Homecoming is a couple of weeks away. Once upon a time, we three suave and sophisticated freshmen in Cockrell, more like Curly, Larry and Moe, endeavored to wow our three lucky ladies with a Homecoming they wouldn’t forget. For this special occasion, it was time to break out the high school graduation gift of Musk by Jovan, a complete men’s set which included the soap on a rope and a fragrance that I now use on trees down at the deer lease in order to imitate rutting season.
I met my date from Morrison slathered in Musk and dressed to the nines (the movie “10” hadn’t come out yet) in a suit from a re-sale shop and gleaming patent-leather shoes. Using 409 on the vinyl part is the secret there. I am sure she smelled quite nice too, but the Musk trumped the “Charli” she was wearing. It was the late 1970s and I was trying to get all I could of the era before it ran out.
We drove with my buddy and our dates in his Cutlass Supreme over to Bagatelle, a swanky French restaurant two blocks away at Energy Square. What was in my wallet was better suited for Parket-Market, located across the street. We heard one of the girls whisper dreamily, “I hear it’s really nice.” My buddy nodded at me in the front seat to interpret, very expensive.
When we walked in, I thought the place was closed. It was so dark that I tripped over a man, who I later learned owned the Cowboys, while I was on my way to the bar, not coming from it. When the menus came, I requested the one written in braille. My date sat next to me but I could barely see her through the candlelight. Later, I didn’t make out with her at all. When my eyes finally adjusted, all I could see was a lot of stuff I couldn’t buy. The tip, alone, from just ordering the crackers would be $4.
One of the dashing young men ordered a “scotch and coke.” The French waiter, who really was from France, tried to save him. “A scotch and SODA, sir? Excellent.” The dasher snapped back, “No, a scotch and COKE, and easy on the ice.” If anyone blushed, I didn’t see it. Like I say, it was very dark in there.
I figured that if I let my date order what she wanted, I could eat the bread and we’d be okay. Nothing doing. The other gents rifled off various appetizer orders and then ordered steaks. These were the first I’d ever seen that weren’t battered and fried. When the dinners were finished, they ordered “bananas flambé.” Back in Crockett, at the Dairy Queen, we’d eaten banana splits but had never set them on fire.
Finally the bill came and I just took off my jacket and rolled up my sleeves and whispered to the manager, “Where’s the kitchen?” In the nick of time, one of the gents grabbed the bill and said, “It’s on me, er, dad!” I didn’t argue. Instead, I sat back, ordered another drink and made a toast. “To SMU. Truly the RIGHT school for ME.”
Rick Larson, the Alumni Guy, is a 1981 graduate of SMU as well as a member Phi Gamma Delta fraternity. He has been a stockbroker/investment banker for 26 years. He can be reached for comment at [email protected]
