Znood Es-sett el Za'atar tob'Ihmej

Even at home I get flummoxed by office canteens. It's usually not catastrophic but I do seem to insist on putting at least a couple of feet wrong. It might be as simple as taking too many napkins or taking the wrong sort of napkins for soup or kissing the server's hand. Put me in another country, however, and things start to get really serious.

As it happens, I have indeed been *put* in another country this week which is fortunate for the future of this story. The country is the Lebanon and the city is the Beirut. This city not only has had a long and troubled history (google Beirut+Death and ignore references to the excellent American Balkan-Folk-Rock band of the same name) but also has some pretty strange office canteen rituals for me to deal with. Well at least the one that's been assigned to me has.

Firstly you must pay for your food before you choose it. Grabbing a tray, cutlery and queuing up upon entering the place is treated with utter ridicule here. Try it and you will soon be relieved of your accoutrements and directed towards a very old man with a metal box. You will approach him and stand before him showing your visitor's badge. Just as you expected he will steadfastly ignore you. At length he will look up at you witheringly. "Visitor. Is possible to eat?" you might find yourself saying. He will issue a long sigh before replying something in the way of “نعم يا صديقي في تجربتي الطويلة والمتنوعة كان من الممك الفعل" للزوار للأكل”. My modern Arabic is sketchy (more of a Classical man, natch) but his words were later translated to me as "Yes my friend in my long and varied experience it has indeed been, at least theoretically, possible to eat visitors". He then gave me a ticket which said "1 MEAL 1500LL". I took this as a clue so I gave him ten bucks and set off to find my 1 MEAL.

I
So first you get a tray and cutlery. I believe there was a period in the late eighties where these elements were pushed to the end of the meal but this idea proved a little ahead of its time and was soon abandoned. It quickly became clear to me that now I had my 1 MEAL ticket a whole new world was beginning to open up to me. At each stage of the 1 MEAL there were two choices. However each stage was strictly mandatory and enforced with military precision. Unsurprisingly we start with dessert. One can choose dessert or fruit. I dithered slightly so was defaulted to fruit and given a slice of melon and several hundred pomegranate seeds.

II
Next choice was a drink. The choice was Pepsi or Sprite. I asked for water and the woman pointed to plant behind me. Difficult to say what she was suggesting so I lived a little and opted for a full-fat Pepsi.

III
Salad or soup. I was getting the hang of things now. "Salad" I said, ready to pick my ingredients from a rather appetising array presented before me. Instead I was handed a ready-made one from below the counter which was described as "Chef's salad". It contained olives, cheese, shredded egg, beetroot, boiled ham, iceberg lettuce and was smothered in a creamy, coconutty (yes!) dressing. Thinking that it was no surprise at all that Chef had elected to pass his salad on to a hapless tourist such as myself I moved on now to the 4th circle of my sad hell (ironically "Greed" according to the poet).

IV
My tray now was completely full but I had no chance but to plough ahead. After all I had reached the only stage in the meal I actually wanted. The main course. Choice today was Penne Arribiata or Znood Es-sett el Za'atar tob'Ihmej. Since I quite literally wasn't in Rome I plumped for the latter. The stuff was piled high onto my plate and I placed it precariously on top of my salad. The situation was delicate to say the least but I was overjoyed to have reached the end of my torment. My plan now, assuming I wasn't insulting some local custom or other, was simply to take my tray of food, sit down at a table and proceed to eat it. Betting without the now squashed salad of course. As I turned to proceed thither I was stopped in my tracks by a superintendant who was pointing me in the direction of coffee. The look in his eyes made it quite clear that coffee was not merely a suggestion. Further, coffee had to be collected immediately as part 5 of 1 MEAL. So I followed his outstretched finger with my over-loaded tray on board, performing a Chaplin-esque stagger to avoid a randomly placed table blocking my route.

V
Coffee. "Lebanese or Nescafe?", she asked. "Nescafe?", I repeated, smiling. Thinking, 'Nescafe? Is that a joke. What kind of démodé dipstick drinks fucking Nescafe ... Lebanese, if you insist, Madame'. Alas the lady did not read my thoughts and, based merely on the fact that I'd uttered the single word - Nescafe - poured me a Nescafe. This I placed atop my Pepsi and made towards the nearest available table with all possible haste. That is, very slowly.

I reached my table and sat down. I looked around for any stirring but nobody showed signs of giving me trouble. So I began the long process of sorting out the debacle on my tray. Then, with grim determination I proceeded with the usual method of eating as communicated to me as a small boy. Again, this approach raised no eyebrows. The 1 MEAL had its moments. Nescafe is shit wherever you go. Pepsi is very sweet. The main course was good though. I'd certainly had better Znood Es-sett el Za'atar tob'Ihmejies but this one was easily in the top 50.

Orange Juice Calamity

They put me in a room on my own. "It will be better" the waitress cheerfully opined. I placed my OJ on the table and went to find something healthy. When I returned two surprisingly large ladies had placed themselves at my table even though there were twenty seven others in the empty room. The larger of the two was slurping my OJ.

I approached them and offered a "Bonjour". They returned my greeting without any attempt to bite me. I told the OJ lady that if she needed a refill she only needed to say the word. Her perplexity was a work of theatrical genius but as I turned to find another table I realised that my OJ sat patiently waiting for me on the table opposite. My bowl of muesli soon joined it and I sheepishly followed. The room I'd been placed in was exceedingly heavily mirrored. Could that be relevant?

Deuced windy, O'Callahan

Deuced windy out there but O'Callahan is a man of vast aeronautical experience and not in the least the sort of chap to allow a mere one hundred and twenty mile an hour wind to stop us taking off. In his oh-so-calm tone, he suggested that we "give it an old try" and everyone eased assuredly into the sports section. The very same wind, I'd observed on my drive to the airport earlier, had also enabled a domestic Ford Fiesta to take off.

As if in response to my doubts our hero then informed us that there would be a slight delay in order to get a slot on the runway that the hurricane was blowing down. Believe it or not, this intelligence did little to ease my clammy dread. When we finally took off it seemed ok for bit and everything felt normal. Emboldened by this, O'Callahan decided to tip a wing to make the plane shake about and scare the wits out of me. He succeeded in this with deadly precision but I held the headrest in front of me with my right palm. This steadied us sufficiently to allow O'Callahan to pull his charge back from its lateral pitch and onto a steady course. Only then did I remove my palm leaving the headrest wet and sticky.

But our torment was not yet ended. We had the clouds to negotiate and our captain's policy today was to forge through them as fast as he possibly could. Thus began the most vicious two minutes I've ever experienced outside an Old Firm game. I imagined O'Callahan wearing goggles and cackling loudly whilst randomly pulling levers as he barged us through the metallic vortex. At one point the wing outside my window collapsed completely but then seemed to recover its composure before resuming its usual spot on the side of the plane.

Finally we emerged into the blue leaving the clouds furious and caterwauling behind us. These monsters had eaten all the fluffy clouds and they'd nearly had us for afters. We levelled off and all things were bright and beautiful. O'Callahan had done it. What a man. I almost felt an affection towards the old Cossack. But please do me one favour. Don't mention that bastard's name to me again.