Some of you don’t know that I’ve recently started dating someone. I won’t give his full name away because I’m not even sure how he feels about that, so let’s just call him Mr. Jess. I bet he’d be keen on that name anyway. I’ve met many of his friends in Connecticut and some of them invited us Taco Night last Friday.
While in the car gazing at gorgeous Connecticut farmland, Mr. Jess turned to me and said, “There’s one guy that will be there, and I’m curious to know what you’ll think of him.”
“Why is that? Is he weird? An ass?” I asked.
“Eh…he’s…interesting.” Mr. Jess explained that this guy, who we can call Mr. P (P for Pretentious), has been showing up to his soccer games every week and the encounters haven’t been pleasant. He brags about running 15 miles a day (which by the way, if you’re running 15 miles a day and you’re convinced that’s healthy, you have other issues you need to work out). From what Mr. Jess described, he sounded like an egomaniac.
As soon as we walked in the door, Mr. P was standing in the kitchen cooking up a storm. Everyone boasted how great of a chef he was, so I naturally was looking forward to these tacos. As some of you have been reading about for the last two years, I make it pretty known that I’m a TERRIBLE Mexican. My tacos consist of meat and cheese. That’s it. MAYBE a little avocado, if I’m feeling adventurous that evening. The only thing possibly authentically Mexican about me is that I can hold my own when it comes to spicy food. While the girl sitting next to me was sweating through her eyeballs, I was heading over for a second round. I will admit, his tacos were pretty delicious.
That is until he spent twenty minutes explaining the process for cooking the shredded chicken, and the beans, and the perfectly intact corn tortillas. You’d think this guy made a ten course dinner with a lemon drizzled duck displayed with an ice sculpture. THEY’RE TACOS. Probably one of the easiest dishes to learn. One kid asked, “Is there any rice?”
Mr. P smirked and said, “They’re corn tortillas…”
I stopped mid-bite. The kid looked perplexed.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
Mr. P said, “You don’t eat rice with corn tortillas.”
I almost dumped my tacos on his head.
Now, I know what I said before. That I’m a terrible Mexican. But even I knew this was a bag of bologna. I began shifting in my seat and Mr. Jess noticed that I had much to say in this matter. If there is one thing I know about Mexicans from my family and visiting the country a billion and one times, it’s that Mexicans eat rice and tortillas with EVERYTHING. Most even put the rice INSIDE their tacos. My heart was pounding out of my chest. This all felt like a dream. It was hands down the most ridiculous statement I had ever heard.
That’s like saying Italians only eat fettuccine pasta with Alfredo sauce. Absurd.
That’s when I established that this guy made himself sound knowledgeable of things, when in fact, he wasn’t. He’s like that guy in Midnight in Paris who just knows everything about every subject you can think of when what he is saying is wrong 75% of the time. I immediately turned to Mr. Jess to confirm that this in fact, is not a thing.
It gets better guys.
One of the girls offered me a glass of wine. I would normally accept this offer, but lately wine has been slaughtering me. One glass, and I’m that girl walking around town with no shoes. It’s not usually like this, but my body is going through a weird phase so I just have to go with it.
Mr. P asked why I wouldn’t take a glass of wine.
“Well, I threw up from wine last week. It was just really sweet.” This part is true. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I don’t like sweet wine. It makes me feel like I’m on cocaine or something.
“You look like someone who would throw up from drinking…”
I’M NOT ACTUALLY. BUT THANKS.
“I don’t usually. It was a rare occurrence in college, in fact,” I answered with a stone cold face.
“What college did you go to?”
“University of New Hampshire.”
“Oh…that’s why,” he said.
“………………………………………………………………………..what do you mean?” I asked.
At this point, Mr. Jess is picking a mark on the table and staring at it. Although, he did grin at my reaction.
“Well, I went to UCONN.”
“UCONN is a huge party school,” he answered.
“So is UNH….” I shot back.
“No…UCONN parties Monday-Sunday.”
“So does UNH. Our state motto is ‘Live Free or Die’. We take our motto seriously,” I said.
Mr. Jess turned to me and said, “Do you want a brownie?”
I was confused and didn’t understand why he was randomly asking me this, especially since I wasn’t done with my taco.
“COME HAVE A BROWNIE WITH ME.” I realized this was code for “Take an effing brownie and meet me outside to eat it, away from earshot.” I grabbed a brownie and ran outside where he was thrilled to hear that I too, thought this guy was a total douche.
“Oh good. It’s not just me,” he said.
I later learned that Mr. P supposedly spent some time in Mexico City visiting family, which is where he learned to make Mexican cuisine. Gag me.
I know everyone is different in their own way, and I’ve met many, many Mexicans in my life, but I’ve never met one that was so pretentious and egotistical before. Most Mexicans are pretty modest individuals. Let’s just say, I may drink all of the wine next time I’m in a room with him.