Our town hosts a very large Aerospace company, where I worked. And since I was a lavish entertainer, I was well known to all the restaurateurs, particularly those of Oriental persuasion. And my company’s senior management guys, when dining out, seldom picked up a check, assuming, and generally correctly so, that some functionary, somewhere, would eventually pay the bill.

And since everyone knew that I was the Japanese focal point in our company, you can imagine what happened. A big shot VP and his entourage would dine lavishly in a local oriental eatery, and walk out. The headwaiter, knowing me personally as a regular customer, and also knowing that I was Mr. Japan, would routinely send the bill to my office.

Finally, when this got so prevalent that it was seriously impacting my entertainment budget, I reluctantly brought it to the President’s attention. Being more amused than upset, he merely gave me his charge number to use in the future, and sent me on my way.

When I ate in a Japanese restaurant, I used chopsticks, of course. So, where did I learn to eat with chopsticks? Not in the mysterious Orient, as one might expect, but in our very own state of Alaska. You see, when I was working there, the only two decent food choices in the whole state were seafood, or Japanese food. So since I was eating Japanese food practically every night, it only made sense that I would learn to use chopsticks.

And speaking of Alaska, when we were building the power plant at Nelson Lagoon, far out on the Alaska Peninsula, we had brought along our own cook, an old boy named Snodgrass, and most of our necessary provisions. We often, however, supplemented these stores with salt salmon provided by the natives. This salmon, which had been laid against a native shack to cure, and had then been peed upon by the ubiquitous native dogs, had an interesting flavor, to say the least.

And on the subject of dogs, as we are packing up to leave, I see Snodgrass feeding the surplus food to these ravenous animals. Hey Snodgrass, I say, “What if the airplane can’t get in tomorrow, what are we going to eat.” Snodgrass then fixed me with a steely gaze and replied, “Well John, in that case, I guess that we’ll just have to eat the fucking dogs.” Fortunately, the airplane came.

So now that you have me going, you need to settle in while I tell you of some interesting times I have had in restaurants ‘round the world.

But let’s start, close to home, in Seattle.

During the ‘50’s 60’s and 70’s there was an eatery in Seattle known as The Canlis, or just Canlis. This was inarguably, the best joint in town, in those days, offering excellent Midwest steaks, served by demure Japanese servers, in an elegant setting. And nestled in beside the south end of the Aurora bridge, it had a killer view of North Seattle. The prices, though, to say the least, were astronomical.

A guy, allegedly from Hawaii, named Peter Canlis, owned the place, and it was presided over by a stately maitre d’ named Douglas. Colloquially, the locals generally referred it to as “Pete’s Drive In”.

The place really tended to be a bit exclusive and had sort of a clubby atmosphere. It was said that when a causal diner wandered in, and did not spend enough, he would be discreetly handed a note upon leaving, urging him, in the future, to take his business elsewhere.

This, of course was not so, although it made great PR, and made the place even more desirable to the great unwashed. But there was a grain of truth. The clientele was almost exclusively Boeing executives, and High Rollers living on Queen Anne hill, and the place didn’t really need or want any other business. So when a stranger wandered in he might be seated in a less desirable spot, and the service might suffer a bit. One night, for example, an acquaintance of mine, who thought himself a bit of a big shot, was making kind of a fool of himself in the bar, when the attractive bar hostess, discretely asked him to turn it down. I’m Joe Blank, he blustered, who are you. I’m Gloria Canlis, she said, I have never heard of you, and perhaps you had better leave. So given no choice, he slunk out.

One perennial fixture there was a car park guy, whose name was Vinnie, I think. Vinnie had a photography memory, never forgetting a face or the car that went with it. So claim checks were not necessary. He would greet you by name when you rolled in, and when ready to leave, your car would be ready and waiting at the front door.

I sometimes tried to fool him, but it was to no avail. Occasionally, I would even borrow some beater pile of crap from one of my sons, and drive up in it. But Vinnie, not being fooled for a minute, would greet me with the usual “’Evening Mr. John”, and whisk the car away. Out of sight, I might add. Of course on these occasions, he would wait till I was ready to leave to bring the car around, as he didn’t want the place mistaken for a junkyard.

