16 Foods We've Been Pronouncing Wrong and How to Say Them

The ordering of the food should be the easy part of the evening. But there is a particular hesitation that creeps in when the menu has a word that you have only ever read, not heard, and suddenly you are very aware that your pronunciation may not be the same as the pronunciation the server is expecting.

The foods on the list are all derived from French, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, and a few other languages, and English speakers have been making their way through them for years with varying degrees of success. None of these corrections takes any kind of linguistic knowledge.

A slight modification of the pronunciation of a few syllables will correct most of them, and knowing the correct pronunciation allows the speaker to say it with confidence, not trailing off slightly at the end of the word and hoping for the best.

Bruschetta

The most common way to say it when speaking English is something like “broo-SHET-ah,” with a soft “sh” sound in the middle. In Italian, the “ch” always makes a hard “k” sound.

So, the word should be pronounced: “broo-SKET-ah.” The word comes from the Italian verb “bruscare,” which means “to toast or roast over coals.”

The hard consonant sound in the middle of the word is part of the verb. So, the next time you are eating at an Italian restaurant, try using the “broo-SKET-ah” pronunciation.

The wait staff will surely recognize it, although they may be too polite to comment either way.

Quinoa

Quinoa is spelled in a way that suggests it should be pronounced “kwi-NO-ah,” and this is how most people say it when they first see it on a package or on a menu. The word is derived from a word in the Quechua language, which is spoken in South America in the Andean region and is one of the indigenous languages of South America.

The actual pronunciation is “KEEN-wah.” Two syllables, stress on the first one. The “qu” in “Quechua” is not the same “qu” sound that is used in English or Spanish, and it is closer to the “k” sound in “keen.”

After you’ve gotten it right a couple of times, it no longer sounds weird and is simply the word.

Açaí

The Brazilian berry that appears on everything from smoothie bowls to protein bars gets pronounced “AH-sigh-EE” by most English speakers, but the correct Brazilian Portuguese pronunciation is “ah-sah-EE.” Three syllables with the stress at the end.

The cedilla under the “c” (ç) produces an “s” sound, and the accent on the final “i” indicates where the stress falls. “Ah-sah-EE” — the final syllable slightly drawn out — is what you’ll hear from Brazilians. The two-syllable “AH-sigh-EE” version is widely understood but technically incorrect.

Gyro

The Greek sandwich — lamb or chicken on a spit, wrapped in pita with tzatziki — gets called a “JY-ro” by a significant portion of English speakers, rhyming with “gyroscope,” which is where the confusion comes from. The Greek word is pronounced “YEE-ro,” with a “y” sound at the start and a short “ee” in the middle.

The plural is “YEE-ros.” Some Greek-American restaurant owners have more or less accepted “JY-ro” as a workable anglicization, but “YEE-ro” is what the word actually sounds like in Greek, and it’s the version you’ll hear if you order one in Athens.

Gnocchi

Italian pasta comes with its own pronunciation challenges, and gnocchi sits near the top of the list. The written form suggests “g-NOH-chee” or “noh-KEY” to many English readers.

In Italian, the “gn” combination produces a sound similar to the Spanish “ñ” — a palatalized nasal that has no direct equivalent in standard English. The closest approximation in English is “NYOH-kee,” with a soft “ny” at the start rather than a hard “g” or a silent “g.”

The “ch” in Italian is again a hard “k” sound, as with bruschetta. So: “NYOH-kee.” It takes a moment to unlearn the silent-g assumption, but the adjustment is worth making.

Pho

Vietnamese noodle soup appears on menus across the world now, and “foh” or “foe” are the most common English attempts. The actual Vietnamese pronunciation is closer to “fuh” — a short, clipped sound that doesn’t quite match any obvious English phonetic spelling.

The “ph” in Vietnamese produces an “f” sound, and the vowel is an unstressed, central sound like the “uh” in “butter.” “Fuh” isn’t a perfect transliteration, but it’s substantially closer than “foh.”

Vietnamese is a tonal language, and the precise pronunciation of pho involves a tone that English speakers can’t replicate without instruction, but “fuh” gets the vowel sound right.

Worcestershire

This one is famous for its gap between spelling and pronunciation, and it earns its place on any mispronunciation list. The sauce is named after the English county of Worcestershire, and the county name is pronounced “WOOS-ter-sher” — three syllables at most, with several letters effectively silent.

The sauce, therefore, is “WOOS-ter-sher sauce,” not “Wor-ses-ter-SHEER sauce” or any of the other five-syllable attempts that get made at it. The English county naming convention compresses syllables in ways that look inexplicable on paper but make sense once you’ve heard them.

Worcester itself is “WOOS-ter.” The “-shire” ending in English place names is always “sher,” never “sheer.”

Croissant

English speakers generally attempt “KWAH-sant” or “KRWA-sant,” both of which are approximations of the French. The French pronunciation is “kwah-SOHN” — with the stress on the second syllable and the final “t” silent.

The nasal “on” ending is the hardest part to reproduce without practice: it’s not quite “ohn” and not quite “awn” but somewhere between the two, produced with the mouth slightly open and the sound resonating toward the back of the nose. A near-enough English version that won’t raise eyebrows in a French bakery is “kwah-SOHN,” letting the final consonant disappear entirely.

