Go ahead, find the butter. I dare you!
Back at the table, our waitress came by, who had the incredibly difficult task of bringing us our cokes, and, um, well, I guess, finding us again.
And I asked her for butter. It seemed like the logical , and easy way out , thing to do, right?
Au Contraire!
Whichever African country she originated in, evidently they don't have a word for butter. And the more I tried to explain it, the worse she got confused.
And then I did what I always do when I have a language problem with somebody.
I make this feeble attempt to talk in Spanish.
Which, I can't speak either.
"Senora? Uno buttero, por favor?"
yep, that'll work.
I was afraid it was about to get to the point where I am in the aisle on my hands and knees, with Diane standing behind me making the milking motion, and then grabbing the broom from the guy nearbye who was sweeping, and making the "churning" motion, but I got the message across by picking up my bread, and pretending to spread something on it with my knife.
'OH! You want Budder!"
"Si".