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Never Trust Your Wife To Book A Spanish Restaurant

I love it when you call me señorita

Photo by Kaitlin Dowis on Unsplash

Trying different cultural dishes is a passion of mine. Okay, let’s be honest.

Whether it’s frozen-thawed from the microwave, or prepared by a chef de cuisine, I’ll eat anything so long as it’s dead.

The only thing that ever grossed me out was a video on Youtube of some Japanese guy eating an octopus that was still alive.

No thanks — I’m not eating anything that can play a Phil Collins drum solo on my tonsils.

Anything else is fair game.

La Vida Tapas — 8:30 pm

My wife booked the place. A Spanish themed restaurant that promised ‘an authentic, Mediterranean experience’.

It roughly translates to a long wait to be seated, crusty (stale) bread and olive oil on the tables, and some cheap music. The walls are painted mango pastel and covered with decorated plates, old wine bottles and other European nonsense.

The second I see the waiter, my jaw drops.

The Enrique Iglesias look-a-like saunters up to our table. His frilly, white shirt hangs open to his navel, exposing a flat, hairless chest. His legs are encased in a pair of tight, black, bell-bottom pants.

“Buenas noches señorita.” he smiles.

My wife has goosebumps on her arms.

“Hi.” She giggles like a loony.

He takes her order, then looks at me.

“What can I get you, pal?”

My foot up your ass. My wife’s still eyeing his biceps.

“Just a beer.”

More of the damn Enriques start to emerge from the kitchen, each sporting the same, sexy grin and pearly white teeth.

Where do they find these guys? There isn’t a beer belly in sight.

My wife’s head is on a swivel, unsure where to look. Abs, male titties (the firm kind) and touches poke through tight fabric everywhere I look. Had the Albondigas not been excellent, they would have put me off my food.

I message Hailey (my daughter) from under the table.

Hey, what you up to?

Not much, you?

Mom’s taken me to this restaurant. It’s full of hot guys. Help me.

Wait! Is it that Spanish place? I know someone who works there.

One of the Enriques?

Tell mom to get a picture with Fernando. He’s the only real Spanish guy there.

Asking my wife to get a picture with one of these guys is the last thing I feel like doing, but I trust Hailey and go along with it.

After the meal, an Enrique brings us the bill.

“Um. Excuse me,” My wife twirls her hair like a little girl. “Is there any chance I might get a photo with Fernando?”

She bats her eyelids so fast her eyelashes are a blur.

“Sure, anything for a señorita like yourself.”

His voice is smooth, like syrup on a pancake. Wearing tight pants does that to you.

He walks off to call Fernando. My wife turns on her selfie camera and starts checking her hair and makeup.

“You always make fun of Hailey when she does that.” I murmur.

“Shutup!” She snaps. “I want to look my best.”

The swing doors burst open.

Silence descends onto the restaurant as a burly figure waddles into the room. His white shirt is stained with dark circles around his pits. His pants hang to one side, exposing a chunk of ripped, faded boxers.

Hair sprouts from his ears and nostrils. He looks like he hasn’t shaved for a week.

Walking over, he claps one of his meaty hands onto my wife’s back.

“Hello little lady. I am Fernando.”

“Hi.” My wife squeaks.

He clamps her phone between two yellow fingernails and holds it up. Squeezing closer, he puts his unshaven face up to hers and takes the selfie.

I can smell the pimientos on his breath from where I’m sitting.

Handing the phone back to my wife, he runs a hand affectionately through her hair.

“All these other chicos, they’re not really Spaniards. I’m the only real Latin lover.”

He drops his hand down her back. She flinches, an involuntary yelp slipping through her lips.

Fernando makes his way back into the kitchen, scratching his armpit as he walks. He pauses to sniff his fingers, then disappears through the door.

My wife straightens out her dress and starts fixing her hair.

“D’you want anything for dessert?”

She glares at me.

“No. And we’re never coming here again. Ever.”

She storms off to the bathroom.

I text Hailey.

Luv ya. You’re the best xxx

You owe me ;)

It would mean a lot of lifts to and from the mall, but it was worth every second.



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Daniel Caruana Smith

Daniel Caruana Smith


Daniel is a writer, senior teacher and geographer based in Malta. His main passion is empowering students to fulfill their aspirations and reach their goals.