Prosciutto

Italian cured ham gets anglicized into “pro-SHOO-to” fairly often, which gets close but drops a syllable. The Italian is “pro-SHOO-toh” — four syllables, with the “cc” combination producing a “tt” sound that gives the penultimate syllable its slight double quality.

Some Italian speakers make the final vowel very short or almost silent, which is why the three-syllable version circulates. The formal Italian pronunciation is “pro-SHOO-toh,” and while “pro-SHOO-to” is close enough to be understood, the full four syllables are the correct version and aren’t hard to say once you know they’re all there.

Charcuterie

The French word for cured meats and prepared foods has proliferated across menus and social media in recent years, and its pronunciation hasn’t always kept pace. Common English attempts include “char-KOO-ter-ee” and “char-kyoo-TER-ee,” with the stress landing in different places depending on the speaker.

The French pronunciation is “shar-koo-ter-EE” — with a soft “sh” at the start, not a hard “ch,” and the stress on the final syllable. The “c” in French before a soft vowel produces an “s” sound, making the opening “ch” into “sh.” So: “shar-koo-ter-EE.” The four syllables flow more naturally than some of the compressed English versions.

Niçoise

The French salad and its associated style of preparation — tuna, olives, green beans, tomatoes — gets called “ni-SWAZ” or “ni-KWAZ” with some frequency. The correct French is “nee-SWAZ,” with a clear long “ee” at the start and the stress on the second syllable.

The cedilla in the original spelling (Niçoise) produces the “s” sound in the middle. The final “e” in French is generally silent. So the full word is “nee-SWAZ” — two syllables, first one long, second one finishing with the French “z” sound that’s softer than an English “z.”

Saying it correctly in a French restaurant changes nothing about how good the salad is, but it does save a moment of uncertainty at the table.

Edamame

Japanese soybeans in their pods appear regularly on Japanese restaurant menus and have spread to bar snack menus well beyond Japanese cuisine. The word is often said as “ed-ah-MAH-mee” with a stress pattern that doesn’t quite match the Japanese.

In Japanese, syllables carry roughly equal weight, and the word is spoken fairly evenly: “eh-dah-mah-meh” — four syllables, each given approximately equal time, with the final syllable a soft “meh” rather than a distinct “mee.” Japanese doesn’t stress syllables the way English does, so the Anglicized “ed-ah-MAH-mee” isn’t wrong as English adaptations go, but the more even “eh-dah-mah-meh” sounds noticeably closer to the original.

Tzatziki

The Greek yogurt and cucumber sauce gets mangled in multiple directions. “Tat-ZEE-kee,” “tat-SEE-kee,” and “zat-ZEE-kee” all circulate.

The correct Greek pronunciation is “tsah-TSEE-kee” — with the “tz” at the start producing a single combined consonant sound, somewhere between “ts” in “bits” and “dz,” and the word landing on the second syllable. Greek “tz” is its own sound rather than a “t” followed by a “z.” The full pronunciation: “tsah-TSEE-kee.”

Three syllables, middle one stressed. It’s worth getting right partly because tzatziki appears on menus often enough that you’ll say it regularly, and the correct version is actually easier to say quickly than some of the improvised attempts.

Escargot

French snails appear on restaurant menus spelled in a way that tempts English speakers toward “es-KAR-got” with a hard final “t.” In French, final consonants are almost always silent, and “escargot” is no exception.

The correct pronunciation is “es-kar-GOH” — three syllables, stress on the last, the final “t” absent. The “r” in French is also produced at the back of the throat rather than the front, though the approximation “es-kar-GOH” with an English “r” is close enough for practical purposes.

The key adjustment for English speakers is simply letting the “t” go.

Bouillabaisse

Starts with a whisper but trips up most speakers. BOO-yuh-base? boo-YAH-baze?

Guesses fly like seagulls at lunchtime. Truth lives in Parisian rhythm: boo-yuh-BESS, sharp at the end. Three beats only, never more.

That last part snaps shut – “ess,” not drawn-out drama. Middle bit? Ill becomes ee-yuh, soft like breeze through shutters.

Yuh appears without warning. Stress lands hard on BES, typical for French endings.

Never gentle, always precise.

Chipotle

Say it fast, and folks often slip into saying “chi-POL-taye,” tossing in an extra “l” as it belongs. Truth is, the real deal starts with how it looks written – Chipotle – but even that trips people up.

Spanish skips the “l” sound completely; it flows as chi-POHT-lay, smooth and clean. Three parts to it: start soft, punch the middle with “oht,” then land on “lay” at the end, never “lee.”

Eyes see “o-t-l-e” and brain jumps to “ol-te,” a habit from reading English rules too hard. Pull it apart slowly, treat “tl” like one unit – not two separate sounds – and the shape shifts.

That cluster acts as a team, common in Spanish, making the tongue move quicker than thought. Hear it right once in a while, but most just repeat what they’ve always said.

Popularity feeds the error, since hearing it wrong dozens of times feels like proof. Sound matters less when everyone nods along anyway.

What happens when you say it right

Tasting a meal feels different when you speak its name the way locals do. That small shift hints at a connection – maybe just through a pair of sounds learned moments before sitting down.

Out loud in a restaurant, uncertainty often stumbles – voice dips, fades, lifts at the end like asking instead of telling. This cuts through that.

The word leaves your mouth clean. It lands clearly.

The waiter knows exactly what you mean. Dinner flows, unbroken by awkward gaps.

Tiny moment, really. Yet around a table, tiny moments stack fast.

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