I'm going to preface this story by saying that it's not as intense as you want it to be. It was just a funny thing that I saw while I was waiting for tacos. Not sure if it deserved a blog post, but looking back on some of my previous posts, the bar for what constitutes a post is not set very high.
I had ordered some barbacoa tacos and a coke. I usually order five tacos but I knew that I was going to a coffee shop afterward and thought that I should cut down to four to, you know, be healthy. I love coming to this taco place in Dallas because the tacos are just too good. It's a shabby little hut that's next to an almost run down gas station, but the tacos are so fresh, the salsita so biting, and the sense of fulfillment after eating so complete that I keep coming back. Also each taco costs like $1.50 or something so there's that.
Anyway, as I'm sitting on the hood of Nina (Nina is my car for those who do not follow this blog regularly) waiting for my tacos, the elotes guy starts setting up his cart next to the taco hut. Elotes are basically corn on the cob with butter, sour cream, chili, and cheese added to it. It's pretty amazing. Anyway I love watching this guy set up because he's an older gentleman who looks like he's been serving elotes for the past 30 years. Anyway, I'm sitting on my car watching this guy open up blocks of butter, dump huge globs of sour cream into metal boxes, pretty much the standard elote cart procedure, when this family walks up to the taco hut.
This family is made up of a white father, an Asian mother, and a group of children who are not important to this story. I should note at this point that the majority of the clientele i.e., all those standing around this hut waiting for their tacos, are Hispanic and they all order in Spanish. So the Asian mother, who has been designated as the most culturally informed family member is burdened with ordering tacos for her brood. She struggles to order her six tacos in the most broken Spanish that I've heard in a long time. The husband sort of quietly adds to the order by loudly whispering in his wife's ear in English that he wants bistec, and the wife proceeds to translate, although "translate" is a strong word here. The whole thing seemed a bit too complicated for tacos, so when the mom finally finished her order, the lady who works for the taco place asks her in perfect English, "Would you like flour or corn tortillas?"
The mom, obviously shocked that the woman who she had tried to communicate with through Rosetta Stone Spanish spoke English asked her to repeat the question. Anyway, in the end, everybody went home with tacos and I wound up with a blog post so we're all winners.
Now that I've had time to digest it all, I guess the moral of the story is that next time you're at a taco place that you love, order five tacos. Because four tacos just isn't enough.