We’d been going out for about a month and things were going great. She was smart, attractive, and once we finally got around to doing it, the sex was fantastic.
For our one-month anniversary she announced that she was taking me to the finest French restaurant in town. She told me that the chef at the place had been awarded the coveted Michelin three star designation for the past three years in a row.
She had planned the night down to the last detail. She ordered in advance the apéritifs and appetizers, the wine, and the main course, as well as the deserts and the digestifs.
Everything was going along swimmingly until it came time for the main course. The waiter came to our table and put down the entrées in front of us. I’ll admit they looked and smelled delicious. “Mmm,” I said to my girlfriend. “What do you call this dish?”
“It’s actually the specialty of the house,” she said. “It’s a French-Canadian tourtière.”
“A tourtière?” I said. “It looks like a pie.”
“It is. It’s a pork pie.”
“Oh,” I said.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, a look of concern on her face.
“Well, I thought you knew,” I responded. “I’m Jewish. I don’t eat pork.”
Written for Teresa’s Three Things Challenge, where the three things are pork pie, French, and chef.