Unfiltered Story #190100

I’m getting lunch at a popular Mexican restaurant. I speak Spanish but I’m rusty, and I’m of German descent so usually the servers don’t presume that I speak Spanish. Today, though:

Line chef: (In Spanish) Hello, miss! Did you have the salad or the burrito?

Me: (in surprised English): Hey. Um…el burrito. La burrito? No–el burrito. Sorry. Wow.

Line chef: (in Spanish) lettuce and salsa with that?

Me: (finally recovering Spanish skills): Yes. Both, please.

Line chef: (in Spanish) for here or to go?

Me: Para… (I’ve already forgotten the word for “carry out” so I just make a leaving motion)

Line chef: (in Spanish) you speak Spanish well!

Me: (in Spanish) Ha! In the past, yes. Not so much now.

He’s almost being flirtatious at this point which throws me off even more, and my mind is just tripping all over itself. He rings me up and continues to talk very rapidly Spanish, and I can’t hear very well or keep up. Then:

Line chef: (reaching his hand over the counter) it’s very nice to meet you.

I take his whole hand in mine to shake it, only to realize he was just handing my card back. What follows is the epitome of an awkward weak handshake, and I blush furiously. He smiles though and wishes me a good day. I return the sentiment (in Spanish, finally getting a whole phrase out correctly), and rush out of there vowing to practice my Spanish more often.