One other interesting piece of Canlis lore concerns the restaurant’s telephone number. Seems that the phone company assigned a number to a residential customer, which was one digit off the Canlis number.

Becoming annoyed with getting misdialed calls obviously meant for Canlis, the householder asked the phone company for another number, but the bureaucrats were not interested. Getting a bit frustrated by this time, the householder then asked Canlis to change its number. A request, which, as you might expect, was a non starter.

So the householder took matters into his own hands. When a caller asked him if he or she had Canlis, the householder sweetly replied “Yes you do”, and then went on, “But we do have policy of not accepting Jews Blacks or Spics, so if you are one of these classes, we have nothing more to discuss. Needless to say, somehow the householder’s number got quickly changed.

Another interesting Canlis tale, is when the Chairman of Boeing, as part of a Museum of Flight fundraising drive, asked Peter Canlis for a sizable donation. Peter regretfully declined, explaining that business was not that good, and he had already given what he could afford. Now the Chairman was a crusty old Missourian, used to getting his way around town, and was not about to be stiffed by a restaurateur, even the esteemed Peter Canlis. As might be expected, things kind of went downhill from there, and finally resulted in Canlis putting a $100 service charge on Boeing parties, along with increasing the room rental rate. And in return, the Chairman let the word out around Boeing that there would be no more private parties at Canlis.

Well, about this time I needed to throw a big party, and I wanted it at Canlis. So I told Douglas that Chairman be dammed, I wanted my party at Canlis, but only if he dropped the service charge and the increased room rental. Well, Douglas agreed to drop the charges, and the Chairman didn’t fire me. This broke the impasse, and things went back pretty much to how they had been before. And I even heard that Pete Canlis increased his donation to the museum.

(I really wasn’t worried about the Chairman, ‘cause I know that within a week, he would forget why he was mad at me, but with luck, he might even remember my name.)

So, lets finish up these stories about Canlis with one really improbable tale. In those days, I had a bunch of hotshot computer engineers working for me. Now these guys were really good, probably the best in the industry, and I would have put them up against anyone from IBM or anywhere else.

Anyway, they had just done a fantastically great piece of work for me in computerizing the Portland OR police department. And on time and under budget, I might add.

So I felt that they, and their significant others deserved a night out, on me, so I invited them all for dinner at Canlis. Their sartorial tastes, though, ran pretty much to logo tee shirts, worn with torn jeans, no socks, and occasionally no shoes either. And since the Canlis dress code kind of called for coats and ties for the gentlemen, and cocktail dresses for the ladies, I arranged, in the interests of preserving decorum, for the meal to be served in the best private room in the place.

Anyhow, the big night arrived, and not wanting to appear too overdressed, I donned a leather jacket, a scruffy pair of slacks, and scuffed loafers, and then headed for Canlis. A bit early of course. When Douglas saw me in this get up, he was a bit nonplussed, but when I explained things he said that he understood.

But would you believe that when my crew finally arrived, the guys were all decked out in new suits, and the gals all wore stunning frocks.

They had all heard of the legendary Canlis, of course, but never thought that they would be fortunate enough actually be invited into the place. So to do this occasion up right, and to avoid embarrassing the boss, they had all gone out and bought spanking new outfits.

And also in Seattle, there was this really snobbish French restaurant, run by a real jerk named Gerard. Although I knew Gerard, I usually didn’t frequent his place for reasons mentioned above. One time though, I needed to throw a hoity toity party for a bunch of big shots, so decided to use his establishment. And things went very well, the food was good and the big shots were happy. But Gerard was personally aggravating me, because even though it was my party, and I was paying, he was shamelessly sucking up to most of the big shots.

After things wound down, I was ready to pay the bill, but Gerard said that it was taken care of, so I went on home. But early the next morning he was on the horn to me, wanting his money, which amounted to several thousand dollars. Seems his assumption as to who was paying the bill had been incorrect. Anyway, I reminded him of his declaration the precious evening, and suggested that maybe he could get his money out of some of the big shots he had been sucking up to at the party. Anyway, I kept the guy going for over two months before I finally paid him, rejecting bill after bill on some pretext or the other.

