A Spanish girl gets into hot water for spilling soup on a customer.

by Neville Moore

Date: 07 June 1993

From: Sam Salzenberg <ssalzen01@failsaver.com>

To: Matthew Brock <mattbrock@failsaver.com>

Subject: Spanish Report #1 (FYEO!)

Hi Matt,

Thought I’d drop you a line to keep you posted on events here on the Spanish trip. I suppose the executive summary would be in the area of pretty good. Segurasa went without a hitch – they lapped up my presentation, and bought the whole package, lock stock and barrel. But the big fish, as you know, is the Spanish government contract. I’m meeting a high-level official tomorrow for lunch in Madrid, so I guess there’ll be some news to report tomorrow evening. For now, I thought I’d let you know why I had to reschedule last evening’s two appointments. Not because it makes a whole lot of difference to the big picture, but because it’s a darn funny story. So pull up a chair and remember this is FYEO.

As you know, my Spanish is still pretty basic, so I’ve been using Alfonso as an interpreter and general facilitator since I arrived here. Thanks for hooking us up, by the way – he’s a great guy, and it’s not often you get to chew the fat on the last World Series out here in the boondocks. Well, yesterday morning after the Segurasa meeting he suggested we take a few hours out for a drive out of town and have lunch in one of those out of the way roadside inns. “Get away from the bustle of city life,” as he put it. I think he just wanted to show off his new BMW, truth be told. Anyway, a couple hours later there we were cruising along some sort of interstate, nothing much around us except mountains and the occasional old campesino with a mule, like something straight out of Don Quixote. It might have been about one thirty, which is pretty early to eat by Spanish standards, but my stomach still hadn’t quite gotten over the jetlag and was telling me dinner time, so we stopped in at the first taberna or whatever they call them here, a roadside joint on the edge of some kind of little village like in the wilds of Texas. The place was pretty empty apart from the pinball and Jurassic slot machines, and we took a table right by the window because Alfonso wanted to keep an eye on his car, which tended to arouse quite a lot of interest among the locals any place we stopped over. Over in the corner there were four little old guys playing cards, and one of them who we thought might be the owner was calling out for the waitress just as soon as we sat down.

Well, turned out that the waitress was a young girl about eighteen or nineteen, I’d guess, medium height, with long dark hair and big brown eyes, poured into a sassy little dress with a short skirt, all in all pretty easy on the eye. We both ordered soup followed by entrecote a la pimienta, and a bottle of the local wine (driving laws being pretty lax around these parts). The girl smiled and took our order but you could see her mind was on something else. So, she heads off to the kitchen and the conversation with Alfonso gets onto women, which turns out to be yet another subject he’s a world expert on. Well, I won’t go into his theories right now in case your secretary gets to read this, but let’s just say that like all Spanish men he’s sold on Swedes and Brits and doesn’t have too much time for the local talent, quite unfairly, I think. Anyway, at that moment out comes the waitress again, this time holding a tray with our two soups and the wine and a couple glasses – like I say, this place was pretty rudimentary, and there wasn’t much laid out when we got there – and it just happened that when she was just coming up beside the table her hair falls over her eye and she kind of tosses her head, the wine bottle on the tray starts to wobble, and to stop it falling over she jerks the tray. Result, one of the bowls of soup slides over to the edge of the tray, splashes over the table and my shirt and pants, and one of the glasses falls on the floor and breaks, and the bottle falls over on its side anyway. So far, so Three Stooges – in the female version I mean. I guess it just wasn’t her day.

OK, so Alfonso jumps up and starts to berate this girl, the two of them chattering in Spanish, where other than noticing she has a hickey on the side of her neck which the hair was arranged to cover up, all I can figure out is that the girl is apologizing a hundred times and is nearly in tears, and I’m sitting there with a couple fairly hefty soup stains soaking through my clothes and wondering if I’ll have time to get back to the hotel to change before this afternoon’s meeting. The next thing I hear is that Alfonso is demanding to speak with the manager. So the girl goes through and calls him and after quite some considerable time a man in his fifties or sixties appears, with black hair combed over his dome with about a pound of axle grease to keep it in place, and the sort of cascading lined face that makes you think he’s spent his whole life studying the mating habits of the bullfrog.

With my limited Spanish I gathered Alfonso was telling him we were businessmen and due at an important meeting in the city, and that this was going to wreck our schedule, and how could he hire someone as clumsy as this. So this old guy turns towards the girl and says something like: “Monica, me la vas a paggar”. The girl goes pale (apart from the hickey), he grabs her by the arm and motions us to follow them through, all under the watchful gaze of the old veterans in the corner who have by now forgotten all about their card game.

