hands across the table

I am starting to feel part of my neighborhood.


On Tuesday afternoon while I was walking back from the beach, I noticed a Mexican barbecue grill on the sidewalk in from of La Rana, my neighborhood restaurant.  The grill they use to prepare their barbecued pork ribs.


I stuck my head in the kitchen simply to say hello.  Before I could launch into my small talk, the wife of the owner and their daughter excitedly invited me (in a torrent of Spanish) to the owner’s birthday party that afternoon.  At 3.  Or 4.  Or around there.


Of course, I was pleased.  So, I headed back to the house and started getting ready for my Mexican social event of the month.


Because they were so flexible on the time, I didn’t want to show up at 3 and show my NOB infatuation with the clock.  Instead, I waited until 4 and walked over.


To my surprise, I was obviously late.  Everyone was sitting at a long table.  From the look of their plates, they had finished eating long before I arrived.

But my hosts grabbed me, gave me a great seat in front of the fan, and brought me a heaping plate of sausage, steak, and grilled onion.  The tortillas, salad, guacamole, and beans were on the table.


Then I committed my second faux pas.  I have eaten in plenty of homes throughout the world.  One of the first rules of a good guest is to take a look at what other people are doing – and follow their example.  I didn’t do that.


Instead, I looked at the table, found no fork or knife, and asked my host for utensils.  He didn’t bat an eye.  Off he went.  After all, I have been a good customer – and I always have a knife and fork at my plate.


When he returned, I started eating.  While chatting with people at the table, I noticed they kept looking at my hands.  By that point, some of the other guests were having a second plate of grilled meat.


And then I saw it.  No one else was using utensils.  They were using their hands to eat.  By that point I had finished eating.  I quietly apologized to my host.  Who graciously said it was fine.  But my utensils quickly became a part of the table conversation.


Once again, I wish I could have spoken better Spanish.  But I held my own with a chef, a hotel owner, and other assorted middle class family members.  An 8-year old girl even asked me to help her with her English.  Her father is coming back from The States in a month, and she wanted to impress him with what she had learned.


The experience was a lot like having Thanksgiving with another family.  Everything was pleasant enough.  But as a non-family member, it was often hard to keep up with the family tales.  Even though some of them were hilarious – one including a burro and a bull.


I stayed for three hours – there never being a seemingly good time to bid adios.  When one group of relatives got up to go, I took it as my cue to exit, as well.


A year ago, I am not certain I would have attended – knowing that English would not be a conversation option.  But I am glad I did.  The owners asked me back to show them my photographs of my cruise.


And that I will do – soon.