What's in a Name?

One of the fast-food places my wife and I like is Baja Fresh. As you might have surmised from the name, if you aren't familiar with the chain, they serve Mexican food, and tasty stuff it is, too.

I used to fool myself into thinking I was eating healthy when I dropped by Baja -- there's no MSG, no lard, nothing frozen, all grilled fresh -- until I got online and checked out the fat content in the chicken Ultimo.

This baby blows the doors off the Burger King Double-Whopper with Cheese and Bacon, we are talking the heart-attack special, here, and if you feel really brave, you can get it enchilado-style, which is all of the above, but drenched in melted cheese and mole sauce ...

Well over a thousand calories, enough fat to make Richard Simmons cry.

I limit myself to one of these a month.

But fast, fat, and delicious aside, there is one thing about the place that strikes me as odd. For some reason, the girls behind the counter cannot ever seem to get my name right. I give them my order, they total it up, then ask me for my name, which they will call out when the food is ready.

"Steve," I say. I make it a point to say it very clearly.

Nearly every time, I get a puzzled look. "Steef?"

"Steve. Estevo. Short for Estaban?"

Usually, this doesn't help. It's always amusing to wait to see what name they write down -- it's printed at the top of the ticket, and I've seen "Deve," or "Teef," or "Steeb." But the most recent one is my favorite. After watching the young woman frown after I told her my name thrice, I spelled it out for her: "Steve. Spelled S-t-e-v-e."

I smiled. She smiled. Tapped in the name, handed me the ticket and my drink cup.

At the top, it said, "Ted ..."

Ted?

Never a dull moment.