And at about this same time, my son Whalen, happened to be a chef at one of the best restaurants in town. It would embarrass him no end, though, when I was entertaining a bunch of dignitaries, to give our waiter my compliments to chef Whalen, and insist that he make an appearance at our table, to meet all my distinguished guests.

Another incident at this same restaurant, involved a VP who was having marital difficulties at the time, so was not averse to having a drink or two. Seems he was involved in a party I was hosting, but having had a few too many, ended up in the men’s room and promptly fell asleep on the “throne”. Although we eventually missed him, we assumed he had wandered off somewhere, so were not too concerned. Anyhow, when the guy awoke about 3:00 AM, he of course found the place deserted. But finding himself in need of nourishment, he headed for the kitchen where he fixed a sandwich. Then, after leaving the proprietor a note explaining what he had done, he walked out of the place, into the hotel next door, called the cops to report the restaurant front door unlocked, and took a cab home.

And speaking of fancy restaurants, this new salesman in town decided that he could make a big impression on me and Pat, by hosting us for dinner. So on the appointed evening, he and his wife collected the two of us, and we all trucked off to this very expensive and pretty exclusive eating establishment. A place, incidentally, which he had picked, without any input or advice from me. Upon entering the place, though, things didn’t go so well. Although my new friend claimed to have reservations, the Maitre d’ didn’t seem to think so. And when my boy pushed it, the Maitre d’, not knowing the guy, got downright huffy and the situation looked to be deteriorating fast. So at this point, I asked my friend if I might be of service. He allowed that he didn’t know how, but to go ahead. So I asked the maitre d’ if Peter, (who happened to be the owner), might perhaps be on the premises, and when I got an answer in the affirmative, asked if I might have a word with him. So Peter showed, greeted me effusively, and I explained our problem. And believe it or not, a window side table appeared, as if by magic. And our host was visibly relieved.

Fast forward a few weeks, same restaurant, different salesman. After a great dinner, the bill eventually arrived. But my host, having misunderstood the establishments no credit card policy, found himself in somewhat of a bind, with not enough ready cash to cover the bill. But again I came to the rescue, signed the tab with a flourish, and we were on our way. By this time my host was really impressed, because I obviously not only knew the owner but also had a charge account at the place. But he was deflated a bit, when I got the bill at my office, and forwarded it to him without comment.

This puts me in mind of another time, in England, when this very proper senior British executive, and his wife, hosted Sam and me to a very exclusive and expensive Saturday afternoon at a posh resort on the Thames, upriver from London. But when it came time to pay, our friend found out, to his chagrin, that his wife had maxed out both his and his company’s credit cards. But rising to the occasion, and to avert an international incident, Sam and I paid the bill. But it was worth it to see the stuffed shirts discomfiture.

It might seem to you that I was always getting stuck with the bill, and that’s not far from wrong. The most blatant case, though, was a hotel in Nagoya Japan, but let me tell you about that. Seems that four of us, including the Director of Finance, a notorious skinflint, and this very senior Vice President, were in Japan on some mission or other, and after a night of drinking and assorted debauchery, landed in our hotel about one AM. And at this point, the VP, feeling hungry, and not ready to turn in yet, decided he needed a hamburger. I suggested that there was a MacDonalds just down the street, which was always open, and could satisfy his wishes, but no, he wanted a hamburger right now, and right here.

Now, this hotel was about the most expensive in town, but unfortunately did not have an all night kitchen. But after I rousted out the night manager, and threatened him with bodily harm if my VIP’s wishes weren’t satisfied, he somehow rounded up a cook, and hamburgers, and beer all around eventually appeared.

Anyway we enjoyed the repast, and when the bill eventually arrived, I gave it a cursory glance, tendered my credit card, and we all went to bed.

