I was back at Qdoba again today. Don’t ask me why. I don’t even really like it that much and yet, I’m drawn to it. I would not be surprised to find that the lime rice was laced with heroin.
But this is not a post about Qdoba. This is a post about the nine men at the front of the line while I was at the back of it. All young, broad-shouldered, trying to order and pay and help the ones who spoke less English get what they wanted. Some of the staff at Qdoba speaks Spanish–the little woman with the bright smile and the cute guy and the bald guy with the freckled arms with the fading gang tattoos–and between them and the guys in line was a light, fun chaos.
The one guy who didn’t speak Spanish asked the kid with the coal black eyes, “Queso?”
And the kid with the coal black eyes looked around for his friends or for anyone who spoke Spanish to make eye contact with him. Finally, a buddy came over.
“Queso?” again asked the guy who didn’t speak Spanish and the buddy turned to the coal black eyed guy and said, “Queso.”
And the kid with the coal black eyes said, “Oh, si, si.”
And I swear to god, it sounded like the exact same word to me and I was looking at the guy who didn’t speak Spanish and he was looking at me and we were both like, “What the fuck?” and the guy with the freckles on his arms looks at us and starts to laugh.
Apparently, the kid with the coal black eyes was having a little fun with the guy who didn’t speak Spanish.
And we were all in agreement that it was funny.
I wonder what they were–young construction workers? A gang? A baseball team?
Anyway, behind them were two women who were dressed much younger than they were, who were convinced that sour cream might be a bit too exotic for their tastes and the woman with the high and tight pony tail, who seemed to be taking the lead in the ordering, was carrying a purse made of a print fabric of Confederate flags*.
And she and I were in agreement that you rarely see that many hot men all horsing around in one place, but that we appreciated it. Her friend wanted to squeeze one of their butts.
So, there you go. Who can understand the South and yet, I can’t help but love a place that makes you go “What the fuck is going on here?” at least once a day.
*Sadly, the internet has failed me in my efforts to find you an example of this purse, but if you click here and scroll down to the bikini worn by the woman with the armband tattoo, that’s the fabric. Imagine it as a purse.