I am currently working on ways to say “I do not care” in languages other than my own native tongue (which, for those of you who may be wondering, is, in fact, English). Learning this phrase in as many languages as possible is not just my attempt to mix it up a bit, but is something that is actually integral to my job. That it may come in handy in other aspects of my life is just a bonus.
It would be far easier if it were only necessary to have “No me importa” roll trippingly off of my tongue, as almost all the kitchen help here in North America “hablan la lengua Espanola” — they speak the Spanish — but, that just doesn’t seem to be enough to convey to them how much I actually do not care.
So, I am going to try it in several other languages, to make a point. Whether or not they will get the point that I am trying to make — that I do not care — well, we will have to wait and see about that. That is, as they say, en el aire (up in the air), which is appropriate, as this is frequently where I would like to send them — up into the stratosphere — courtesy of my big old size nine.
Tussling with the cooks, actually putting my foot up their asses, is not my preferred method — nor should it be anyone’s — of conveying information. That it may one day come to that is in the realm of possibility, but I would like to at least try to exhaust all other possibilities before resorting to something so caveman-like.
What, you may be wondering, is it that I do not care about? Truthfully, in my work life, just about everything. Mainly, though, “no me importa” that the cooks have to chop onions and parsley so that some loser can enjoy them — on the side, of course — with his broiled trout. I imagine that this is the way his mother used to serve it.
I get it, cooks of the world, this is more work for you. The way I look at it though is that you only have to listen to me explain it to you. Trust me, you are getting the condensed version. You did not have to stand there looking interested as the customer described in painstaking detail what he wanted, which amounted to raw diced white onion and minced parsley in a monkey dish. I broke it down for you in as few words as possible. You’re welcome!
While you should be grateful for the fact that you did not have to listen to five minutes of a guy describing what raw diced white onions and parsley is and how he wanted it served on the side, not ON his trout, I get the distinct impression that you were something less than grateful. Your response should have been “Gracias! No Problemo!”. You should have been thanking me. You should have been telling me that it will not be a problem. Of course that is not how this works, that is not how any of this ever works.
The fact that you behaved as if I were going to be the one snacking on raw diced white onions and parsley and, as such, you felt as if you could ignore my request by behaving as if you did not understand (“no comprendo”). Well, that was just not going to fly — with me or with the Mama’s boy in the dining room. As tempting and delicious as that side dish sounded and, regardless of what you told yourself, I did not suggest it nor was I the one who wanted to consume it. Further, you did understand.
You fully understood. You just did not want to do it. Well, guess what? I didn’t want to spend five minutes of my life that I will never get back listening to the whack job with a penchant for root vegetables and herbs tell me that he couldn’t eat his trout any other way. Unfortunately, it is my job to do so. And, unlike you, I couldn’t snarl and adopt an attitude of disdain while I pretended to listen intently. No! I had to smile and nod my head while I listened to his riveting description of onions and parsley. I did so knowing full well that I would be spending the next five minutes of my life (also time that I will never get back) arguing with you about doing something as simple as dicing a white onion and throwing some parsley on top of it — and, of course, putting it into the all-important side dish.
The fact that you put it ON the trout? I know that you did it to be a pain in the ass. I hope that you understood me when I said, “Gracias! No me importa!” as I scraped it into a side dish. I can only hope that I communicated to you in a language that you understood how grateful I was, in that moment and the many others we have enjoyed together as a team, for all of the pains in the asses that I must deal with on a daily basis. The fact that you, my co-worker, falls into that category is, by the way, a crying shame.
I also hope that you understood that bit of sign language I used as I left the kitchen with the ramekin of raw diced white onion and parsley that you worked so hard to screw up in order that I might have to expend minutes that I did not have as I dealt with a full section of needy guests. That particular sign, I think, is universally understood. Thankfully, there is no translation required for the middle finger in the air. After all, nothing says, “No me importa”, “Je ne suis pas de soins”, or even “Interesseert Me niet” like the high sign!