huh. or: inga speechless. again.
Agatha is my best friend. Over the weekend we realized we've been fast friends for (gasp) 16 years. She lives in the Big City, thus she is one of our many life lines connecting us from small uni-town to the real world. I spent the weekend in the city visiting Agatha and her beau. Stella was in town for part of the time, too. On Saturday, we went to our favorite restaurant. This restaurant is Spanish. It's known for its tapas. Tapas, of course, are small dishes of food meant for sharing. Tapas rock. Seriously. Queso de cabra? Heaven. Jamon serrano? Awesome. Manchego, olives, calamari, croquetas? Do I even need to explain? Tapas in Spain date back to medieval times. The dishes are often passed around family-style. Any tapas restaurant serves food in this manner. At our favorite Spanish restaurant, they're known for the best tapas around. Many articles have been written about them. The restaurant is well-known.
So, sure, I imagine there are people who come in off the street without a clue as to how to enjoy tapas. I remember being a little overwhelmed the first time I ate at a traditional Ethiopian restaurant, but I took my cues from my date and from people around us. And, yes, yes, yes, there are times at the sushi place I resort to not using my chopsticks. But the display we witnessed Saturday afternoon takes the cake.
Scene: the restaurant bar.
Witnesses: Stella, Agatha, myself
We are sitting at our table, drinking sangria and sharing various tapas - we have croquetas, jamon iberico, ensalada mixta. We have little plates in front of us. There's fresh bread and olive oil. We're listening to poppy Spanish videos. Life is good.
And then...the door opens and in breeze three college-aged girls, maybe in their early twenties. They've got lots of make-up and oddly unfashionable suits. They order sangria. Then one orders calamari. One orders gambas. One orders a chicken salad - "but I want ranch dressing," she says. The waiter leans in close. "I'm sorry?" he asks. "Ranch. Give me ranch on my salad." He smiles, sweeps away, his face contorted into a mask of confusion.
The girls drink their sangria. They smoke. They look around, zone in on the older couple at the bar, roll their eyes. They're looking for handsome Spanish boys. It's about eight hours too early for that. The salad comes out.
"Can I have an extra side of ranch?" the girl asks. The waiter disappears. He returns with a side of dressing and the calamari.
"We're waiting on the shrimp," one girl says impatiently. The waiter nods, sweeps away again. Salad girl dumps the extra dressing on the salad, begins eating. With her mouth open. And while they all continue smoking.
The waiter brings us another plate of tapas. As he turns to go, one of the girls motions him over. "Shrimps," she says, "we're still waiting on that shrimp." They look impatient. They don't understand tapas at all. Just when we wonder if it can get any worse, Stella kicks me under the table.
"Look," she hisses quietly, non-chalantly motioning towards the girls with her head. "The salad chomper is picking her nose."
So, sure, I imagine there are people who come in off the street without a clue as to how to enjoy tapas. I remember being a little overwhelmed the first time I ate at a traditional Ethiopian restaurant, but I took my cues from my date and from people around us. And, yes, yes, yes, there are times at the sushi place I resort to not using my chopsticks. But the display we witnessed Saturday afternoon takes the cake.
Scene: the restaurant bar.
Witnesses: Stella, Agatha, myself
We are sitting at our table, drinking sangria and sharing various tapas - we have croquetas, jamon iberico, ensalada mixta. We have little plates in front of us. There's fresh bread and olive oil. We're listening to poppy Spanish videos. Life is good.
And then...the door opens and in breeze three college-aged girls, maybe in their early twenties. They've got lots of make-up and oddly unfashionable suits. They order sangria. Then one orders calamari. One orders gambas. One orders a chicken salad - "but I want ranch dressing," she says. The waiter leans in close. "I'm sorry?" he asks. "Ranch. Give me ranch on my salad." He smiles, sweeps away, his face contorted into a mask of confusion.
The girls drink their sangria. They smoke. They look around, zone in on the older couple at the bar, roll their eyes. They're looking for handsome Spanish boys. It's about eight hours too early for that. The salad comes out.
"Can I have an extra side of ranch?" the girl asks. The waiter disappears. He returns with a side of dressing and the calamari.
"We're waiting on the shrimp," one girl says impatiently. The waiter nods, sweeps away again. Salad girl dumps the extra dressing on the salad, begins eating. With her mouth open. And while they all continue smoking.
The waiter brings us another plate of tapas. As he turns to go, one of the girls motions him over. "Shrimps," she says, "we're still waiting on that shrimp." They look impatient. They don't understand tapas at all. Just when we wonder if it can get any worse, Stella kicks me under the table.
"Look," she hisses quietly, non-chalantly motioning towards the girls with her head. "The salad chomper is picking her nose."
posted by lynda at 9:16 AM
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