I was having lunch with my good friend Marco at a local Peruvian restaurant and we were catching each other up on current events in our respective families. Marco is the only friend I have whose family is as large and complicated as my own — but his stories are always way better than mine. My cold and reserved family tends to express opinions and disapproval via a raised eyebrow or pursed lips – when notified of something really scandalous we may permit ourselves to let loose with an icy, “I see.” – but Marco’s large Latin family expresses their views at the top of their lungs, often followed by silences that can last for months.
The waitress came to take our order but we were not nearly ready because Marco was telling me about his 22-year old niece who had just had her third child by the third different man and Marco’s 90-year father, a devout Catholic, was horrified. Marco sighed. “I’m almost glad Mama is dead,” he said in a Venezuelan accent that, even after many years in Florida, is still quite heavy. “But I’m sure she’s revolving in her crypt.”
This threw me. “Huh? I said. “’Revolving in her crypt?’”
“Yes,” he said. “You know. Revolving in her crypt.”
I thought. Marco speaks near- perfect English but when he tries to use American figures of speech I get confused and although, after 30 years of conversing with him, I’m usually pretty good at translating, this one confused me. Then inspiration hit. “Oh!” I said. “She’s turning in her grave.”
“That’s what I said,” said Marcos, and we moved on to whether his father needed a new car or not. “He doesn’t drive that much anymore,” said Marcos, “I think he should keep the old one.” He paused. “It still runs on a dime and stops like a clock,” he said.
I was bewildered. “That’s good,” I said.
The waitress came back.
“We haven’t even looked at the menu yet,” said Marcos smoothly in Spanish. She shrugged, unconcerned and turned around. Marco looked at the menu briefly and said, “Did you ever get the bank to pay you back for those additional mortgage payments they deducted?” he asked and I nodded.
“It took eight weeks,” I said. “I finally had to write to the President but I got the money back.”
Marco nodded approvingly. “The noisy tire gets lubricated,” he said, and how could I disagree? We were briefly silent as we perused the menu.
The waitress came back. Marco ordered something complicated in Spanish and then the waitress looked at me. “I’ll have a Caesar salad with grilled chicken,” I said and she looked at me without comprehension. “Que?” she said, looking at Marco.
“CEASAR SALAD!” I shouted, relying on the purely American conviction that if I speak louder comprehension will follow. It didn’t. I thought back to my high school Spanish searching for the word for ‘chicken.’ Then I pointed at “Caesar salad” on the menu and, remembering, I said “Con galletas, por favor,” and both Marco and the waitress laughed uproariously. Marco composed himself long enough to order my salad for me while I squirmed uncomfortably.
“Chicken is ‘gallina’,” said Marco, wiping his eyes. “You just ordered a Caesar salad with ‘cookies’,” and he and the waitress high-fived. She said something rapidly in Spanish and he nodded, smirking.
“What did she say?” I demanded.
“She says you talk Spanish funny,” he said. I said nothing. “But at least you tried,” he said complacently.
I did not say what I wanted to; what I said was, “Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.”
“That makes no sense,” said Marco. “You talk English funny too.”