Next morning at breakfast though, the finance guy innocently asked what those hamburgers had cost. I told him “A bit over US$400”, which was the truth. This of course set him off on a tirade about foolishly spending company money, in general, and overrunning my travel budget, in particular. I finally cut him off, though, by allowing that I had already resolved the situation by phoning in a stolen credit card report, so not to worry. This caused the VP to almost choke on his oatmeal, but he was not concerned, ‘cause he knew I would somehow find a way to get these excessive charges off my budget, and probably racked up against his.

One problem with dining in Japan was that one was not always sure what was really on the plate. Or worse yet, one knew what was on the plate, but to save “face”, had to choke it down anyhow.

The latter situation was brought forcefully to my attention on two consecutive evenings in Tokyo. But let me tell you about it.

Seems that I was the guest of a bunch of big shot Mitsubishi executives at a fancy seafood restaurant in Tokyo. Since in Japan it was good form to let the host order, we did so, and all ended up with the specialty of the house, a giant Red Snapper HEAD, alone on a plate, and complete with eyes.

So it took me a couple of water glasses of Sake before I could tackle that one, and two more before I could crunch down the eyes, but I finally got through the ordeal.

Then the very next evening, the scene was repeated with a bunch of Kawasaki executives at the very same restaurant. My good luck, of course, was that out of about 10,000 restaurants in Tokyo, they had to pick that one. I certainly couldn’t admit, that I had been there the previous evening with the competition, and if any of the staff recognized me, they didn’t let on.

In an attempt to salvage the situation, I grabbed a menu, which was printed in Japanese, and announced that it said ”Sorry but we have no Red Snapper heads tonight. “ But one of the Kawasaki guys, getting into the spirit but completely missing the point, said that I had misread, and that it really said. “Sorry but we ONLY have Red Snapper heads tonight.

Anyway. I end up eating another Red Snapper head, washed down with even more copious quantities of Sake, and to this day I can’t stand the sight of Red Snapper in any size shape or form, heads or not.

But those experiences were dwarfed by the time in a Nagoya restaurant, when a lobster walked off Pats’ plate, and another occasion when some of the guys, feeling no pain, were dunking live shrimp into red wine to get the creatures drunk, then biting their heads off and eating them raw.

And once, Japanese food almost saved my life. Seems like I was stuck on this Chinese riverboat, on the Yangtze, for a week, with, among others, a group of Japanese businessmen. The Chinese food aboard this tub was about three shades beyond awful, and was hardly edible. But the cook did whip up some credible Japanese food for the businessmen, so I survived on that for a week. Till I could get to Hong Kong and pig out on some real “Hong Kong Chinese” cuisine.

You can probably see by now that I seemed to have a propensity for getting into interesting situations at dinner with Vice Presidents, as the following couple of anecdotes will show.

One of our senior Vice Presidents, name of Bill, who had an insatiable urge to travel, also happened to have a stunning wife, who we shall call Jane, with a figure which would have put Dolly Parton to shame, and to top it off, was about thirty years younger than the guy.

She was also an ex motorcycle racer, a good sport and a Hell of a lot of fun to be around. And to top it off, she loved Japanese food, and ate like she had a hollow leg.

I knew both of them well, as I had been roped in several times as a “bag carrier” to accompany them on their excursions.

Anyway, I am hanging around Tokyo on some useless mission, when I get a call from Bill, who unbeknownst to me, was also in town. He explained that he had a big deal dinner with Japan Airlines executives that evening, and since women were not welcome, would I take Jane to dinner. Well, it took me about thirty seconds to make up my mind on that one, and I arranged to pick her up at their hotel that evening.

Well I had no sooner put down the phone, than my big boss Jim, the Vice President Division General Manager, was on the line. Turned out that he, as well, was in Tokyo, and wanted me to have dinner with him. Seems the town was rapidly getting crowded with Company big shots.

I told him that I would be pleased to accommodate him, but I had this one problem. I then explained that I already had a date with a good looking lady, and without mentioned any other particulars, asked if I could bring her along. At this point, he was sure that I had been in Japan too long, but what could he do but say OK.

Of course all the big shots knew each other and their wives socially, but when we met at the restaurant, the setting was so out of context that he did not tumble as to who Jane really was for about ten minutes, during which time he was trying to decide whether to congratulate me for my taste in ladies, or to fire me for poor judgment. Finally neither Jane or I could keep a straight face any longer and Jim finally tumbled to whom Jane really was. For a couple of moments he couldn’t decide whether to be pissed or amused, but finally accepted the situation in good form.

