Our soup spoons were poised delicately in the air. The smell of the tomato bisque wafted to our noses as we restrained ourselves from slurping away. Surely we could manage this with grace; we certainly looked like confident young professionals.
Not quite.
“Do you hold the spoon this way or that way?”
“Can I hold the water glass by the cup, or is it always by the stem?”
“Did someone text you the basketball score?”
“Now I’m scared to eat.”
While everyone else was rioting in the streets, practicing March Madness decorum by screaming “HOYA SAXA,” we expressed our pride in a rather restrained setting: a class on dining etiquette.
Sponsored by the Dining and Cuisine Club, the class was led by Sheila Switzer, an etiquette expert and consultant to the Department of State. As I quickly learned her impressive title simply means: she’ll watch you while you eat. And judge you for it.
My parents gave up on teaching me to be a lady a long time ago. I scarf my food; I sometimes chew and speak. I’m a proud Filipino, I don’t understand this “knife and fork” business, and I prefer to eat with a spoon and fork. Most incriminating of all, I’m part of the Spice Girls generation. I don’t need a man to pull out my chair for me, thank you (unless you’re Jeff Green). Give me a T-bone steak over salad any day.
All signs pointed towards disaster, but I wasn’t alone. Looking around, I realized most of us had never been so intimidated by china and cutlery before.
Somehow, my tablemates and I made it through each course. Holding the fork with its prongs facing down in the left hand, and the knife in the right, I tried to gently balance the portions on top of the fork—before bringing it to my mouth in one graceful finale. Unfortunately, since the main course included rice, this technique had me chasing bouncing grains around my plate.
While the Dining Club ignored my suggestion to allow students of all ages to practice with real wine and cognac to enhance the learning experience, I did learn the general rule of thumb is to hold the glass by its stem and to keep your little finger tucked in.
Underneath the surface of genteel behavior, though, we were all desperate for updates of the game. I strained my ears, listening for either joyous or anguished shouts. When we thought Ms. Switzer wasn’t looking, we surreptitiously entered text messages to our friends, begging for the score. Then, amidst excited whispers, we heard the news.
“I don’t know if I’m doing this the right way,” one young woman said, as she gracefully raised her water glass in a toast. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are in the Final Four.”
Proper or not, I’ll toast to that.
