Though I find myself somewhat loathed to admit it, I’ve become rather addicted to the “On This Day” feature that was recently added to Facebook.

“On This Day” allows you to go back through your posts and those friends have left on your wall throughout your years on Facebook, a nice walk through the fields of nostalgia – even if most of the posts are now nonsensical reminders of inside jokes I’ve forgotten the meaning of some time ago.

However, last week, this handy little device reminded me that it was the 7th anniversary of the “Chardonnay at the Strutting Duck Incident,” a piece of McCollum lore that will forever live in infamy amongst my group of friends.

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My friend Adam had invited me to join him for dinner that night at the Strutting Duck, an old Auburn hole-in-the-wall restaurant and bar that had become a staple for Auburn vet students and anyone who lived down Wire Road.

The patrons were always an odd mix – broke college students looking for an affordable meal, vet school professors looking for a bite nearby and local farmers who’d come in to talk shop and enjoy a beer or three.

The tables were well-worn and the building itself had certainly seen better days, but the floors were clean and the health inspection rating seldom dipped into the 80s, which is uncommon for such a place.

The menu consisted of a few staple items- like most bars, the hamburger was always a safe bet and never failed to disappoint.

The real draw was the excellent selection of beer, both on tap and bottled, that patrons could enjoy – which Adam availed himself of shortly after we walked into the joint.

At that time, I was not the enlightened, beer-drinking soul I am today, so I began to scan the bar selection menu above the cash register to try to figure out what to get.

Down at the bottom of the choices was a series of dusty letters of the various wines that the establishment claimed to offer, and among those choices was chardonnay.

Thinking it would be acceptable, I ordered: “May I have a glass of chardonnay, please?”

The entire place fell deadly silent.

The only comparison I can draw for you is like those old Pace Picante Salsa commercials when the assembled group found out the other brand of salsa had been made in New York City, which led to an incredulous “New York City?” and angry stares and silence.

Adam stood stock still, shaking his head in disbelief that I would make such a foolish decision, but the young woman behind the counter walked back to the fridge and made an attempt to find the wine.

Apparently, so few people had made such an order over the years, so despite a nearly 5-minute search, she was unable to locate a single bottle of any white wine, let alone chardonnay.

While she searched, I could feel the eyes of the regular patrons glaring at me, wondering who on earth would have the gall to order white wine at a beer joint.

Following the unsuccessful quest for my beverage, I quickly ordered a sweet tea and burger and we proceeded to finish them as quickly as possible to avoid being accosted by the angry mob.

We were thankful to have made it out alive and unscathed.

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For me, this was a nice trip down memory lane, but for you, dear readers, let the Chardonnay Incident be a cautionary tale.

When you’re at a beer joint – for heaven’s sake, order a beer.