Show some decency, man!

At a recent dinner at Colonial Club, I engaged in acts so vile, so reprehensible and so positively unacceptable in the high society of the Street that I can only describe them in print with the vaguest of terms. In particular, I buttered an entire slice of bread and waved around my knife-wielding hand as I illustrated the story I was delivering from a partially full mouth. My punishment for this Unholy Trinity of table manners? A trip to boot camp. I attended Tuesday's inaugural Etiquette Boot Camp sponsored by Career Services, the Butler and Wilson college councils and the Davis International Center.

The session was led by Debbie Cucinotta of "Global Etiquette," a company that specializes in teaching proper etiquette to businesspeople. The structure of the night was a short PowerPoint presentation explaining etiquette basics, followed by a four-course meal which was interrupted with questions on propriety from the diners. Wu Dining Hall pulled out all the stops, providing a surprisingly excellent meal and creating an ambience suited to proper etiquette — complete with candles, proper water glasses and a tuxedoed wait staff.

Cucinotta's main argument was that an hour-long course in dining etiquette might be more effective in the long run for a Wall-Street-aspiring Princeton student than his 12th departmental about the economics of risk and reward in banana republics. After attending her session, I'll buy what she's selling: To borrow some slang from renowned etiquette luminary Huckleberry Finn, I feel more sivilized than ever after partaking in the night's festivities.

Our meal began with an eye-popping pumpkin soup, sprinkled with spicy cinnamon. I say eye-popping and not finger-lickin', because Cucinotta would sternly disapprove of the Colonel's favorite mischievous mealtime antics. I learned that it is proper to scoop soup using a motion directed away from one's body, in order to minimize the chance of a tragic pre-meal splashing accident. It also occurs to me that this standard might be used as a stain-inducing conversation starter with a bad date: "Hey, you just splashed soup on me from across the table ... with impeccable form, I might add!"

The salad was simple but tasty — a green salad with a tangy vinaigrette and red peppers, accompanied by a particularly scrumptious breaded chunk of mild ricotta cheese. Interacting with the bread was interesting: It turns out that my mother was correct, and that tearing off buttered hunks with my incisors is not necessarily the recommended behavior when dining with high company. Rather, the kosher move is to use the hands to separate a bite-sized chunk from the loaf, replace the loaf on its designated plate, apply butter to only the small piece, consume, and repeat. And do not try something crazy like dunking bread in the dregs of your soup. For God's sake, there are innocent bystanders in this restaurant ... show some decency, man!

After the salad, we were treated to a lemon sorbet served in a tall cocktail glass. Initially jubilant at this perceived "halftime dessert," I was disappointed to find out that the sorbet is intended to be sampled only in minute quantities to cleanse the palate after soup and salad. After tasting it, I confess to committing the venial sin of consuming the whole portion — the sorbet was a stunning, creamy concoction, rather like gelato in both taste and texture.

The main course consisted of breaded chicken cutlets glazed in a mushroom sauce and served over a bed of green beans and yellow rice. The dish was pleasant, if perhaps slightly plebeian. Cucinotta rattled off advice for us: The host always leads the meal and initiates each course; salt and pepper are as inseparable as the most heinous differential equation, and therefore should always be passed together, even if only one of the pair is requested; white wine is held by the stem of the glass, while reds are held by the bowl.

We also learned the difference between the American and Continental styles of consumption — in fact, I was surprised to learn that I previously had been unknowingly endorsing the Continental way of life with my table manners. I have decided to consciously switch from this "normal" style — fork in left hand, knife in right, simply cut and consume — to the more patriotic, freedom-endorsing style, in which the knife is used for cutting and subsequently discarded and replaced in the right hand by the fork, which is then used to bring the bite to its savory conclusion.

Dessert was a delicious denouement to Cucinotta's mealtime tour de force: We were treated to a rich chocolate layer cake with white chocolate frosting and a tart raspberry filling. And now I will excuse myself from the literary table, using the American style, naturally: I place my figurative fork atop knife — tines up — in the center of my plate, position my napkin on the table to the left of the arrangement, bid you good day and happy dining!