Spanish Lesson: Reading Menus Like a Local

I was sipping an icy Presidente one blistering Tuesday in El Seibo when the waiter slid a handwritten menu across my table. Four stark words stared back: Mondongo, Chenchén, Buche y Pata, Chimichurri Dominicano. My Spanish was already solid—four years in the Dominican Republic had seen to that—yet I felt as if the board had been scribbled in code. I assumed chimichurri meant steak sauce, guessed y pata must involve chicken feet, and had no earthly clue about chenchén. Ramón, the Dominican buddy nursing a Malta by my side, flashed a grin and began translating line by line. Goat tripe stew. Cracked‐corn pilaf cooked in coconut milk. Pig snout and foot braised until gelatinous. A burger, not a condiment. I ordered half a portion of everything and spent the rest of the meal alternating between mild panic and wide-eyed delight.

That chalkboard encounter became the spark for this essay. A decade of island living—and plenty of weekend hops across to Colombia—has turned reading menus into a daily language lesson, an anthropology workshop, and sometimes even a comedy routine. What follows is not a tidy checklist but the winding path that led me from confusion to confidence, peppered with the words, conversations, and “watch-out” moments that matter most when an expat tries to eat like a local.

The Menu as Story, Not a Shopping List

Dominican cooks rarely cling to standardized recipes. If the catch is fresh, sancocho de pescado appears; if not, yesterday’s beef bones morph into asopao with rice and cilantro. Handwritten boards and chalk smudges therefore read more like daily diaries than permanent signs. In Santo Domingo’s colmados I learned to scan for salty scribbles—an extra swirl of chalk often means a dish sold out at lunch and has been hastily replaced. Two hours west in San Juan de la Maguana, the same phenomenon happens with chenchén: supply dries up, the board stays put, and the cook simply shouts, “¡Hoy no hay, mi amor!” before suggesting a mound of white rice instead.

Colombian eateries share that improvisational spirit but swap coconut milk for mountain herbs or Andean potatoes. In Medellín, the cook might nix bandeja paisa on a rainy afternoon when the plantains aren’t ripening fast enough. You still see the name chalked up—part of local pride—but the waitress will casually steer you to sobrebarriga al horno or a lighter ajiaco. The lesson is universal: read the menu for context, then confirm aloud.

A Table for Translating Dominican Menus

Early on, I started jotting translations inside the flap of my wallet. It soon grew into the cheat-sheet below—still pocket-sized, still coffee-stained, and still saving me from uninvited surprises.

A Back-Porch Dialogue in Cabrera

The day I finally ordered buche y pata without stuttering, I found myself on a breezy veranda facing the Atlantic. Below is almost word for word how that exchange unfolded.

Fifteen slow bites later, the gelatinous texture made perfect sense—think pork belly meets bone broth. I ordered seconds.

Crossing the Mona Passage to Colombia

Colombia, with its Andes, coasts, and Amazonian fringe, layers vocabulary on vocabulary. A Bogotá chalkboard whispering sobrebarriga left me clueless the first time. A Cartagena vendor advertising posta negra tricked me into thinking fish was on offer; in reality it was molasses-braised beef. Over the years, the pattern became clear: the same Spanish root rarely points to the same part of the animal, spice level, or cooking method.

The next chart captures the Colombian words that trip up even veteran expats.

A Medellín Fonda Scene

One rainy night in the Laureles neighborhood I flagged down a waiter wearing a Medellín jersey. The aroma in the dining room hinted at six hours of slow roasting.

The tension melted. So did the beef.

When One Word Means Two Very Different Things

Nothing highlights regional nuance better than ordering a chimichurri in Santo Domingo and receiving a dripping street burger instead of a parsley-garlic steak sauce. Dominican Spanish borrowed the word for its famous chimichurris—griddle-smashed patties smothered in secret pink sauce. Meanwhile, Colombian chefs stay loyal to the original Argentine condiment. Likewise, a Dominican empanada is wheat-flour dough puffed in oil, whereas a coastal Colombian empanada shows up as a cornmeal pocket with potato inside and a peanut-laced ají on the side. Context is everything—and the only reliable clue is the map in your head.

Ingredient Words That Slip Past Textbooks

Casual menus rarely mention individual flavors, yet one herb can define an entire region. Dominican stews lean on ají gustoso, a fragrant pepper that smells fiery but tastes sweet; Colombian soups come alive with guasca, an Andean herb absent from island markets. The table below pairs words with culinary identities rather than dictionary definitions.

Little Rituals That Keep Surprises Pleasant

Every confident menu session begins the same way for me. I look the waiter in the eye and ask how the kitchen prepares a dish “aquí, en esta casa.” Those five words unlock details no chalkboard can capture. If I think I know the ingredient? Still ask. One evening I assumed longaniza would resemble mild Spanish chorizo. The Dominican version nearly blew sparks out of my ears, stuffed as it was with Scotch bonnet and sour orange. A simple ¿Pica mucho?—does it pack heat?—would have saved my palate.

Another quiet routine involves arriving early when street stalls first heat their oil. Fresh batches mean less cross-flavor contamination, and vendors love showing off spotless pans. Curiosity turns into camaraderie; camaraderie turns into bigger samples. By the time the lunch rush floods in, you’re the familiar face who already knows the lay of the land.

Equally important is remembering that chalkboards lie by omission rather than intention. If moro de guandules has been wiped out, a Dominican cook will pivot to white rice without changing the board. It is not deceit—it is island pragmatism. Confirm with a quick ¿Todavía tienen…? before committing.

A Final Spoonful of Habichuelas con Dulce

Back on that roadside patio in El Seibo, after Ramón finished decoding the menu, I ordered the goat, the corn pilaf, and yes, the pig snout. The cook emerged from the kitchen holding a small bowl of warm, dusky‐pink dessert. “Para que pruebes algo dulce,” she said, sliding it to me with a wink. It was habichuelas con dulce, a sweet bean pudding I’d written off as odd until that moment. The cinnamon floated on coconut, the raisins bobbed like small boats, and the cream drizzled across the top turned each spoonful into a lullaby.

When the waitress collected our plates, she offered one last slice of advice: “El menú es un cuento; si lo lees completo, entiendes la historia.” The menu is a story; read it start to finish, and you’ll grasp the plot.

That counsel has served me ever since, whether squinting at sun-bleached boards in a Dominican mountain town or scanning sea-sprayed chalk in Cartagena. Every unfamiliar word is an invitation—an entry point into family recipes, regional pride, and dialects that never make the textbooks. Accept the invitation. Ask the next question. Taste the next mystery. And if your first spoonful feels strange? Smile, thank the cook, and tell them you’ve just learned a new chapter of the story.

Buen provecho, mi gente. Que no se les queme el concón.Tools