Forbidden Tortillas, or How I Mortified My Spanish Teacher

A man is sentenced to homework after committing an unforgivable crime at the supermercado.

Photo by Carlos Perales on Unsplash

Some nights ago I overheard a grown-ass man in his mid-thirties remark to his wife, in the whiniest and most unbecoming voice he could muster, “I hate school! I hate bedtime!”

That man’s name? Albert Einstein. Just kidding, it was me.

Why? ¿Por qué? Because — porque — I had to go to school the next day. NO, I thought, I want to keep playing video games! I don’t WANT to go to bed! I hate everything!

It turns out I’m not done with school and learning stuff. Like most Americans, the education system of my home country did not instill in me a value for learning. I was taught, instead, to value popularity and money. That would explain the current national predicament, but I’ll keep the political invectives brief: something, American exceptionalism, something something.

Now that I’ve moved to España, I have to be a truly exceptional (US)American and accept that the world doesn’t revolve around me. Pfffftt. Whatever.

Thankfully Spaniards have tolerated my shortcomings… so far. I’m trying. Take, for example, the Spanish audio lessons I’ve practiced; these have been instrumental in building some social credit with my newfound neighbors. They do appreciate my efforts to use their words mostly incorrectly at inappropriate times. It reminds them of what it would be like to be equal parts stupid and insane, to the exclusion of all other qualities.

The lessons my wife and I have been practicing were produced long ago. Colloquial Spanish language use has changed since then. Moreover, these lessons prominently feature meeting random women at hotels, or abruptly arriving at their homes and asking whether the husband is present; announcing the possession of money to such women; and, how could I possibly forget: upon meeting a woman, always asking her if she wants to get a drink (en el hotel). Just to be clear, my wife and I just wanted to learn Spanish. There were no sensual obstacles we were trying to overcome with our move abroad, to our knowledge.

The teachings of these lessons, however, have nothing to do with how I mortified my new Spanish teacher.

I’ll introduce her. She's a world traveler from southern Spain. She mentioned deliberately adjusting her accent to accomodate us so that we sound normal-ish in Galicia. We probably won’t. Anyway, it turns out Andalusians don't pronounce the /s/ sound, like, at all — hasta luego becomes ahta luego. As an American, I like pretending to know everything, but honestly I didn't know that. While our teacher was very careful not to imprint her accent (or dialect?) on my wife and me, she is providing much-needed context for people new to Spain like us.

Truly, we couldn’t have found a sharper and more enthusiastic Spanish teacher. Her style? Perfecto, at least as far as we’re concerned.

During our in-person lesson, the first of many, there was a transgression committed by… well, you know who. Who else? When it comes to your need to have horrors burned into your memory forever, there’s no better blog than Bebop Libre. And no, I didn’t solicit our Spanish teacher for a drink. I didn’t show up to her home and tell her I have mucho dinero, shout INTERNATIONAL! at her, or anything of the sort.

Here is, to my shame, what I did…

I managed to make my teacher recoil in disgust at what I thought was an innocuous comment. Apparently this was no laughing matter to her. What, you wonder? Reese, what did you say to this poor woman? What did you DO? Okay, fine, I may have accidentally mentioned that I buy premade tortillas — the kind made of eggs and potatoes — from the grocery store. Not all of the time, just sometimes. I mean it’s not like I just eat them straight from the packaging. There’s effort involved in frying them, of course. I’m not completely disgusting. So to demonstrate my mastery of the Spanish language to our teacher, I called them “tortillas del supermercado.” That was a mistake.

Because she looked at me as if she might die.

It has become clear (claro) why the clerks gaze upon me with fear and disgust when I put these affronts to Spanish culture in my basket. Apparently it’s an atrocity, not far off from a war crime to be adjudicated by an international tribunal. Never, under any circumstances, get caught buying these tortillas from the store. It’s morally wrong, probably illegal even. Do not joke about it. Doing so can cause instantaneous brain death in a Spaniard.

Thankfully our Spanish teacher did not collapse or dematerialize, handling the emergency situation I created with a reflexive command. First, she informed me of the best establishment to find an tortilla here in Santiago. Then she demanded I eat one before I was to look her in the eyes again. That was my homework. She also told me that, if she were being honest, authentic tortillas must forgo onions (sin cebolla).

The ones I’ve been buying from the supermercado had onions in them (con cebolla), but I decided not to mention that.

Onions versus no onions is a point of contention fought over by Spaniards, constantly. There’s also the matter of whether authentic paella can include seafood. “It does not,” our teacher told us, “but it can be very good.” She’s judicious, and further recognized that it’s possible for some people to enjoy Spanish tortillas with onions (con cebolla), even though it’s wrong.

Furthermore, in an abundance of caution and reasonably assuming I cannot do anything correctly, my teacher warned me not to buy sangria from bars. She told me that only the homemade stuff is good, and furthermore that I should instead order “tinto de verano con limón” because it’s cheaper and better. Yes, “summer” wines with lemon are served year-round.

For those of you who plan on traveling to Spain or moving here, I’ll continue exfiltrating valuable information for you. To the Spaniards and long-term residents: I am deeply sorry. That said, you wouldn’t be reading my posts if you didn’t get a sick form of pleasure out of them, so I retract the apology.

As a palate cleanser, I present to you a video of people eating tortillas the right way in the nearby city of Ourense, famed for its hot springs and exceptional longevity.

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Reese here from Bebop Libre: Hasta luego, I need to practice Spanish. Also, like and subscribe or whatever — my teacher told me to say I need at least ten more followers before I can be trusted as a source of journalistic integrity (not really).