The Language Barrier: Lunch

Conventional wisdom states that to ‘make the most’ of being abroad it’s necessary to say yes to anything and everything. This is why I agreed to jump out of an airplane in Argentina despite being gut-wrenchingly terrified of heights. And by heights I mean climbing a stepladder gives me altitude sickness.

‘It’s necessary to say yes to anything and everything’

So when asked, “Quieres venir” (Do you want to come with?) by a woman in the office the other day, I didn’t hesitate to say yes. I hadn’t understood a word of what she had said, but so what?

Firing off an email to Harry, the only other Englishman, asking, “What have I just agreed to?”, I was relieved to find out it was only a spot of lunch. Apart from some potential banana-skins [What if my Mum is right and my table manners really are revolting? What if someone asks to taste my food? Or, worse, what if someone asks me if I want to taste their food?!] how bad could lunch be?

Accidentally taking my seat in the middle of the table, I was presented with a wooden menu. I peered in. Pricey. Seeing as the Wild Crayfish and Avocado sandwich at Pret-A-Manger is an expensive once-a-year treat, after one of these dishes it would be homemade cheese sarnies for a month.

My daily food budget

Understanding only two things on the menu, (pollo, meaning chicken and ravioli meaning, well, ravioli) I asked what some of them meant. When I got “cheek, intenstine and gullet” in response I decided to play it safe. Attempting to linger as close to my budget as possible I ordered a 1/2 racion of pollo.

A bit unsure about ordering a half of something for €8, I was relieved when the first two ½ racion plates came out for my colleagues. Both were huge. And so I waited in triumphant anticipation for my own heaped portion to arrive.

A once-a-year treat

I couldn’t have been more wrong. What came out next, for Jaime (silent J, don’t ask), was a thin slab of slate, topped with an even thinner slab of cheese sprinkled meat. Up next, Laura´s ravioli. Both of them. And Harry’s steak. Eclipsed by a pile of three ready-salted crisps.

Finally, my chicken. Or, rather, a tiny leg from my chicken. Oddly accompanied by a single prawn. By the time I had calculated how many of these I could have got for the same money in Dixy, I had finished it.

Should have gone to Dixy

While everyone began to tot up money for their €20 slithers of meat, bottles of water and deserts, I found solace in my carefully selected €8 chicken and tap water.

So when I overheard someone dividing the bill evenly and arriving at the horrendous figure of €19.50 per head, I took it to be some sort of sick joke. But no. With a terrified look towards Harry that was greeted by an ominously slow nod, that was that. In Spain, bills are split. €19.50 for one chicken leg. And a prawn. More expensive than a skydive.