I recently attended my grandmother's funeral where a number of family and friends paid their respects. It was a traditional Catholic funeral and I was sitting at the end of the pew along the side of the church's western wall. I was not paying close attention during the communion portion of the ceremony when a passing woman gently touched my shoulder after receiving her wafer. I recognized her immediately as Bobby, my parents' friend, who joined us with her husband, Tom, in Tulum for the final week of our family trip to Mexico last Fall. After the service, she approached my family and we caught up after not seeing one another for almost a year. Tom and I got along famously during our trip, bonding via our travel experiences and our insatiable love of alcohol. Tom is a little bit of a retired Carribbean pirate and unabashedly stirs the pot at every twist and turn. Needless to say, I LOVE IT. For example, in Mexico he would often sneak up on me in the morning and spike my grapefruit with tequila, which honestly, was much appreciated considering how consistently hung over I was day after day. I didn't appreciate his allusions to having sex with this 60 year old wife, however. Barf.
Seizing the opportunity to have a sanctioned, saucy night admidst my parents, I railroaded a dinner party for this upcoming Saturday at Tom and Bobby's cabin in the woods near our house. As a sidenote, I was anxious to see Tom's completed wine cellar in his finished basement that supposedly has a Tuscan theme. I can always anticipate having a good time crushing drinks with Tom. However, the subject of this entry is dedicated to an idiotic exchange Tom had with an Italian waiter in a Italian eatery in Tulum. Charlie can attest to this one:
One night in Tulum we were in modest Italian restaurant, which had excellent wood-fired pizza. We had been there a couple nights before and had made an impression with the staff. Tom had been boisterous the time prior and it filtered down to Charlie, myself and even my mother. To preface what would occur that night, Tom is a New Yorker and has lived in Central America and the Carribbean and fashions himself to be somewhat of a linguistic rennaissance man. My mother rolls her eyes when he claims to speak Spanish and Italian. She thinks it's embarrassing because she actually does speak Spanish and finds his intermittent Spanish vocabulary buttressed by grunts and English disrespectful as a whole. Once again, as with everything involving Tom, I find it fucking hilarious.
-------
That night at dinner, it was my parents, Tom, Charlie and I. We had ordered some pizzas to our table and were waiting. Tom, seeking to stir the pot, beckons (in a slightly ridiculous accent) to the Italian waiter (who has already established he speaks English fluently):
Tom: Garcone! - Garcone! (French, obviously)
(The waiter approaches)
Waiter: Yes, sir. (Slightly perturbed for being pegged as French)
Tom: The PIZZA! (Italian, I guess). Does it have QUESO?! (Spanish) The MOZZARELLA ?! (Italian, once again with a ridiculous double-hand gesticulation)
(Waiter is looking at Tom quizzically wondering if he really is this much of a dumbass).
Waiter: Yes, there is cheese on the pizza. (in the classic understated I-need-to-get-back-to-work-dumbass way that only servers can do)
Tom: Oh. Ok. Thanks...I can't wait to have some pizza. It's really good.
(Waiter then leaves and Tom looks at his plate)
--------
Charlie and I during this exchange had our hands over our mouths, trying not to laugh or embarrass the waiter. Upon receiving his confirmation or dismissal that there was in fact cheese on the pizza, Tom surprisingly didn't appeared to be very embarrassed. He just moved on from it. Amazing. Wait, amazingly stupid. Charlie and I have had joke fodder for months, accentuating the exchange, taking it to new heights. I hope it's not too much of an inside joke.
No comments:
Post a Comment