Customer: *over dressed for our grocery store location, and speaking with the sort of tone you normally reserve for children* “Give me three la-Zaa-nya squares, an eggplant salad, and one bru-Skeee-ta.
(The customer throws on a really thick, and sudden accent when pronouncing the food. He smiles at me in a way that makes me think I’m supposed to be impressed by this.)
Me: *punching in the order, and repeating it back using the accepted American pronunciation of the words ‘lasagna ‘ and ‘bruschetta* “Three lasagna squares, one large eggplant salad, one bruschetta.”
Customer: “Bru-Skeeeeh-ta” *he drags out the pronunciation even more*
Me: “One bruschetta.” *I agree, again, as per our store policy*
Customer: *looking self important* “It’s actually an Italian word? See if it were German, you would say it the way you’re saying it, but it’s not. Bru-SKEH-ta. See?”
Me: “If you say so, sir.” *getting his order ready, at this point, I’m too tired to deal with him*
Customer: “It’s just like ‘SPUH-geeh-tee’.” He grins at me.
Me: “Of course, sir.”
Customer: “You look like a nice Italian girl. Don’t you want to learn the language?”
Me: *handing him his food* “I’m a boy, sir.”
(His face dropped, and turned an interesting shade of red. He snatched his food away and spit something in what I could only presume is very overly-pronounced Italian at me, before hurrying away.)