The ceiling fan whirred like a lazy helicopter as late-afternoon light spilled through my Santiago de los Caballeros balcony. I was wrist-deep in mashed mangú—those ripe plantains stain your fingernails yellow for days—when my phone pinged with a voice note from Julián in Medellín:
“Parce, alista la olla grande que llevo un ajiaco con el secreto de mi abuela.”
His grandmother’s soup, rumor said, could cure heartbreak and hangovers in a single spoonful. That message set the stage for a bilingual dinner party where Dominican comfort food tangoed with Andean soul—and every guest expanded their Spanish Vocabulary without once opening a textbook.
Invitations That Taste Like Home
Instead of a group chat, I slipped watercolor postcards under apartment doors. Dominicans appreciate the formality; Colombians think it’s delightfully retro. Each card read:
Ven con hambre y con ganas de aprender palabras nuevas.
For my paisa crew I added a wink of slang: La rumba arranca a las siete, pues. Within hours the RSVPs rolled in—voice notes peppered with chévere, parce and the inevitable Dominican ¡jevi, manito! Even the confirmations felt like a mini-immersion session, proof that good parties start with good words.
Pre-Party Prep: Recipes as Grammar Lessons
Sofrito hissed in the caldero, and Julián stirred slices of papa criolla until they collapsed into velvety soup base. Every few minutes he narrated his steps so our English-speaking friends could follow:
“Primero la cebolla se sofríe, luego el maíz le da dulzor.”
Across the counter, Rosa layered plantain strips for a vegetarian pastelón, pausing to ask if desmechar meant the same as shred (it does, but Colombians say desmechar, Dominicans lean on desmenuzar). Laughter ping-ponged over the stovetop while new verbs stuck to memory like caramelized onions to cast iron.
Between chopping and chatting, I sprinkled the primary keyword—Spanish Vocabulary—with the same subtlety I use for sea salt. By appetizer time everyone was tossing out verbs as confidently as they flipped tostones.
Practical Vocabulary
| Spanish | English | Usage Tip |
|---|---|---|
| Anfitrión | Host | “Soy el anfitrión esta noche.” |
| Invitado | Guest | Warm greeting: “Bienvenido, invitado.” |
| Confirmar | To confirm | “¿Puedes confirmar asistencia?” |
| Brindar | To toast | Lift glasses before eating. |
| Sobremesa | Post-meal chat | Vital cultural ritual. |
| Parce (CO) | Buddy | Instant paisa camaraderie. |
| Jevi (DR) | Cool/awesome | Dominican approval. |
| Sazón | Seasoning blend | DR culinary backbone. |
| Aliños (CO) | Seasoning base | Paisa version of sazón. |
| Sofreír | To sauté | First step in most Caribbean dishes. |
| Desmechar (CO) | To shred | Meats, jackfruit, cheeses. |
| Espesar | To thicken | Soups and stews. |
| Ajiaco | Colombian potato soup | Star entrée of the night. |
| Pastelón | Plantain “lasagna” | Dominican comfort. |
| Plátano maduro | Ripe plantain | Sweetens when baked. |
| Papa criolla (CO) | Yellow potato | Melts into broths. |
| Mangú | Mashed plantain | DR breakfast staple. |
| Hogao (CO) | Tomato-onion sauce | Add just before serving. |
| Fríjoles (CO) | Beans | Say habichuelas in DR. |
| Habichuelas (DR) | Beans | Use contextually. |
| Caldero (DR) | Cast-aluminum pot | The rice king. |
| Cucharón | Ladle | Serve soup gracefully. |
| Descorchar | To uncork | Wine or rum bottles. |
| Copita | Small glass | Ideal for liqueurs. |
| Servilleta | Napkin | Keep a stack handy. |
| Fregar | To wash dishes | Volunteer job after dessert. |
| Concho (DR) | Moto-taxi | Late-night ride home. |
| Puntual (CO) | Punctual | Paisas pride themselves. |
| Chin (DR) | A little | “Un chin de sal.” |
| Poquitico (CO) | Tiny bit | Gentler request. |
| Ají gustoso (DR) | Mild pepper | Adds aroma. |
| Cilantro | Cilantro | Some Colombians say culantro. |
| Aguardiente (CO) | Anise liquor | Popular celebratory shot. |
| Mamajuana (DR) | Rum-herb infusion | Potent digestif. |
| Rallar | To grate | Cheese, nutmeg, coconut. |
| Rebanar | To slice | Bread or plantain. |
| Marinar | To marinate | Overnight flavor booster. |
| Hornear | To bake | Essential for pastelón. |
| Gratinar | To broil top | Golden cheese finish. |
| Mezclar | To mix | Dressings and batters. |
| Probar | To taste | “¿Puedo probar?” |
| Agradecer | To thank | Close the evening warmly. |
| Compartir | To share | Food, stories, playlists. |
| Celebrar | To celebrate | Any excuse works. |
| Bailar | To dance | Clear chairs post-dinner. |
| Rumba (CO) | Party/night out | Salsa until dawn. |
| Coro (DR) | Hangout | Dominican word for gathering. |
| Parche (CO) | Hangout | Paisa equivalent of coro. |
| Chinola (DR) | Passion fruit | Maracuyá in CO. |
| Patacón (CO) | Fried plantain disk | Tostón in DR. |
| Tostón (DR) | Fried plantain disk | Crunchy side dish. |
| Postre | Dessert | “¿Hay postre?” |
| Majarete (DR) | Corn pudding | Coconut twist. |
| Arequipe (CO) | Dulce de leche | Sweet drizzle. |
| Botana | Snack | Universal nibble term. |
| Limón verde (DR) | Key lime | Not to be confused with lemon. |
| Panela (CO) | Cane-sugar block | Sweetens drinks. |
| Textura | Texture | Describe crunch or cream. |
| Umami | Savory note | Chef buzzword. |
| Saltear | To stir-fry | Light veggie prep. |
| Degustar | To sample | Formal tasting verb. |
Kitchen Theater: Dialogue Becomes Dessert
Below, every Spanish sentence is followed by its English translation. Notice which lines travel better in Santiago’s humid air or Medellín’s mountain breeze.
