“Questionable Deli Meat”

An excerpt from Why I Hate Green Beans

by Lincee Ray

For ten years I waded through the ins and outs of the oil industry. As one of few females in that male-dominated world, I’ve had my fair share of eye-rolling exploits. I’ve kept my face neutral as crude jokes were shared. I’ve tried to look feminine in flame retardant overalls, safety goggles, and steel-toe boots. I’ve stood before a boardroom full of men who didn’t speak English, trying to convince them we didn’t need to wait for my boss—I was the presenter.

The international stories are the ones I like best because they sound so exotic. One of my more notable jaunts was a facility visit in the middle of Ukraine.

The guys from the Ukrainian company wanted to treat the Americans to a traditional dinner. I was seated at the middle of the long table for ten with my American colleagues on either side. The Ukrainian general manager sat across from me and motioned for the waiter to pour a round of vodka shots.

You’ve probably heard that Russians drink vodka like it’s water. In my personal experience, this is true. I can also attest it’s considered an insult not to drink with them. If offered vodka, you’d better partake, especially when the logistics of future million-dollar deals are circling the table.

The Ukrainian stood up and toasted everyone in the room. He spoke about the wonderful relationship between his company and the U.S. division and genuinely seemed proud to call us partners. This lasted for about five minutes. During this time, the waiter placed a plate of “something” at each end of the table. I’m no expert, but it looked like slugs.

Our host concluded his salute and pointed to the plate, explaining that this was a celebratory occasion and we would be chasing the vodka shot with herring and onions.

I suddenly craved green beans.

The man lifted his glass and toasted the table. We all slammed our drinks back and spiked the herring with little forks. Down the hatch.

Thank goodness the vodka was like rubbing alcohol, because it burned off the aftermath of the oily, slimy, fishy taste in my mouth. It may have burned a few taste buds, too, but that was a blessing in disguise.

Everyone cheered and high fived as the waiter presented a tray of cucumbers, tomatoes, and red bell peppers. I munched away like a pro, even though I can’t stand tomatoes. I have the palate of a sophisticated fourth grader, but I pressed through for the good of the company.

Suddenly the waiter started filling the shot glasses with vodka again. Number two Ukranian guy stood up and made his own toast that lasted forever. We cheered. We clinked glasses. We took the shot before chugging yet another herring.

Soon the questionable deli meat selection arrived. Being the smart connoisseur I am, I chose the two lightest meats. I mentally chanted in my head, “It’s turkey and ham. It’s turkey and ham. It’s turkey and ham.” I gobbled it up in three bites, ignoring the funny smell, only to find a plate full of rolled-up bacon thrust in my face.

You may be thinking, Oh good! Something she recognizes. Everyone loves bacon!

Dear friend. You are too sweet. It was bacon fat. Fat. The fat of bacon. All white, fat, bacon fat.

The waiter rushed over with a third shot. It helped to dissolve the roll of pork belly lodged in my throat.

At the beginning of the fourth course, I realized we were going to toast each dish. I tried to get the attention of the waiter, but I couldn’t lift my arms. He finally realized my joints were paralyzed from the vodka and came over to see what I needed. Once he understood what I needed, he brought me a bottle of plain old boring water. I begged him with my eyes not to rat me out as a poser Russki.

Everyone devoured what I thought of as potato ravioli and luckily, they never noticed me pouring water into my shot glass. The next course materialized, and I enthusiastically toasted everyone. By the end of the night, the Russians were toasting the vodka, the Brits were toasting the Americans who carry guns, the Americans were toasting the Revolutionary War, and nine men were toasting the little blonde girl who could hold her liquor.

All together there were seven courses. I had three vodka shots and four waters. I slept like a log that night. I also suspected my insides had been thoroughly cleansed. It’s a good thing, too, because I later found out the questionable deli meat was donkey tongue.

Any time I hear a Russian accent, my arms get heavy and it’s a good forty-eight hours before I can eat a turkey sandwich again.