‘Tomorrow is spring? Tomorrow is spring!’ he answers his own question. ‘Yes’ I nod. ‘End of the road, in theory’. ‘Well, well…all because the beaver did not see his tail!’ Silence. ‘Or the chipmunk’. He continues. I jump in. ‘The groundhog, the groundhog didn’t see his tail, I mean his shadow’. He nods. ‘Yes, we lucked out this year’.
We enter the restaurant and he begins friendly banter with the waiter. They chatter happily in Spanish. We are seated. He announces, ‘I’m going to ask him where he’s from when he comes back. I’m pretty good at guessing the sounds’. I ask, ‘Where do you think?’ ‘Uh, the Dominican Republic’ he states. ‘The Dominican Republic?’ I express doubt. ‘Yes’ he nods his head firmly. The waiter returns. They start to talk. I hear it. ‘The Dominican’. The waiter turns to me to translate. I don’t interrupt him. Then he says, ‘but I’m only half from the DR. If either of you guesses the other half, I’ll pay for both of your dinners’.
I’m a little nervous playing this game as I’m the token Anglo here. Or is it ‘Angla’? ‘Um’. I’m silent. He loves a challenge and quickly pipes up. ‘German? Half German?’ The waiter responds happily, ‘Nope!’ I offer up, ‘Irish?’ What am I going to say, after all? Upon entering the establishment I noted I was the only white person in our section. He laughs at me and then says, ‘My people. Where did they all come from? They came in with the surge!’ He laughs again and looks at me. ‘You said that, not me’ I speak quietly. He laughs again. ‘I say what I want!’ He chuckles. ‘Your people, you know!’ and wags his finger. I smile.
After more guessing, it turns out the waiter’s other half is French. ‘Well, it’s hard to tell, after all’. He sighs as he concedes that we have missed the mark.
I never would have guessed French. But I know the sound from the Dominican. They just say things a certain way. And Argentina and Brazil, I’ve gotten better at. But all the others? I don’t have any idea.
I look around the restaurant again. ‘French. Who would have guessed French?’ The bill arrives and we discuss the tip. ‘Oh’, he says and seems surprised. I glance at him rather coyly, ‘White guilt’. He shakes his head and hands the signed copy to the waiter. I chuckle. ‘I say what I want’. My turn. He and the waiter banter happily as we exit the restaurant…
690 Saint Paul 