In the kitchen of a restaurant in a western Chicago suburb, an assistant chef motioned to a busboy and asked him for more clean plates. The busboy said he would open a new box of plates, but asked why the chef didn’t see if one of the dishwashers had washed any.

“Oh, those Pancho Villas? I don’t bother them if I don’t have to,” the chef said.

The chef, an immigrant from Macedonia in Yugoslavia, had not exactly left his prejudices behind when he came to America. The busboy, a white part-time worker from the suburbs, knew the chef pretty well and was not surprised by the remark.

But something bothered him—who the hell was Pancho Villa, anyway? The busboy, who was working on a bachelor’s degree, figured he should know who this guy was if a Yugoslavian assistant chef did.

The chef smiled and said, “I call all Mexicans ‘Pancho Villas’ you know.”

From the slow smile that came to the busboy’s face the chef realized the busboy didn’t know who Villa was. The chef laughed a little.

But the chef liked the busboy and didn’t really want to embarrass him. He told the busboy about a Mexican bandit leader who terrorized the American Southwest 70-odd years ago.

The busboy did not feel better. The chef knew more about American history than he did.

is ignorance could be partially explained by his schooling. Pancho Villa had somehow not been a part of the busboy’s education.

But apart from high-school test crams, his interest in American history was limited to the NFL, the NHL, the NBA, serial killers and bands of the psychedelic era.

“What, do you have to know this stuff to get into America?” the busboy asked.

The chef shrugged his shoulders and said it was normal for Yugoslavian people to learn some basic history about other countries.

He said everyone there also learns French and another language of their choice besides their native language (of which there are quite a few in Yugoslavia).

“Look,” said the chef, leaning closer to the busboy and talking quietly, “I tell you, I can’t believe how Americans are supposed to be the big leaders in the world but they don’t know anything about people in other countries.”

“All around the world your government is involved in different countries. But I come here and I can’t believe Americans don’t even know where Yugoslavia is. I know other people from Yugoslavia here and they say the same thing.”

“At first, it upsets me because I think ‘do they just not care?’ But now, me and my friends, we just think it’s funny.”

By then, the busboy felt it was time to uphold American honor. Unfortunately, none of the American workers at the restaurant, including the manager, said they ever heard of Villa when asked.

“Was that today’s Final Jeopardy answer?” was the most intelligent response the busboy got.

“Now don’t get me wrong,” the chef said, “America is a rich country and I live good here. People here, they work hard and they don’t force you to do things like in Yugoslavia.”

But for the rest of the night, the busboy couldn’t help imagining the chef and his Yugoslavian friends laughing about how stupid Americans really are.