What do you get when you combine three spicy Latina women, two of whom are pregnant, and a sassy sunglasses-at-night-wearing Latina gay boi in a California-style (read: NOT traditional) Mexican restaurant?
Why, a succulent recipe for entitlement, that's what you get.
Rosa and Concepcion were both in the family way and decided to plan their joint baby shower in my section. Their hosts, Felicia and Arturo, arrived early to decorate the booth (not for the actual baby shower, mind you, but for the planning party). The set-up, which left no paper mache stork on the shelf, looked as if the 99 Cent Store delivered a bundle of joy all its own on the table.
"Hello," I greeted the table, realizing there was nowhere to set the chips and salsa I was holding. Naturally the four of them just stared at me without trying to clear a place. Arturo grabbed a chip from the basket in my hand and dipped it in the salsa bowl I was holding.
I set the bowl and basket atop one of the many confetti pools. I could see this visibly upset Felicia, the ringleader.
"We'rrre planning...theirrr....beh-beh showerrrr," Felicia slowly informed me in the same tone of voice used for "We're celebrating a birthday."
Congratulations! You achieved that rare Mexican feat of getting knocked up. I'll call all the local news outlets.
"That's great," I said. "Anything to drink?"
Arturo fussed with his haphazardly straightened faux-hawk and glared at me through his sunglasses.
"I want Orrrrrr-chatha...." he said.
"Sorry, we don't have that."
"Ja ja," he laughed. "Everrrry Meh-ican rethaurant has...........ORRR-CHATHA."
"Perhaps," I countered, "but we don't."
(For those wondering, HORCHATA is the name of a traditional Mexican beverage, made of ground almonds, sesame seeds, rice, barley or tigernuts. Its tastes similar to the impending lactations of Rosa and Concepcion ).
"Essuse me," Felicia interrupted. "Don'jew all half de Passionate Fruit Iced Tea?"
"Jes," I replied.
In Spanish, Felicia informed Arturo that he'd be content with an Arnold Palmer made with our iced tea. She also used the words for "bitch" and a part of the male anatomy, so I assume she was describing things other than soft drinks.
"¿Quieres que las bebidas de frutas ?" I asked.
Felicia's face turned red. She put her finger in my face.
"We di'not addreth you in Spanish, so jew will thpeak to uth in English," she yelled at me.
No. You were just talking about me in your lazy native tongue. I can play this game too, puta.
"My apologies," I said. "Would you all like the fruit iced tea?"
"Jes," she said. "We're al-tho ready to order."
Ten grueling minutes later, I turned in their complicated order and gathered the beverages.
When I returned to the table, Felicia casually informed me that she wanted to cancel her dinner order. Nevermind that the kitchen had already put her skirt steak on the grill, or that in her non-pregnant state she could have pulled her lazy ass out of the booth to walk over and inform me of this before I sent in her order.
In true dramatic fashion, I reacted as if she'd just told me my house was on fire, speeding off to the kitchen to cancel the meal and demonstrating the urgency that was completely lost on her and her friends.
When I returned to the table, chip fragments and salsa stains took place of the filled basket and bowl that had appeared only minutes before. The grease-covered drinking glasses were completely empty.
"We...need...more," Arturo informed me.
This pattern went on before, during, and after their meal. As if engaged in a sopapilla-eating contest, the four would ceremoniously suck down and devour anything I put before them, followed by the demand for more.
As for the entrees themselves, all three were returned to the kitchen because they were not satisfactory (thanks mostly to the heavy modifications made by the diners).
Come bill time, Felicia accompanied the slowly paced payment with a question.
"Wass there thum kind of prob-ab-lem?" she asked while examining the bill.
"Pardon me?" I asked.
"Jew seemed...thnappy with us."
"Oh, well, I certainly didn't intend to come across that way," I said in fear of yet another customer complaint and yet another "Behavioral Strategy" meeting with the owner.
"Dis wath our firth time here," she said. "And I thin' we'll go somewhere elthe next time."
Arizona, perhaps?
With that, she handed me $60 for a $59.09 bill. "Keep the change," she said.
As they left, I couldn't help but wonder. Had I been too bitchy with the four stereotype-preservers as they degraded me in Spanish and treated me like a harnessed mule?
The answer came from the chip fragments, food parts, and errant hairs I cleaned for a good five minutes after they left.
You had me in tears of laughter while reading this! I have not laughed that much in years! You have to try and publish this stuff! At least you have the tranquility and beauty of the Pacific Ocean at the end of every shift :)
Posted by: Nilsa James | July 27, 2010 at 08:07 PM
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Posted by: hostess | July 24, 2010 at 11:39 PM
I think you meant "Puta" (bitch, prostitute), instead of "punta" which means something like tip / edge. Just so you wont be laughed at next time if you ever have to insult some latina. It could be dangerous tho, since they are obviously retarded and insane. xoxo
Posted by: Mel | July 24, 2010 at 12:19 PM
Oh please, oh please let my taxes pay for at least one of those embarazadas, so they can ensure one more anchor baby.
It's a terrible pleasure to have these ingrates around.
Posted by: LJ | July 23, 2010 at 06:50 PM
Long-time lurker, first time commenter...
Growing up in a spanish-speaking household, one of the first things my mother drilled into my head was HOW RUDE it was to speak Spanish in front of someone who didn't speak the language. Doing what those chicks were doing would have gotten our teeth knocked out.
You handled yourself well. Better than I would have.
Posted by: Monica | July 23, 2010 at 05:23 PM