The Look of Horror

“Jo and I have been thinking…maybe now would be a good time to talk about your table skills.”

This announcement came at the table of a nicer restaurant somewhere in Chicago. I was just about to enter junior high and until that point I didn’t know there were such things as “table skills.” As far as I knew my table skills were pretty impressive. I got the food from my plate to my mouth and was successful 98% of the time. I certainly didn’t add any showy techniques. I didn’t showboat for the crowd. But except for the odd slippery potato, I had a pretty respectable record.

I stared back at them in slack-jawed surprise. 

“You might want to start with closing your mouth.” Dad informed me, which I did, cutting off their view of a half-chewed piece of chicken.

“Let’s just start with the basics.”

My father took my fork out of my hand and put it back next to my plate. Then he put his salad fork beside it. 

“When you eat, you start from the outside and work your way inwards. So let’s say you’ve got a salad, that means that you’re gonna start with the fork furthest from your plate.”

Like a caveman discovering fire, I sat there in amazement. I had never once considered that people actually thought about how they ate. I had always assumed that it was just something you did any way you could. Kind of like swimming during a typhoon or running from a burning building. If you were alive at the end of the experience, you must have done something right. 

“In America, you switch your knife and fork after you cut your entrée. However, in Europe, you don’t switch hands, you simply hold your fork face down.”

Wanting to seem as European as possible, I immediately flipped my fork over and submerged it in my chicken breast. I suddenly felt like a pre-teenage James Bond.

“One way to signal that you’re finished with your meal is to put your knife and fork on an angle on your plate. They should be parallel. Or you can do what’s know as the ‘cross bones’, which works, too.”

I could see where this was going. Soon I’d be twirling my silverware like batons, hoisting them in the air and catching them in my pile of new potatoes as the rest of the restaurant cheered in delight. 

Dad continued his lecture. “When you put your knife down on your plate, make sure that the blade is turned inwards. In medieval times, if you put your knife down and the blade faced the person next to you, it meant you were challenging them to a duel.”

This was the last straw for my stepmother, who turned to Dad and said, “Now how do you know that?”

My father shrugged and said, “Common knowledge.”

Everyone in the family considered my father to be a certified bullshitter. So I laughed it off, but did make a mental note to never have my knife pointed towards anyone I couldn’t take in a fistfight.

Many years later I was having dinner with an artistic director of a theater that wanted to produce one of my musicals. We were discussing changes to the script and casting possibilities. There was a lull in the conversation and the director looked at my plate and said, “Hey, your blade is facing me. You know that the Knights of the Round Table used to challenge one another that way? If the blade was facing them, it meant that you might pick up your knife and slit their throat.”

The look on my face was so filled with horror that the director immediately apologized.

“I’m sorry. I guess this isn’t really dinner conversation.”

I didn’t know how to tell him that I wasn’t upset by the image of someone being gutted like a fish over flatware placement. The true look of horror came from the realization that everything my father had ever taught me might actually be true.

Maybe when you dropped a hotdog on the ground, you did have five seconds to pick it up before it was contaminated with germs.

Maybe when you went to tie your tie, you should make sure that the skinny side touched your belt if you wanted it to end up at the right length.

Maybe the instructions that came with garden furniture or anything from Ikea was only for suckers. 

The artistic director was chatting away with my collaborator when he finally turned to me and broke me out of my reverie. 

“Chad, you still with us?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m sorry…” I said. “I just realized my dad was right about something.”

“Oh, God.” He said, shooting me a consoling look. “Isn’t that the worst?”