The Friend Zone

Back in the States I work in a restaurant, and one of the biggest differences in Spain is how the service industry is run. In the United States the waiter is at your beck and call, a slave to your tip-discretion, sweating, running, using a fake, overly friendly tone to talk to the table. In Spain, its like teenage mindgames. They pretend they don’t see, and if they see you, they don’t want to. Should we call them over? Do they even know we’re here? are common questions.

 The thing is, its not as bad as it sounds- because once you get to know a place, and prove you’ll go back time and time again despite being ignored and seemingly unwillingly served (probably the wrong thing if your Spanish is as bad as mine), they treat you like their best friend. Its like an endurance test, but once you get past the test it great. You walk in the door feeling like a celebrity. You get a loud, enthusiastic welcoming, usually accompanied by an overly friendly invasion of your personal bubble.

Last night I think we finally hit the friendly-zone at the restaurant across the street from our apartment. We walk by it all the time and we’ve gone in a handful of times before. Luckily the chef, the quintessential Spanish chef, (round, plump, hairy, and uber-friendly) smokes more than he cooks, so he’s always out front when we walk by to engage us in some small talk. Although half the time we don’t know what he’s saying, more due to his accent and speed then his language, we laugh when he laughs, smile when he smiles, and try to squeeze his hand as hard as he squeezes ours when he shakes hands.


 Apparently it’s paid off.

So we walk into the restaurant which looks like no one is working at it. We stand next to the podium that says, please wait to be seated. Standing awkwardly for a few seconds we decided to just b-line for the bar stools and have a seat. That we did, and just as we were sitting down we hear a loud authoritative voice. Great, I thought, they’re really going to be mad we sat ourselves. Instead I turn around to see the chef, in all his mustache-y glory, with a big smile and an extended hand. So we have a couple of laughs and before we know it we’re looking at a plate of complimentary chips with some sweet salsa. They were SO good we inhaled them. So the Chef, walking by and seeing the empty plate, assumes we’d like some more. 

Now in Spain “Spicy” does not exist. If you want spicy, go to Taco Bell. That’s honestly your best bet. So when he asks me if I like spicy, of course! I love spicy food, and it didn’t occur to me that it would even be moderately spicy. 

Next thing I know theres a small bowl of bright red salsa, filled with seeds, sitting in front of me, and a circle of anxious waiters waiting to see the look on my face when I try it. Yet I’m still not believing that anything in Spain could possibly make my mouth burn the way it did. So with a smile I took a big scoop and chomped right down. 

“Not too spicy, right?” He asks, sarcastically.

“No, no” I say, before it actually hits me.

Everyone knew when it hit me. My eyes popped out and I had that concerned look that only the person who eats too much spicy food has on their face. We all shared a laugh, and I made sure to take minuscule dips after that, although I couldn’t just abandon it for fear of offending my new over- zealous friend. 

Luckily they brought us some frozen drink to quell the burning before we left, we shared another laugh, and its sure that we’ll be going back there, although with a little more caution. So if you find yourself in one of these Spanish restaurant mind games, stick with it. It’ll pay off.