Mexican Waiter Crush

This is indeed an old, old story.

My mom and I will take a fancy for a certain Mexican restaurant, and I usually can't resist ordering in Spanish. Inevitably, there will be a tall, dark and handsome waiter on the premises, and we'll end up flirting in Spanish while my mom only manages to decipher snatches (she was pretty good in Italian back in the day, so she does have a little insight into Spanish, which is super similar) of what we're saying.

Let's take a walk down memory lane . . . in my college days, it was Alejandro at Los Tarascos. Then there was Jesús at San Marcos (that one had a few twists and turns), then there was this gorgeous Dominican at Dos Compadres . . . I think his name was Rafael. We've now taken a fancy to Ixtapa, and there's a new Mexican waiter in my crush spot. He's super cute.

It always starts out the same way. How did you learn Spanish? Oh, you speak so well! You went to Mexico? Where did you go? Then my mom will suggest that he needs Jesus (to me), and I'll be faced with the prospect of "flirt to convert." Indeed, we had just come from ladies' prayer tonight. I snuck that in there. We had just come from oración. Get him 'bout that Lord, youknaamean? The time before that, he remembered me! Where have you been? You've been gone for a really long time! Ah, 'tis true. I had been away at Auburn, and then abroad in France. That's right, you tall, perfectly toothed, handsome faced, Latino McDreamy. Keep serving up them vegetarian quesadillas.