I could not be more of a Gringo

I finally went to Rodeo Grill for lunch, and the menu is mostly in Spanish, with pictures for the rest of us. I thought I was safe ordering a #28 (Burrito combo) as I wouldn't have to fumble with my really bad Spanish skills. Then the girl behind the counter asked me things like "Pollo, Asada, Chorizo?" Um...."Steak?" (Asada, for future reference).
Then, inspired by Catherine and Frank and everyone else who's been blogging about the deliciousness of Tres Leches cake, I tried, oh so miserably, to order it. I can pronounce French like crazy, but I sounded like Peggy Hill trying to say "Tres Leches". I finally held up the counter display and pointed at the picture.

Then I hung my head in shame.

But the food was cheap and tasty and the cake--Boy Howdy--it was worth the embarrassment.

Ladies Room update: Baby Daddy Drama was in the Crazy Room this morning straightening her hair with a flat iron. Accompanying her were two friends, one of whom was crying. They were so loud you could hear them down the hall--or at the very least, in the men's room next door. M------, our temp, ventured in to pee (what a concept). Suddenly, Baby Daddy Drama looked at her phone and gasped. It was a text message---from her boss---who was standing out in the hall listening to them carrying on. BDD panicked and asked my co-worker to hold her flat iron so the boss didn't know she was in there doing her hair. So, as far as I know, the flat iron is still in our possession. I suggested holding it for ransom.