So this Dominican restaurant on my block, Delicias, is my favorite spot to hit up for a good $6 plate of rice, chicken, platanos, and beans. Great food, great value.
The way shit was set up, the food was in trays behind the counter, so even though most of the staff doesn’t speak a lick of Ingles, you could be an American fgt like me and point your way through an order.
Whenever I go in and no peeka Panish, they look at me in pure disgust, because they think I’m some sell out Dominican who never bothered to learn my own language, when in fact, I’m a Kenyan Jew just tryin to keep it real in the field.
My heart was broken two months ago when they closed for
being found with large amounts of cocaine remodeling.
To my delight, I saw they were back in business like Eric and Parrish last night…time to get my grub on.
Wow…Delicias stepped they game up! Cloth on tables instead of plastic and doilies, the year-round Christmas lights were removed, and they had the music playing at a more tolerable blare…but still loud as fuck nonetheless. However, the the delightful improvement on management’s part were the new
Gone was the friendly 200 pound woman that always took my order. In her place were 6 of these broads. Delicia indeed.
A woodgrain bar was now in front, and they most likely had the 200 pound woman slaving in the kitchen with all the food. Fine by me. I didn’t have the benefit of pointing through my order, but shiiit, a little playful back and forth of stumbling through my order with Tits Rodriguez might end up with me bagging a chick por el noche.
Two Dominican guys were ahead of me placing their order. Funny breed, those Dominicanos. What they think is extremely macho, is actually the gayest look on the planet. Dominicans have the concept of being metro a little twisted. Groomed eyebrows, a skin tight shirt with sunglasses hanging on the neck, a shiny purple bubble vest, and Diesel sneakers doesn’t exactly scream “Where the bitchez at?” to me, but hey, to each his own.
I step up, and place my order with a waitress that is absolutely popping out of her clothes. The buttons on her shirt are holding on for dear life. How her magnificent bronzed almond ass fit into those size 2 black jeans would defy Stephen Hawking, and for good measure, she has red thong panties that were put on this earth to taunt me peaking out of her back side. Life is unfair. Taylor Swift is idolized by millions, and this bombshell is slangin pollo on Hyde Park Ave.
I place my order. “I’ll have white rice with goat and salad please, no beans.”
This bitch is completely stumped.
“Rice…arroz? Arroz con….GOAT!”
Fuck. I don’t know the word for goat.
Wait…that’s a lamb…do I attempt to make another animal sound, or should I talk this one out? Fuck. I know she hates me. I’ll never see that donkey ass in all its glory.
I’ll just carry on like a dumb American. Maybe if I say it louder and slow it’ll hit her.
“GOOOOOOOAAAAAAT? GOOOAT? GOAT. YOU KNOW, GOOOOOOAAAAAT?”
There, that oughta clear things up.
I’m gonna have to go out on a limb here. I could easily order pollo, or bistec, or spaghetti, or ox-tail, or chicharron…but DAMNIT, I’m in the mood for goat.
Just then…it dawns on me. The one word I always see on Spanish menus and storefront signs…it has to be goat.
“Laaaaaangoooosta? Goat? Langosta?”
“Siii, siii! Tiene…hmmmm…sawooos?”
What’s sawoos? Sawoos…sawoos…oh! Sauce!
“Si, I want Langosta y sauce, y arroz blanco, y ensalada!”
She carries her vuluptuous frame in the kitchen as her panties bid me farewell. I’m so proud of myself. I’m truly an international ass nigga. Put me anywhere on Gods green earth and I’ll survive.
5 minutes…10 minutes…25 minutes…35 minutes…WTF??? I’m starving, people are coming in and out picking up their orders, and I’m waiting for a simple $6 plate of langosta y arroz.
The service sucks, but thank God I can pass time eye-raping the help.
Finally, Boom Boom Martinez brings me my bag of food. I figure if she knew English she would apologize for the wait, so I won’t hold it against her.
I get to the register to pay.
Ummm…that doesn’t sound like “seis” but whatevs. I hand her a ten.
“$22 DOLLARS!!?? Goat and rice is $22?????”
What kinda bullshit is this? Never again. Remodeling my ass…a place spruces up a little and they think they can charge whatever they want?
I’ve been waiting 40 minutes for my food, and don’t have the strength to play United Nations any more…lesson learned. I pay and leave.
I get to the crib, dying to know what $22 worth of goat looks like. I pile a mound of rice on a plate, and open up the goat. It sure does look good…swimming in all that brown sauce…peppers and onions and shit. I stab my fork into a big piece, and it’s rock hard. The fuck??? Another piece. Nothin but bone. I pick up a piece. It’s a claw.
Langosta is lobster.
I ordered a fuckin lobster in curry sauce with white rice.
Fuck my life.
I forced myself to eat it on the strength the shit cost $22. Gross.
Here’s the question.
Is it my fault I don’t know Spanish like that, or is it the restaurant’s fault that they do business on Main Street America, and don’t have staff that knows what they serve in fucking English?