—¿Trajiste el “ají no picante” o te confundiste otra vez, parce?
—Did you bring the not-hot pepper, buddy, or did you mix it up again?
—Tranquilo, manito, esta vez vine con todo medido.
—Relax, bro, this time I came with everything measured.
—Necesito que ralles queso para el pastelón.
—I need you to grate cheese for the plantain lasagna.
—De una, pero dime cuál es el lado fino del rallador.
—Sure, but show me the fine side of the grater.
—¿La sopa ya espesó o falta papa criolla?
—Has the soup thickened, or does it need more yellow potato?
—Está casi lista; agrégale un chin de cilantro al final.
—It’s almost ready; add a little cilantro at the end.
—Hora de brindar: que nunca falten historias y sazón.
—Time to toast: may stories and seasoning never run out.
—¡Salud con aguardiente y que viva la sobremesa chévere!
—Cheers with aguardiente, and long live the awesome after-dinner chat!
—Ey, se derramó un trago; pasa la servilleta, vaina mía.
—Hey, a shot spilled; pass the napkin, my bad.
—No pasa nada; así huele más a fiesta.
—No worries; it just smells more like a party now.
—¿Quién se apunta a fregar los platos?
—Who’s up for washing dishes?
—El que más gozó bailando, que agarre el estropajo.
—Whoever danced the hardest, grab the scrubber.
—Negociado: yo limpio si me das el playlist de merengue.
—Deal: I’ll clean if you hand me the merengue playlist.
—Hecho. Y la próxima tú serás el anfitrión en Medellín.
—Done. Next time you’ll be the host in Medellín.
—Con gusto, pero sin “hora isleña,” por favor.
—Gladly, but no island time, please.
—Promesa de dominicano: llegaré puntual… o casi.
—Dominican promise: I’ll be punctual… or almost.
—Seguimos ampliando nuestro Spanish Vocabulary con café tinto.
—We’ll keep expanding our Spanish Vocabulary with black coffee.
—Y con mamajuana para el cierre, ¿te atreves?
—And with mamajuana for the finale—dare you?
—¡Que se arme la rumba otra vez!
—Let the party kick off again!
—Así mismo, y que viva la amistad con sazón.
—Exactly—long live friendship seasoned just right.
Cultural Gems to Avoid Culinary Faux Pas
Tip: In Bogotá, tinto means black coffee, not red wine. Ask for vino tinto if you want Malbec instead of caffeine at midnight.
Insight: Dominicans soften requests with un chin (“a tad”), while Colombians coax with un poquitico. Both shrink portions and charm cooks.
Warning: Many island kitchens flavor rice with chicken bouillon. Verify by asking, “¿El caldo es de verduras o de pollo?” before your vegan guests find out the hard way.
Pro Move: Compliment a Dominican dish with “quedó jevi” and a Colombian plate with “está berraco.” The chef will grin wider than the coconut moon.
The Last Spoonful: Why Words Matter More Than Recipes
At 1 a.m., crumbs of patacón and dribbles of dulce de leche dotted the tablecloth, and Spotify shuffled from Juan Luis Guerra to Carlos Vives. We had devoured bowls of ajiaco, slabs of pastelón, and maybe too many shots of mamajuana, but what filled us most wasn’t food—it was conversation. Every new verb stirred deeper into our memories than any spoon in a soup pot. Crossing the Caribbean between Dominican sazón and Colombian aliños taught us that language seasons life the way oregano lifts beans: quietly, irresistibly.
So plan your own fusion fête. Print this table, stuff your pockets with these phrases, and invite friends who don’t mind correcting your accent while they pass the cilantro. Then circle back here and tell me: Which term—vaina, parche, or maybe a freshly discovered gem—made your guests laugh loudest?
