Do I even need to write more than that title?
Last week week, I took my kids to our favorite diner in Vermont for dinner. We're about to return to the West Coast, and I needed to pack in as much diner grub as I can since that's the one dining experience I can't replicate out West. We ordered our usual: one plate-sized King Arthur flour-based, Grade B maple syrup-topped pancake for Dash; a ham-and-Jack-cheese omelet for Petunia; and two eggs, over medium, with home fried potatoes and maple-syrup topped pork sausage for me. In other words, we had the combo: diabetes and heart attacks for three.
As we waited for our food, a Mexican family joined us in the dining car -- a Grandma, a Mom, and two kids (Girl, about 16; Boy, about 10). I found myself smiling -- it was as if a reminder that I was almost back in California sat down at the next table with a ticking clock. As the family bantered, the Turkish waitress sauntered over. Uh-oh, I thought. We had this same waitress on her Day One, and it was a rough experience. A couple of months had passed, and I was hopeful. But as her conversation with the table started, it became apparent that they'd need a translator. I almost volunteered, but I don't know Turkish -- plus, the train wreck evolving was kind of funny to watch. A snippet:
Waitress: "Would you like something to drink?"
Grandma: "Quiero una limonada."
Waitress: "What was that?"
Mom: "She wants a, uh, what is the thing with the water and the lemon?"
Waitress: "A lemonade?"
Mom looks at kids, who nod.
Mom: "Yes. But she no likes azucar."
Waitress: "What was that?"
Girl: "Sugar. No sugar."
Waitress: "Tell her the lemonade, it comes from the fountain like soda, we don't make it here. It has sugar."
Girl explained to grandma then says, with a snicker: "She say take out sugar."
Waitress: "I can't take out the sugar, it's made in a machine. Like soda."
Grandma was not happy. She exchanged some dialogue with the kids, then the Mom intervened: "Bring her the cold tea. She will like the cold tea."
Waitress: "Iced tea?"
Mom: "Yes, iced tea."
Waitress: "Unsweetened or raspberry?"
Mom: "What is raspberry?"
Waitress: "It's fruit."
Mom and Grandma had a chat. Grandma seemed quite puzzled at the concept of fruit tea.
Mom: "Does the fruit tea have azucar?"
Waitress: "Yes."
Grandma prayed to God. Grandma ordered plain iced tea.
AND THAT WAS JUST THE BEGINNING.
The Girl tried to order some kind of meat with rice and beans. The waitress didn't undertand the request, then eventually just gave up and said no. "Some rice?" "No." "Some beans?" "No." I wanted to tell them that the kids' menu had nachos, but something told me that Tostitos with Cabot cheddar and salsa from a jar wasn't what they wanted.
Finally, the females ordered eggs in various forms. I timed it: it took seventeen minutes for this family to order their food. SEVENTEEN MINUTES. There were discussions of how egss were cooked, what kind of meat on the side, and the toast -- the toast! -- oy, there are seven kinds.
I found myself wanting to go over to the table and say to the waitress: Get someone who speaks English as a native language to save half of the frustration of this experience. I wanted to say to the family: You are at a diner in rural Vermont. Why the hell are you trying to order Mexican food in a location that is, on multiple levels, as far away from Mexico as you can get? The whole situation was uncomfortable for everyone in the diner, except perhaps for my clueless offspring, who were shoveling their everything-wrong-with-the-American-diet morsels into their mouths at alarming rates of speed.
But I didn't say or do anything... I sat there, somewhat entertained, at points even agog.
And then the Boy got up to hit the head. Passing our table, he paused, rolled his eyes at me, and said: "I can't stand going out to dinner with these people," IN PERFECT ENGLISH. He had not said a word up to that point except to order his own hot dog and fries. There was a translator sitting there the entire time, too busy in his pre-adolescent angst to help a meal go smoothly.
I wanted to chase the boy and smack him upside the head. My husband is a first-generation American, reared until about that boy's age by a grandmother who spoke only Polish. And I didn't know my husband then, but I do know this: he would've helped his grandmother where words failed her. He wouldn't have sat there while three non-English speakers tried to conceptualize raspberry iced tea for three minutes.
At the end of the day, I don't know if that debacle is one family's problem or a "kids these days" moment; I hope that it's the former but fear it's the latter. At least I saw their food delivered as we paid our check, and I noticed that especially Grandma was happy with her heaping plate of cardiac plaque. At least gastronomic pleasure transcends language barriers, in Mexico, Vermont and everywhere in between.
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