Appetized

The waiter smiles when we ask for the guac as an appetizer. He sees our assertiveness, and prepares his subtle weapon: The queso.

You see, I have a hard time saying no to suggestions, especially from waiters at Mexican restaurants.

“You girls should really try the queso… *insert a fantastic description here* it’s a staple of our restaurant!”

My friend Ana (yes, we share a name), sitting across from me with a serious look on her face, begins to slightly move her head, indicating that we should have one or the other. I see her hesitation and read the sense of responsible eating in her expression.

The other Ana speaks with her hands quite a lot. Sometimes, she emulates a “cut it out” statement—a gentle one accompanied by a blunt facial expression. Other times, she brings her hands together–forming an elegant triangle with her fingers–begins stating her point, and pulls them apart with precision and a delicate swing, like saying, “This is the way it is.”

The waiter awaits. Guac AND queso? Guac OR queso?

I notice the signs. She’s about to advise me to pick one. But I jump ahead.

“Yes, please. Both would be great!”

I give her an empty reassurance, “I don’t think the portions for appetizers will be big.”

She doesn’t blink. “I just saw them walk with some plates. They are quite big, Ana.”

I smile and take a sip of my Margarita. It’ll be fine. It’s just food.

The queso arrives first—a wide, round, sort-of-deep plate full of deliciousness and layers of colorful veggies. The other Ana looks at me nervously yet eagerly and dives in.

A few seconds later, the bowl with guac arrives. I’m excited. I mean, truly… Who gets upset with such an amount of guacamole in front of them? I dive in.

After several mixed bites, full of flavor, the waiter returns. He now glides over to our table, proud of his accomplishment, and asks if we’re ready to order our main dishes.

The other Ana inquires, “Could I order just one single taco?” He nods quietly.

I think I’m being clever when I order the flautas from the appetizer section of the menu. How big can they be, right?

Words, laughs, “more chips please,” and “oh my” go back and forth in our conversation. The flavors are exquisite—unique, yet perfectly paired. The waiter knew how to hook us.

The other Ana’s lonely shrimp taco makes its appearance. I look at it briefly, thinking, “I hope my flautas are smaller than that.” But just as my thoughts attempt to calm my nerves, the waiter arrives with my plate.

“I can always take some back to our room,” I say only in my head. I don’t feel like giving the other Ana the satisfaction of being right. I do order with my eyes.

I start eating, knowing I’ll probably make it to one and a half of those. Maybe if I drink enough water, I’ll be fine. But I know better. That feeling of overeating is not pleasant, and lasts way too long.

The waiter comes back to check on us. I’m secretly mad at him. If it wasn’t for the freaking delicious queso. The queso I should have said no to.

I hand the other Ana my card and ask her to take care of the bill while I step outside to accomplish two things: get on a FaceTime call with Elena AND physically walk away from delicious food.

One day, I will learn to order like an adult.