Hawaiian sherbet Shocker

Bob telephoned to say he had a court case in Honolulu the following week.

“Will you be there?” he asked.

As it turned out, my schedule had me in Hawaii on the exact same days.

“Let’s go to Michel’s,” he suggested. “It’s a French restaurant, and we’ll be able to see a fabulous sunset from the dining room.”

“Thanks, I’d love it.” I smiled, thinking of another dreamy evening with Bob.

“However,” he cautioned, “it’s very fancy and you should dress up.” He added, “Let’s try to be on our best behavior.”

Gee, that was rude. Did he think I would do something to embarrass him? Well, yes. That’s exactly what he thought.

There was a twelve-year age difference between Bob and me. I sometimes felt like Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady. As a member of numerous Bay Area clubs, Bob taught me the nuances of San Francisco society. We sailed, skied, hiked, and partied with the third-generation offspring of some of California’s most prosperous pioneers. He encouraged me to discover new activities and not to be intimidated by other people’s prejudices.

Because we had dated a couple of years, I asked my gynecologist to write a prescription for birth control pills. I had no desire to get pregnant. In the 1960s I would lose my job if I married. The doctor refused to give me a prescription and instead gave me a lecture about flight attendants having sex with pilots. She had been influenced by media advertisements. She didn’t know we went to them for advice, not dates.

This was before the sexual revolution of Woodstock and Haight-Ashbury. Carol Doda had just come on the scene at the Condor Club on Broadway. I was humiliated by the doctor’s insinuation that I had bad morals and left her office in tears.

A week later, Bob and I were both in Honolulu. He picked me up at the Ilikai Hotel and we drove to Michel’s, a four-star restaurant with blue awnings across its facade.

I wore a body-hugging black dress, cut low in the front with bold flowers etched across the bodice. Bob looked handsome in his navy sports jacket and gray slacks. Ties were required at Michel’s, and he wore a conservative one with angled stripes. We passed under the arched awnings, our arms wrapped together, and stepped into the most romantic restaurant in all of Hawaii.

The maitre d’ showed us to our table and customers turned to inspect the new arrivals. I felt uncomfortably scrutinized, for Bob and I were frequently confused as a father-daughter couple. What would my high school friends say? Would my dad approve? Still immature, I felt unduly anxious about other people’s judgments.

Michel’s French atmosphere eased my concerns. Crystal chandeliers and gilded mirrors decorated the interior, while sparkling goblets adorned the tables draped in white. The linen was placed at an angle and exotic orchids filled small vases, creating a tropical/continental setting.

We sat next to a large window overlooking Waikiki Bay and I relaxed, relishing the romantic ambiance. The waiter, dressed in a black tuxedo, presented our menus and placed white napkins on our laps with a flourish.

Bob ordered Wild Turkey on the rocks and a plate of hors d’oeuvres. I asked for a glass of chardonnay. He leaned forward, pressing his hands into mine, and we watched the setting sun transform the sky from subtle pink to an intense gold.

The waiter brought a fruit salad, and then paused before serving the main course of mahi-mahi stuffed with creamed crab. The chardonnay went well with dinner and I ordered another glass. It wasn’t long before wine filled my head and I felt a little tipsy.

Not being much of a drinker, I opted to forgo an after-dinner cocktail. Instead, I chose a bright orange mango sherbet whisked with egg whites. It arrived in a silver bowl encircled by Hawaiian flowers.

I looked adoringly at Bob and took another scoop of sherbet. I don’t know how it happened, but I accidentally turned the spoon over before it reached my mouth. The sherbet hit my chest and plunged down the “V” of my dress.

Bob watched in horror as the orange ball completed its downward spiral. I grabbed the napkin in my lap and pushed it into the hollow between my breasts. But in my haste I accidentally seized a corner of the tablecloth. As I shoved it down my dress, our goblets tipped over and wine splashed across Bob’s crotch. He immediately rose, knocking his chair over.

Everyone turned to look, and I froze, a tablecloth protruding from my cleavage. I quickly pulled it out while Bob wiped off his slacks. Ignoring the stares, he firmly guided me toward the front door.

Дата добавления: 2015-08-27