Right after I ordered, another guy stepped up to the counter. He was clearly a worker—looked like a painter—and he didn’t speak any English. He tried to order by pointing at his phone.
The guy behind the counter asked, “Small or large?”
The worker just kind of shrugged—he didn’t understand.
Without missing a beat, the guy behind the counter smiled and said, “poquito or grande?”
The worker lit up a little and said, “Grande.”
Then came the drink. The worker said “Coke,” but there were a bunch of options. Instead of getting frustrated, the guy behind the counter slowly pointed to each one until he landed on the right can.
“Sí, sí,” the worker said.
Then he wanted fries. He said “papas,” trying to get the idea across. The guy behind the counter pulled out his phone, brought up a picture of french fries, and showed it to him.
“Sí, sí,” again.
He rang everything up, turned the screen, and pointed to the total so the worker could understand. The whole time, he was calm, patient, and genuinely kind.
It just stuck with me.
In a world where it feels like these kinds of interactions can so easily turn rude or dismissive, this guy—who is also likely an immigrant—took the time to meet someone where they were, figure it out, and make sure he got a good lunch.
No frustration. No attitude. Just two people finding a way to understand each other.
It was a small thing, but it didn’t feel small at all.
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