Next thing, we’re in the room back of the restaurant and opposite the kitchen, kind of a simple living room with a sofa and a TV in the corner, all pretty rustic, with a passage leading off down one side with an old fashioned stand for washing clothes. The old manager says something to Alfonso and he translates for me; the offer is that the girl, Monica, will wash and press my shirt and pants herself. I tell Alfonso to tell them that I don’t have time for that and we’d better just head back to the hotel so that I can change for my next meeting. To which Alfonso replies: “If I were you, Sam, I’d cancel the meetings. We’ve got some real entertainment laid on for us right here, and besides, I’m not walking into the hotel with you dressed in soup stains.” So thinking about it I reckoned that the meetings could be postponed quite easily, and told him to let her go ahead if she thought she could get the stains out before they dried in. Ever the peacemaker, me. It seemed to be what everyone wanted, except maybe the girl herself, who seemed to be hanging on every word we said and getting redder and more uncomfortable by the minute.

Well, then came the real surprise. The manager then turned to me and said, with Alfonso translating meanwhiles, that the girl, Monica, couldn’t be fired because she was kind of part of the family even if her parents were now in Germany, and that she was really a good girl and very well behaved generally and he had great hopes for her, even if she was a little clumsy and absent minded, but a fault was a fault and she had to be punished. As soon as she heard that the girl started crying and saying: “Por favor,” but the old guy just ignored her and took me outside to the corridor, told me to wait a minute, and came back with an old bathrobe. I understood, and quickly slipped out of my shirt and pants, which I handed to him before the two of us went back into the salon, with me now arrayed in this guy’s moth-eaten robe and feeling like a future prince of the Paris catwalks. Not.

The manager gives my clothes to the girl and barks an order. She quits crying, takes them over to the washstand and opens the faucets, looking pretty nervous and uncomfortable all the while. Next thing I know this old guy has a long wooden stick, like a cane, in his hands, and – you’re not gonna believe this – is lifting up the back of the girl’s skirt and tucking it into the waistband of her apron, revealing the purtiest ass you ever saw, assuming, that is, that your tastes in such matters lean toward plenty. She was wearing plain white panties, but given all the estrogen kicking around in there, there was quite a lot there that the panties didn’t have much of a hope of covering up. Alfonso turned to me and said in a stage whisper: “Remember, you’re the one who wanted entrecote.” I guess the girl must have heard that last word because her neck immediately went scarlet right up to the hair roots.

Well, it was now pretty plain what this guy had in mind, and the girl was sobbing a bit and not saying much other than just: “Por favor.”

At this point Alfonso turned to me and explained that on account of we were in a hurry the manager had decided not to interrupt the necessary and urgent chore of her washing the stains out of my outfit, but to see to her punishment while she was actually doing that. So the manager once again barked to her to see about washing out those stains, at the same time as he was taking a step back and taking aim with that long stick. I guess at that moment I thought: ‘Hey, I’m the American here, I should be intervening to safeguard human rights in a high conflict zone,’ but the moment I thought seriously of stopping this old guy, I discovered I really was curious to see what happened when a Spanish female ass entered into direct communication with a long thin wooden cane like the one this old guy had. Face up, Matt, it’s not the kind of thing you get to see every day, even out here.

So I said nothing, but just watched as the stick came in to land with a crack and the girl, Monica, jumped half out of her skin. I guess I jumped a bit too; I mean, this old man wasn’t messing around. So now you can picture the scene; one pair of thin panties, two hot quivering ass cheeks, and three pairs of eyes stuck on them. If you count the card players out there in the restaurant, I guess you could also add that there were seven pairs of ears homing in there also, four of them pretty close to that big wooden door I’d bet. But the girl didn’t make that much of a noise, not until about the fifth stroke of that almighty cane, which was when she kind of started to lose the plot a little. Up to then it had been just little stifled yelps and sobs and little jumps, where the old guy was barking at her and I guess telling her to hurry up and get those clothes clean, because after each whack her hands kind of shook and obviously wanted to go and check out the damage, but after a pause she would just go on scrubbing the stain out of my shirt and trying to act as if having your ass whacked while you’re washing clothes at the washstand is just a day in the life of your average senorita. But after that fifth one, well, she let out kind of a howl and dropped my clothes in the washstand and backed up against the wall.

So the old guy says something to her and she just shakes her head and goes: “No, por favor.” Which I can kind of understand because by then her ass was really in quite a mess, I mean, we’re talking just two stripes short of Old Glory here. Anyway, that was when the old guy looks at me kind of deliberately and says something, and Alfonso translates, and what it is, is he wants me to take over the job. Absolutely no kidding.

