Today, I walked into an El Salvadoran restaurant for a quick bite to eat. I’d been there before and thought it’d be perfect to hold me over until my dinner plans this evening. Even before walking through the door, I knew I wanted a pupusa. It’s a pita-shaped bread that’s served warm – crispy and browned on the outside and chewy on the inside, stuffed with your fillings of choice. I’d had them before but couldn’t remember which fillings I had, so when it was time to order, I asked for a recommendation. Without hesitation, the young lady said I should get chicken, cheese, and spinach. I was caught off guard because I was actually hovering somewhere between a combo of ground pork, beans and potatoes. So her suggestion caught me completely off guard.
Generally, my rule of thumb is to trust the staff and their recommendations. It’s in their best interest for me to be satisfied and they know their menu better than any diner ever could. This is not the first time this has happened though. I walk into a non-American restaurant and ask for a suggestion. I’m wanting to try the dish that all the employees love. The one that they make at home for their families. But instead, I’m offered the most American version of their cuisine.
It could be my lack of accent and dialect. There’s no wah gwaan here. And although I’ve been learning Spanish daily since 2020 (shout out to Duolingo), I’m not comfortable enough to speak Spanish in public settings. So instead, they hear my West-side of Detroit, but living in the ‘burbs accent and assume that’s the kind of recommendation I’m looking for.
I can’t be mad though. They’re trying to move through their line as quickly as possible and I’m the uninitiated rookie standing between them and their next veteran customer. Don’t get me wrong. The pupusa with the little side of slaw and salsa was still good. But I’m almost positive that ground pork, beans and potatoes combo would’ve been fire. I’ll just be ready, next time.