Jonathan and I are accidental regulars at Los Compadres, a locally owned Mexican restaurant that offers $1.99 Margaritas and All-You-Can-Eat Wednesdays.
I am a slave to their Chile Rellenos.
My slave master.Everytime we are there, an average of two to three times a month, we end up with the same waiter. Beki, our wait staff guru friend, would be pleased with him. He is the world's best waiter. Even on their busiest night, Wednesday, your drinks are refilled without request, napkins available almost magically, and the food is hot and quick to arrive.
This past Tuesday, he decided to start speaking Spanish to us, more specifically, Jonathan. (Growing up in central Florida, I am used to the Machismo culture of Hispanic life. It doesn't offend me.) At first we thought he was just in a rush and going for his first language. Than it hit me that he might think at least Jonathan is Hispanic. (When I was younger, the Cuban kids thought I was Spanish and the Mexican kids thought I was Cuban. Wacky hijinx did ensue.)
Jonathan in all his ambiguous race glory.
Me. I guess with a tan, you might think I have some Hispanic somewhere in my background.It was hilarious because Jonathan and I kept up the charade by responding to him in Spanish. It felt good to dust off ye olde espanol and use it for a change. Not much opportunity in Tallahassee "Aren't I really Georgia?", FL.
I felt like I was in third grade again. (In third grade, our teacher taught us in Spanish. It was a public school in central Florida. No harm, no foul, although, I think some parents were upset about it. My mother did find it curious when I started responding to her in fluent Spanish after only living in Florida for six months.)
It was even more hilarious when another member of the restaurant did a double glance at Jonathan and said "Panama?". When Jonathan looked at him, he apologized stating that he thought he was someone else.
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