So that was how I ended up with this Spanish girl across my lap. The idea of sitting down to the job was mine, I reckon it helped to persuade her to ease up and take her punishment, knowing that all she’d be getting from then on was my hand, and I also think she likely saw me as a soft touch since I hadn’t said much up to that point. All the same, she played along with it pretty well, I mean, I didn’t have to exert myself too much to get the sort of noises out of her I really, really wanted to hear, I mean the kind of noises most guys I know went into mourning for the day Monica Seles gave up playing tennis. If I didn’t hurt her that much – which wasn’t really my plan – she sure as hell made it sound like I did, I’m thinking for the benefit of the old guy who was paying a lot of attention at this stage. Anyway, all good things come to an end (and in the case of her end, a few bad things also I guess) so after a few swats I said OK, senorita, how about you press my shirt and pants since they oughta be pretty clean by now, and let that be a lesson.

So up she gets after Alfonso has done the translation, and we’re all admiring the Jackson Pollock Study in Scarlet she’s wearing round the back of her, and I’m wondering if she just might have felt something like a tent peg boring into her stomach from below a few moments ago and what the hell I was supposed to do about that. I mean Matt, there ain’t a great deal that I know of more arousing than having an ass like that bouncing around on your lap and the owner of it making like she’s Raquel Welch in the claws of a Pteranodon.

Like I say, all she had to do was press my clothes now, but the fun didn’t end there, because while the girl wanted to pull her dress back down over what was clearly now the room’s visual centerpiece, the old guy had other ideas, and so there was kind of a tussle there over the hem of her skirt for a few moments before the girl resigned herself to being Exhibit A for the next five minutes. So she pulls out the board and starts to press my pants and shirt, and everyone’s silent for a while (apart from a bit of sobbing) until that’s done, and I’m thinking about my entrecote and wondering if it’s still warm enough to eat. I mean we were only there because I was hungry, and we still hadn’t had a bite (well, not that kind). At this point Alfonso disappears for a moment and comes back with the wine and two glasses, and the next minute he’s grinning and raising his glass in a toast to the colorful spectacle there in front of us. Finally the pants and shirt are ready, so I go out to the corridor and change back (accommodating the tent peg as best I could) and we’re ready to hit the road, Jack.

The girl, Monica, at this point seemed pretty glad to see us go, and anxious to just disappear into a back room, but the old man took her by the ear and made her stand and apologize to us once more, which she made a good show of. He says something more, which Alfonso translates as: “Please remember Monica is a good girl and very obedient generally, she has no men friends and she’ll make someone a fine wife,” (yep, no kidding) and also that if we came back there again he would personally guarantee us an excellent meal and first class service. Well, when he said the bit about her having no men friends I guess I kind of glanced at the hickey on her neck, which she’d been trying to keep covered as best she could all this time but by now seemed to have half forgotten, and I guess also Alfonso must have looked in the same direction, because the old guy paused for a minute and looked at her a bit more closely and it was only then he saw it.

Well, like I say, Matt, my Spanish isn’t that hot, but when that old guy exploded at her I’m pretty sure I heard the word ‘culo’ about four times in that very long, very irate sentence that came from that old man’s lips at this point, which kind of suggests to me that poor Monica was pretty much under a jinx that day, and that she definitely would not be sleeping on her back that night. But well, we weren’t about to stick around and watch Part Two, which would have been intruding I guess, so we just said thank you and left.

It was just when we’d gotten into the car and Alfonso had his key in the ignition that we heard very faintly something like a crack and an unmistakable female howl followed by a bit of shouting. Alfonso turned to me and said: “Just imagine. You go to all that trouble to get some foreign guy interested in marrying your niece, and then she goes and spoils it by having some other muchacho’s mark on her neck. I tell you, young Monica will not be doing a lot of sitting down in the next three days.”

I nodded, and the car whisked us away while I started wondering about where the hell we were going to get food between here and Madrid. That was when Alfonso half turns to me again and lets out: “By the way, I often wondered what it meant when I read in English novels about ‘tipping the waitress’. I suppose I have to say thank you for the demonstration. You tipped her over pretty good back there.”

Which struck me as a pretty good joke and just about wraps up the story I guess. (I’ll leave out about the red-light club we went to later that evening, although you might argue there was kind of a hidden causal connection in there somewhere.) Like I say, Matt, I’ll be sending more reports as soon as there’s progress, especially with the Government bid. Till then, say hi to that cute secretary of yours from me and make sure she doesn’t get to read any of this – she might, you know, start getting ideas, and end up spilling your coffee. And you wouldn’t want that to happen, Matt, now would you?



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