#96 What’s the Slavic translation for ‘Shoot me’?

My diet (to maintain maximum energy) consisted of grains (bread and pasta), some dairy (mainly cheese because I hate the smell of milk and yogurt), fruits and vegetables (how can you not love fruits and vegetables?) and protein (chicken, fish and beans).  Very little red meat.  Needless to say, my system went into shock while working for a month in communist Yugoslavia – a non-stop diet of red meat – supplemented with potatoes, hot peppers and cabbage.  Not a salad to be found in the entire country.  It was to be a month of stomach cramps and nausea.

I am a closet picky eater.  What’s that you ask?  Well – in the comfort of my own home, there’s a lot of foods that you will never see me touch – like milk and yogurt.  I’m telling you – just the smell of them sends waves of revulsion through my body.  BUT – when I am in public and more importantly in a foreign country – I will eat what is put in front of me.  I have always been conscious that I was representing my country on foreign soil and sometimes the most innocuous thing can either leave a lasting good impression or create a mini international incident.  While in Yugoslavia– I was eating red meat – no matter what the consequences were to my system.  In my mind, red meat was either beef, pork or lamb.  Who knew there were other types?  I remember one hostess proudly presenting her main course, telling me that it was baby goat. “Versus what” I thought, “Old goat? Who eats goat?”

The people of Yugoslavia were without a doubt one of the most welcoming and generous people in the world.  I was invited to someone’s home practically every single night during my month-long contract.  While I appreciated the gesture, it meant that every single night, I was going to have to tackle some strange foodstuff with as much grace as I could muster.  You know – it’s kind of a catch-22 when it comes to eating strange foods.  Do you ask what it is?  OR do you just assume it’s edible and just eat it?  I’ve always had to know what was going down my throat.  I’m not sure the knowledge helped the situation but at least my curiosity was satisfied.  One hostess served intestines.  They take the intestines, clean them, wrap them in bundles and cook them in a tomato sauce.  When this alien food mass was put in front of me, I discreetly leaned over to a friend and asked what it was.  Now he was aware that I was having problems with the food and in his defense, I think he was trying to make the situation easier for me.  He told me that it was chicken.  I snorted.  “Yeah, right,” I said, “You know, you can raise a chicken hanging from the ceiling by its legs but when it hits my plate – it’d still look like a chicken.”

It was during this period that I developed what I called the “polite sidestep”.  The “polite sidestep” is this: eat all the edible and familiar things first, eat as much of the questionable items as possible before the gag reflex kicks in and then politely decline from any further eating by saying that you are simply too full to partake any more of this delicious meal.  Most people seemed to buy it – you know – dancers being small and under weight and all.  Unfortunately using the “polite sidestep” meant no dessert (which was edible) and hunger pangs later BUT it seemed like a pretty good trade-off.  Nausea or hunger – It’s a tough choice.  Many people that I dined with in Yugoslavia thought I was on a constant diet and ate like a bird – which is a bald-faced lie.  Anyone who knows me knows that I can chow down with the best.

Sometimes there’s no room to maneuver around what you are about to eat.  The host is overly gracious.  The effort put into preparing the meal is overwhelming.  It’s one of those “suck it up” moments.  I was in Ohrid when my host Miro announced that he had arranged a special meal in our honor – fresh water eels.  Not only were these eels taken from the pristine waters of Ohrid’s lake (that had strict fishing regulations), they were being cooked on a special wood-burning oven – all day long – in another town!  Then they were to be whisked by car to Ohrid where they would be presented to us at one of the beautiful little restaurants that dot Ohrid’s waterfront.  That’s a lot of effort for one dish.  For the first time in my life, the anticipation of a meal produced pre-digestion nausea.  I’m sure I stayed a lovely shade of green for most of the day as I tried to mentally prepare myself to meet the challenge.  That evening, we arrived at the restaurant and after the customary drinks, a large casserole dish was set in the middle of the table.  With a grand flourish, Miro whipped off the lid to present our feast.  Big fat eels – and one of those little suckers was staring right at me.  I don’t think my eyes ever left the eel’s as he was cut up and put on my plate.  Have you ever had a meal that was just as determined to stay out of your stomach as you were to put it in?  This eel played “slip and slide” up and down my throat with every bite.  With a smile on my face and tears in my eyes, I forced every piece down, throwing out the occasional compliment to my host.  Miro was happy and I was happy that he was happy.  I finished. With a sigh of relief I started to relax.  It was probably my over-enthusiastic praise of the meal that got me in trouble.  Some idiot next to me said, “Deborah, you should have some more”.  Miro smiled with pleasure.  I grinned back as another eel was put on my plate.  Round two.

I wasn’t just having problems with the food in Yugoslavia.  Even the drinks were presenting me with a challenge.  Generally, I drink tea, water and coffee.  I’m also not big on alcohol.  Yes – I drink alcohol – but not often and certainly not a lot.  At the time, Yugoslavians drank either coffee or they drank alcohol.  Those were your only two choices.  Asking for water was always met with confusion.  Obviously nobody drank the stuff.  My daily request for water was always met the same way – absorbed, pondered and rejected.  Then they’d hand me some Metaxa – a golden colored alcohol that could burn out your stomach.  Metaxa, they assured me was a “woman’s” drink and therefore suitable for delicate systems.   I’m glad I wasn’t given any of the “men’s” drinks.  A request for tea was always met with the same response.  “Are you sick?”  Tea was obviously only consumed when gravely ill – which I was – from all the meat I had eaten – I really couldn’t tell them that could I?