[dropcap]M[/dropcap]exican restaurants are one of my favorite things about Florida. We have more of them than any state – except Texas.
There is, however, one drawback venturing into these colorful cantinas with my wife, and it has to do with her dialectal interpretation of the English language.
My wife, who grew up in Brewton, Alabama, finds it strenuous to communicate with ethnic variety. Personally, I have no problem understanding Jamie when she speaks. In fact, her drawl has even bled off onto my own speech. Though, when I first met her family, I could hardly understand her parents.
Once, her father said to me, “Fetch me’em brogans n’that chifferobe yonder.”
Her daddy pointed to the dresser, “Gimme’em clodhoppers ‘ere child.”
Jamie’s mother was worse. She once called us inside for supper by saying, “We awe fixin’ to eat srip ‘rectly, y’all hurray own.”
When I questioned Jamie about it, she told me that her mother had said something about eating shrimp – she wasn’t sure about the rest.
Jamie pointed to the menu, and the Mexican waiter furrowed his eyebrows at her.
“You want what?” he asked.
“Ice tea,” Jamie’s face was turning red.
The Mexican man opened his eyes wide.
“I do not understand ma’am.”
“I’m huntin’ a bit’a ice tea, Jeezus.”
“What, exactly, do you want in your tea again?”
He blushed, touching the seat of his pants.
“Ass?” he repeated.
“Exactly,” Jamie let out a sigh. “By God, now he’s got it.”