In my early adulthood, when I first traveled to Europe, I was scared as hell. I was frightened I wouldn't have enough money to get back home, and that I would have a kidney stolen. Turns out I had plenty of money for my cheap style of traveling, and when I ran out of that money, I SOLD a kidney to return home. (Wasn't my kidney.)

I also feared I didn't know enough French to communicate effectively. So I crammed, because etiquette dictates that you should at least attempt to speak the predominant language of the country in which you find yourself, even if it is just to ask if they can speak your language. Turns out I didn't need much French beyond simple phrases like "please," "thank you" and "I didn't know she was your wife."

This past Saturday morning, I chanced upon a man here in D-FW who didn't know much about this linguistic etiquette, or even much about avoiding being a jackass.

I'm seated at a cafe table when a couple with a baby sits down next to me. The first thing I notice is that the man talks way too loud. Like an outta-work DJ. He is also wearing those annoying, tiny black hipster glasses that make you want to punch somebody, preferably his father, in the junk, after you've time-traveled.

"I hear the enchiladas are very good here," he says to the sleepy-eyed wife. And I know right then, from the way he over-pronounces "an-chee-lah-dosss," that he is one of them – The People Who Try to Impress You With Their Spanish.

Our Hispanic waitress approaches, and his hipster glasses magnify widening eyes as they feast on her skin tone.

"What can I get for you?" she asks with a Southern drawl.

"Um, buenos dias, uno momento," he says in a frenzy. "Actually, we will have a leche frio for the niñas. And can I have uno coffee, um noir, and some, uhh, how do you say pancakes in Spanish?"

"I don't know. We just call them pancakes," the waitress says with waitress weariness.

"Ah. Do you have tacos?" (pronounced "dock-ose")

"Yes. You want those?"

"No. I was just wondering if you had them."

I wanted to say, "Look, moron. She speaks English and so do you. This is America. I lost a kidney in France fighting for your right to be a fake Mexican, so just order your Western omelet and shut the hell up."

But I didn't.

"OK. I'll have the Western omelet," he says. "S'il vous plaît."

Hear Gordon on "The Ticket" KTCK-AM (1310) weekdays from 5:30 to 10 a.m. E-mail him at gordon@gordonkeith.com.

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