They say half knowledge is dangerous. I say, not if it leads to a story. Last week I was in Campo de Gibraltar, a county of the province of Andalusia, Spain. I was there because my industry cannot accept I am retired, and neither can I. So, I take up occasional assignments and never miss an opportunity if it involves going to Spain. I have this misplaced self concept about being a semi fluent Spanish speaker! Nothing is further from the truth. But it is the self image – what you convince yourself about yourself – that matters. Secretly, I believe I could give Gabriel Garcia Márquez a run for his money, if only my grammar and vocabulary are improved.
The Mexican restaurant where I had dinner one evening had a menu of some 50 dishes. Of these just two were suitable for vegetarians. A measly looking green leaf against each indicated they were meat-free. Appalling, this discrimination against vegetarians! But on the bright side, I had just two options to choose from and I went for the burrito.
My order arrived just as I finished my beer. It was tasty but unlike a South Indian thali which has a multitude of mini dishes that one’s palate is constantly surprised with each bite, the burrito tastes the same beginning to middle to end. Bored with the monotony, I decided to brush up my Spanish.
The description of the burrito in the menu began – ‘Con salteado de verduras y champiñones’ which I mentally translated to ‘With salted vegetables and mushrooms’. Wait. That can’t be right. Salted vegetables sounds so boring. My translation app quickly confirmed my suspicion – ‘salteado’ means sautéed and not salted. Confidence slightly shaken, I struggled along reading all of the ten items that made up the dish. I recognised some words like Guacamole and maiz while others had to be looked up. Then I stumbled on ‘pico de gallo’ which to my horror translates to ‘beak of rooster’! I was aghast. The green leaf on the menu was there in error or the Spaniards don’t understand the concept of vegetarianism. I felt like a pious Brahmin who was tricked into eating beef.
Summoning the waitress, I protested in pidgin Spanish,
“Me vegetarian. This burrito – it got chicken. No good, señorita.”
What next – chicken feathers? I wanted to ask but didn’t know the word for feather.
“I am so sorry sir,” she said, her face a deep crimson, “I will change it straight away.”
She cast furtive glances at my dinner, scanning for the uninvited chicken. Then she picked up the plate and went into the kitchen at the other end of the restaurant.
A couple of minutes later, she emerged – not with a replacement burrito but with my half eaten one. Looking neither embarrassed nor apologetic, her face said she had the answer. I guessed the chef was somehow involved in solving the conundrum. Pointing at my burrito, she asked gently but firmly,
“Could you please show me the chicken?”
Instead of rooting through the dish, I pointed to ‘pico de gallo’ in the description, tapping it with my forefinger for emphasis. The smile that lit up her face was that of a mother pardoning an errant child. What she then rattled off was beyond me but I got the gist – ‘pico de gallo’ is just the name of a Mexican salad containing tomatoes, jalapeno and other harmless vegetables. It has nothing to do with the body parts of a rooster.
I finished the rest of the humble pie, sorry, burrito, and left the waitress a generous tip in compensation. The self confidence in my Spanish has taken a minor beating. Nothing that cannot be fixed with another trip to Spain. The cinema of my life continues.
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