem.”

Suddenly it hit Herb. “Henry’s vs. “Henri’s”. His ear caught the distinction. Same sounds, different accents, different restaurants. He knew Hank would never be in a restaurant like this. He was in the wrong place! He didn’t have to kill Hank. He would just kill Renaldo…twice! His anger shifted, but it did nothing to solve his problem.

Renaldo gleefully placed the platter of lobster tails in front of Marcie and seemed to take pleasure in the fact Herd had declined to order a meal. He also persuaded Marcie to try Henri’s side dishes of Roasted Asparagus, Twice Baked Potatoes, and the French Onion soup, while at the same time making sure the lush didn’t get thirsty. Herb’s mind paid little attention to how much Marcie could pack away as he was doing arithmetic in his head every time Renaldo showed up.

As Marcie aggressively dipped massive chunks of lobster into a little ceramic bowl of melted butter, while occasionally slugging down impressive quantities of wine, Herb took tiny sips of his now room temperature beer. He no longer had to fake a stomach ache as he was experiencing pain in every nook and most of the crannies in his body. The lobster entry on the menu mercifully carried a notation of “Market” instead of a price, or Herb might well have had that heart attack by now.

“I love your accent, Renaldo. It adds to the lovely ambience of the evening.”

“Ambience”?! Herb went from heart attack mode to straight throw up. He considered adding Marcie to his hit list.

“Thank you, Madam, but my accent is of little note in the presence of your beauty and charm.”

“That is so sweet, Renaldo. My name is Marcie. I hope you have my table the next time I’m here.”

“I will make certain of it. I hope you will not keep me waiting long.”

You son-of-a-bitch!

Years of longing, hoping, dreaming, all crashed and burned, now smoldering in the trash heap of menus, lobster tails, expensive wine, and fanned by some fancy-pants dandy out to steal his woman. He tried to ease the pain by recalling another of his mom’s sayings- “Beauty is only skin deep”. It didn’t help. Herb was broken, crushed, hopeless and helpless. He barely had the mental capacity or strength to worry about the rapidly rising price tag of his evening or the inevitable arrival of his bill. Herb was just there, no more able to control events than the chair he was sitting on.

At Renaldo’s insistence, Marcie ordered two desserts. Herb could only look on in awe as Marcie wolfed down her Strawberry Cheesecake and attacked the Cherries Jubilee with unmatched vigor.

Suddenly there were sounds of discomfort from a nearby table, nothing serious, just a few strained coughs, but enough to turn on a light bulb in Herb’s head. He recalled Hank telling him he once got away with not paying for a rental car by rendering it dysfunctional at the conclusion of his journey. A new, improved strategy. Hank would have an adverse reaction to food, with lots of theatrics if necessary. Surely someone would quickly apologize and escort him out of the place to remove the disturbance from the view of the other patrons.

But there was a problem with this new strategy that offered Herb his last glimmer of hope. He had ordered nothing to eat. How could he claim the food poisoned him if there had been no food? Then, under the faint glimmer of a flickering candle, he saw it. Resting comfortably atop a bright red napkin in a wicker basket, was the last remaining “complimentary” golden brown biscuit that Renaldo had brought to their table so long ago. Somehow Marcie had missed it.

Herb was on a mission. His hand snatched that biscuit before Marcie could get it, and, skipping the unnecessary nicety of buttering the thing, he immediately started chowing down on it. Half a biscuit down, Herb clutched his stomach, groaned loudly and fell to the floor. He threw in a few leg kicks for good measure.

Marcie noticed but did not react as she was too into her Cherries Jubilee. A skeptical Renaldo merely stepped over Herb, now flopping around on the floor like a carp on a river bank. The strolling violinist suddenly appeared in an effort to distract.

Herb eventually tired. He lay there like a slug on the soft, luxurious carpeting. He stared at the shimmering crystals in the ornate chandelier above, bright white lights with hues of blue and a hint of red. Amidst the horrible events of the evening, Herb had found a moment of peaceful serenity, a refuge from the unpleasant realities that surrounded him.

“Madam, I mean Marcie, such a beautiful name, your dining partner seems to be indisposed. Would you be in of a ride home?”

Marcie used her already heavily soiled napkin to wipe off a wad of Strawberry Cheesecake, a glob of Cherries Jubilee, pools of butter, and a smidgen of potato, a veritable smorgasbord of memories of her meal, from her mouth and smiled broadly.  

“I would love that, Renaldo. You are so kind.”

Herb briefly turned his head to catch a glimpse of Marcie and Renaldo leaving the dining room, and then quickly went back to his happy place. His mother had told him to look for the good in all things, find that silver lining, the bright side of whatever life brings you. Herb found comfort in the sparkle of the chandelier, a dazzling array of dancing lights, as he lie atop a cloud of plush carpeting while listening to the gently caressed strings of a violin.

But, alas, all good things must come to an end. A dropped dinner plate shook Herb out of his happy place and plopped him back into the real world. However he wished otherwise, he knew he couldn’t stay there forever. He got to his hands and knees and crawled to a window. He peeked over the ledge and saw Marcie and Renaldo walking in the moonlight. As they passed Herb’s car, they paused, Marcie pointed, and they both had a good laugh. Is there no limit as to how much insult can be piled onto injury?

Herb went back to his happy place and marveled at the beauty and craftmanship of the ornate chandelier above.

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“Gees, Herb, how many more nights of bowling are you going to miss?”

Loading docks by day, indentured servant by night.

Herb wasn’t fond of the hours, and he missed bowling night with his buddies. Scraping dried, crusty crud out off of pots and pans was hard work and sometimes disgusting. But Herb found Henri to be a nice man, reasonable, even generous. Every night when the work was done, before the lights went out and the doors were locked, Herb was given a full half hour in his happy place, lying on his back on that cushy carpet, staring at the wonder above.

It was so peaceful, so soothing, that long after the bill was paid, Saturday nights still found Herb scrubbing away in the kitchen just to earn that half hour of complete relaxation and inner peace. The violinist would stop by and play a few bars for him, and Renaldo, stirred by heartfelt feelings of sympathy and guilt, and likely seeking to soothe the burden of at least partial responsibility for Herb’s condition, would supply him with a nice, soft pillow. Sometimes Henri would give Herb a few leftovers to nibble on as he basked in the beauty of the mesmerizing, twinkling lights above. It came with a cost, but he had found that silver lining. Herb cherished that half hour beneath the chandelier, and his mother would have been proud.