Ordering a “Quickie” at Dinner: A Tale of Quiche, Confusion, and the Universal Language of Embarrassment

There are moments in life when you realize—too late—that words matter. Not in the political-speechwriter sense, not in the “say something romantic to your spouse” sense, but in the very ordinary, “please don’t accidentally imply to a stranger that you’d like something wildly inappropriate while ordering dinner” sense.

This is the story of a man, a restaurant, and a tragic mispronunciation. It’s also the story of how one French dish managed to expose a cultural truth: Americans will risk humiliation before they risk asking how to pronounce anything on a menu.

The Setting

Imagine a cozy little restaurant tucked into a city street. Checkered tablecloths. Candlelight flickering in mason jars. The smell of butter and garlic clinging to the air. The place is buzzing with conversation and clinking glasses. Couples laugh over wine, families split baskets of breadsticks, and a jazz track hums in the background like a soundtrack to a Hallmark movie.

Our protagonist, let’s call him Frank, steps inside. He’s a fairly ordinary guy—hardworking, hungry, maybe a touch overconfident when it comes to his ability to navigate menus featuring words borrowed from other languages. He slides into a booth, glances around, and that’s when he notices something unusual: every waitress in this place looks like they’ve stepped straight off a magazine cover.

One in particular catches his eye. She glides between tables with the poise of someone who knows she’s turning heads. She’s confident, graceful, and armed with a smile that could sell luxury cars. When she stops at Frank’s table, she offers that smile directly at him and asks sweetly, “Are you ready to order, sir?”

Frank, staring at the menu, spots something French. A baked dish of eggs, cheese, and pastry crust. He doesn’t know how to pronounce it. He could ask. He could point. He could even mutter “number twelve” and be done with it. But no—tonight he’s bold.

He looks up, grins, and says, “A quickie.”

The Fallout

The room doesn’t exactly fall silent, but it feels like it does. The waitress blinks. The smile evaporates. Her cheeks flush crimson, and without a word, she spins around and storms back toward the kitchen.

Frank sits there, confused. Did he say it wrong? Did she mishear him? He’s not sure, but his confidence remains intact.

Minutes later, she returns, this time with her shoulders stiff and her lips pursed into a line that says, Try me again, I dare you. “Sir,” she says, clipped, “are you ready to order now?”

Frank nods, leans back in his booth, and doubles down. “Yes. A quickie, please.”

The sound that follows isn’t the clatter of dishes or the hum of jazz. It’s a sharp, echoing SMACK! Her palm meets his cheek with such precision that nearby tables gasp. A child asks his mother what happened. A man across the room whispers, “Buddy, what’d you say to her?”

The waitress storms off again, leaving Frank stunned, his cheek burning.

Finally, salvation comes in the form of a sympathetic diner at the next table. He leans over, lowers his voice, and says the words that will haunt Frank forever:

“Buddy… I think it’s pronounced quiche.”

The Quiche Quandary

Here’s the thing: quiche isn’t exactly exotic. It’s been a brunch staple for decades. Anyone who’s been dragged to a Sunday baby shower or an upscale church potluck has probably encountered it. But it’s French, and French words terrify Americans.

Think about it. We butcher “croissant” daily. Half the country says “kwa-sahnt,” the other half says “croy-sant,” and a brave few give up entirely and just call it “that flaky thing.”

Then there’s “pho,” the Vietnamese noodle soup. Ask ten people, and you’ll get ten pronunciations: “foe,” “fuh,” “fah,” or, if they panic, “soup number seven.”

And don’t get me started on “gyro.” For years, people in diners across America have confidently ordered a “jai-ro,” only to be corrected by a Greek grandmother who appears out of nowhere, slaps the counter, and shouts, “It’s yee-ro!”

So yes, Frank’s mistake is embarrassing. But it’s also incredibly American. We love food. We love trying food from other cultures. What we don’t love? Admitting we don’t know how to say it.

Restaurant Misfires: We’ve All Been There

The beauty of Frank’s story is that it’s not unique. Everyone has their version of the “quickie quiche” moment.

There’s the guy who confidently ordered “jalapeño” with a hard J, making it sound like the name of a cartoon horse.

There’s the woman who asked for “bruschetta” with a “sh” sound, only to be loudly corrected by the waiter who had clearly studied abroad in Florence and lived to brag about it.

There’s even the timeless American classic: mispronouncing “espresso” as “expresso,” which has led to more barista eye-rolls than any other mistake in history.

Restaurants are pressure cookers of language. You’re hungry, you’re on the spot, a stranger is staring at you with a pen poised over a notepad, and you’ve got three seconds to pretend you’re bilingual. Mistakes happen.

Why We Don’t Ask

The obvious solution, of course, would be to just ask: How do you pronounce this? But most of us won’t. Why? Pride. Insecurity. The terror of looking uneducated in front of a stranger.

Instead, we gamble. We say the word with false confidence, like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, hoping the flourish will distract from the fact that the rabbit is actually a sock puppet.

Sometimes it works. Sometimes the waiter nods politely and writes it down. Sometimes they even mispronounce it too, and you both share a silent pact of ignorance.

And sometimes—well, sometimes you ask for a “quickie” in a crowded restaurant.

Lessons from the Quiche Incident

Frank’s misadventure offers a few timeless lessons for all of us:

Pointing is underrated. If in doubt, just say, “I’ll have this one, please,” and tap the menu. No one gets slapped for pointing.

Confidence is not competence. Just because you sound sure doesn’t mean you’re right. (This applies to menus, job interviews, and karaoke night.)

Waitresses are not your test audience. They’ve heard it all, but they don’t have to tolerate it all.

Humiliation is temporary, but a good story lasts forever. Frank’s dinner may have been ruined, but somewhere right now, someone is retelling his story with tears of laughter in their eyes. That’s a kind of immortality.

Food as a Universal Comedy

Food brings people together, but it also gives us endless material for comedy. Whether it’s mixing up “cilantro” and “parsley” at the grocery store, or realizing too late that “sashimi” isn’t sushi with rice, it’s a reminder that eating is one thing, but ordering—that’s theater.

And like theater, sometimes it ends with applause, sometimes with laughter, and sometimes with a slap.

The Final Bite

So the next time you’re sitting in a cozy little restaurant, staring at a menu sprinkled with French, Italian, or Vietnamese words that look like they’ve been tossed in as dares, remember Frank. Remember his cheek, still stinging from the waitress’s hand. Remember the stranger leaning over to whisper, “Buddy, it’s pronounced quiche.”

And maybe, just maybe, you’ll do what he didn’t. You’ll point. You’ll ask. You’ll swallow your pride before you swallow your food.

Because trust me—ordering a quiche is delicious. Ordering a “quickie” is unforgettable, but not in the way you want.