domo very much, senor roboto?

I took the time to think back to all the jobs I've had since I started working at age 17. All in all, counting part time jobs, temporary gigs, anything for which I received payment, I counted 17 different jobs. And since Monday of this week, I can add one more to the list, one for which I'm completely unqualified: Japanese cook.

I was about to write the name of the restaurant for which I was hired, but realized that might be a bad idea because if people know where I work, that might directly result in people NOT going to my restaurant. That's bad for business. But anyway, I was hired for a new branch of a restaurant opening in December, but since I have no experience, I'm spending this week and next week training at an established branch of the franchise.

The biggest challenge of learning the job is that the supervisor, Tori, speaks Japanese, but he does not speak English well. And the woman training me in the kitchen, Gladys, as well as all the rest of the kitchen staff, speaks Spanish, but does not speak English well. And I speak Japanese and Spanish much worse than either of their attempts at English. So, of course, what do I revert to when people do not understand me? American Sign Language, which I also do not know that well, and they most certainly do not understand at all. And really, does it help at all to sign the phrase "I like big sea turtles?" Maybe at the beach, but not at this job. I get many blank stares, and in the case of Tori, a constant look of disgust because he has to babysit me. Sometimes, while I'm struggling for a word to explain what I want to say, I'll accidently use Tagalog, the national language of the Philippines. Pretty much I'll say whatever I want to say in three or four different ways including pantomime and drawing pictures until I think they understand me. Sometimes I accidentally say "Domo" (thank you) to Gladys and "Gracias" to Tori. Sometimes I say "Tamagotchi" (japanese virtual toy pet) instead of "yakoniki" (japanese rib eye steak). Sometimes, when I'm really desperate, I break out the lyrics to "La Bamba" just to get a glint of recognition from someone's eyes. As you could imagine, conversation is limited.

The one phrase I can always understand any of them say to me is "No good," usually in regards to something I've cooked, cut, or otherwise come close enough to somehow ruin. It's a direct translation of what they are thinking without any of the euphemisms one usually hears to make the connotation less stinging such as, "not quite, but good try!" or "you'll get it next time, tiger!"

Despite the language barrier, me gusta el trabajo mucho. I'm getting paid to learn how to cook. I deep fry tempura and grill salmon teriyaki. Today I learned how to prepare the heads of prawn for some unknown dish. Don't know if this is common knowledge, but it was news to me: if you deep fry a giant prawn, you should first squish its eyes because the water inside will explode in the oil and possibly burn you. Tori was trying to explain this to me in broken English; I just copied what he did and squished an eyeball when he squished an eyeball causing a fine mist of black eyeball juice to spray all over his apron. He ignored it, but said soon afterwards, "How long did they say you need to train here?"

Usually, I would hate a job if my boss knew I sucked at it, take for instance Fed Ex. But, I think I'm less discouraged by Tori's completely disregard for me, probably because he is an old Japanese man and I assume, therefore, he is wise and must treat all seekers of truth this way. Everything he says seems like it's slathered with the brilliance of Confucius, "Armin, you did not wash your hands after using the bathroom." Oh, and some guy delivered bags of rice and to say thank you, Tori slapped him on the ass, just as Lao Tzu was known to do many centuries ago*.

I've only been training three days so far, but I think I've already gotten on Gladys' nerves. Mustering all the English she could, she said very clearly, "This is my side of the counter. That is yours." Oh, and when Tori was laughing in contempt when I overcooked the tamago (japanese omelet) because it was burning my fingers too much to flip it over, I heard Gladys say to him, "Temporary," I assume referring to the fact that I'd only be training with them for another week and a half and then i'd be the new restaurant's problem. Then there was the time that I asked her where the chicken was, "De donde esta pollo?" She said, "Wrong one," because it turns out I was talking to Flor, the dishwasher, who other than being short and Mexican, does not look anything like Gladys. I pretended my eyes were burning from onions, "Muchas cebollas!" and hid in the corner for a half hour.

I have only three more days of work at FedEx and I'm going to assume there will be no going away party for me the last day. But, I'm confident I'll often think back to the good friends and everlasting relationships I made in my three weeks there. I'll never forget Bill who liked to drink coffee. Or Brandon who was a Caucasian. Oh, and who could forget that guy who wore the baseball cap on his head. Good times.

* I realize neither Confucius nor Lao Tzu were Japanese. Neither is the California roll... is that going to stop you from eating it?