Like a moth to a flame, or a finger to an enchilada plate
Nearly every time I eat at a Mexican restaurant, the waiter or
waitress tells me
”
Watch out, your plate is hot
”
as they place it on the table in front of me. I appreciate the
warning, because I don’t like burning myself.
Like a moth to a flame, or a finger to an enchilada plate
Nearly every time I eat at a Mexican restaurant, the waiter or waitress tells me “Watch out, your plate is hot” as they place it on the table in front of me. I appreciate the warning, because I don’t like burning myself.
The trouble is, every time they say that I am compelled to touch the plate to see just how hot it is. It’s like I’m a little kid who is told not to look under the Christmas tree at all the presents that are there for me.
While in the server’s mind he or she is offering a friendly warning, in my mind they are daring me to see if they are telling the truth.
The touching of the hot plate has become such a ritual that my teenage sons now touch their allegedly hot plates when we are out to eat. They shoot me a knowing glance when they do this, full of pride that they took the imaginary dare and stared danger in the face – with danger in this case being a taco and burrito combination plate.
Recently, when we ate at Jardine’s in San Juan Bautista, the waiter gave us the standard hot plate warning, which I appreciated – then immediately ignored. The plate was warm, for sure, though not hot.
My son’s friend’s plate, however, was actually beyond hot. It was fajita plate hot, where the food is still bubbling and sizzling when it arrives at the table, even though he just ordered two burritos.
To my shock and surprise, the hot plate warning actually was real. Since there were three teenage males in addition to my wife and me at the table, we all had to touch the plate.
“Ow!” one of us said. “Wow, that is hot!” said another.
We were like moths to a flame or bugs to a windshield. We were also like my old dog that used to try to get in the house through a partially-opened patio sliding door while carrying a stick that was wider than the opening. He’d amble happily toward the house, believing he could bring his stick inside to play with and then “BOOM!” he’d recoil as the stick struck the too-small opening.
Did he learn? Nah. He kept going until we opened the door wider or took the stick out of his mouth. I am not too far advanced from good old Parker.
Back at the restaurant – with the actual hot plate – we were impressed and undaunted at the same time. An actual, real-life hot plate at a restaurant! It was the first time the warning actually made sense. Touching it wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but again, 80 percent of our table was male.
The lone, wise female among us – my wife – merely shook her head in disappointment, no doubt thinking, “This is why women outlive men.”
Had they warned us not to touch the candle in the middle of the table because it was hot, we probably would have run our fingers through it just to double check.
And don’t even tell me that the steak knife is super sharp, because my finger tip will be totally checking that out.
Wow, I’m proud to be a male right now.
Adam Breen teaches newspaper and yearbook classes at San Benito High School. He is a reporter for The Pinnacle and former editor of The Free Lance. Check out his blog at http://thebreenblog.blogspot.com.