And speaking of Vice Presidents, one evening Pat and I, at a boring company function, were asked by the wife of a newly minted Vice President, who we shall call Bob, and was really full of himself. If we would share their table at dinner.

Pat, having no real love for the guy, and being kind of a straight talker, told the lady that she didn’t think so, but we got drafted anyway.

So here we are, at a table for eight, with the new Vice President, and another old timer Vice president and his wife, along with another couple whose names I don’t recall.

Anyway, after being reminded about ten times by Bob that he was now a Vice President, Pat finally snapped. Looking him straight in the eye, she announced that she believed that we all now knew that he was a Vice President, and would he please cool it for the remainder of the evening.

Well, VP Bob was speechless for the first time, and the other VP turned red and almost choked on his soup to keep from laughing. And then after a long pause, things went on as though nothing had happened, but there were no more mentions of Vice Presidencies. And incidentally, I had no more problems at work from that guy either.

Now, one more Vice President story, then I promise to turn to other matters.

Once upon a time, long long ago, I was a promising but very junior young executive, and Pat was making her mark in Seattle society. Member of the Junior League, buddy of the Mayor, and on the board of the United Cerebral Palsy (UCP) charity, etc., etc.

My Division General Manager, an old time good guy Vice President named Lysle, was light years above me in the pecking order, but since someone thought I had executive potential, I did have some contact with him. Lysle was also on the UCP board, he and Pat became good friends, and I heard a lot about him around the house. Anyhow, at some dinner, Just before Lsyle’s retirement, Pat and I happened to be sitting with him and his charming wife.

And then lightning struck, and Lsyle realized for the first time that Pat and I were related.

But a little late to help my career, one might say.

Now lets move on to the other side of the world, to an outdoor café in Madrid, where some friends and I were dining at about one in the morning. Seeing a stray cat wandering by, and feeling sorry for the poor thing, I tossed him a morsel. This was obviously the wrong thing to do, as the kitty immediately wanted more. So I ordered a heaping plate of fried sardines, just for my friend the cat, who we had by this time christened El Gato. Seeing this repast coming his way, he decided to share, invited all his friends and relatives, and before one could say El Gato, we were up to our asses in cats. The manager, needless to say, was not amused, and was even more pissed when we christened his place the “El Gato Café”.

Let's now talk about some dining experiences in "Gay Parie". Seems I was out to dinner in Paris with a good friend who represented a French company, but could not speak a word of French. My French was not so good either, being hardly beyond the ability to read a restaurant menu.

Well, this was a pretty hoity toity place, and after splitting a bottle of champagne we had worked up a pretty good appetite, and were ready to order.

But the waiter, as Frenchmen are sometimes wont to do, suddenly decided that he did not speak English. And, despite our feeble attempts to communicate in French, the waiter was having none of it, and it was beginning to look like we might go hungry. But then I had an inspiration. Spotting an obviously German foursome at the next table I wondered how they had solved he communication problem, and eavesdropped a bit on their conversation. Turned out that they were speaking with the waiter in German, and he was replying in quite passable form.

So I tried the same tactic, the guy was trapped, and communication with him continued in German, for the rest of the meal.

And speaking of Parisian restaurants, a Japanese friend of mine happened to be in Paris, but not speaking or reading French, was hunting for an eatery where English was spoken.
As you probably already know, in Europe it is not uncommon for restaurants to post their menus out in front on the door, window, wall, or whatever. That way, one can combine restaurant hunting with a leisurely stroll. . So my friend figured the solution to his problem would be simple. He would check around till he found a menu posted in English, and he would be home free.

Well, after walking from Notre Dame to Montmartre, and halfway back, “window shopping” his way around town, and perusing the eateries, my friend finally spied an English menu. After checking out the fare, and finding it satisfactory, he walked into the place and was seated without comment. But imagine his surprise when the waiter handed him a menu, not in English, as he had expected, but in Japanese.

And when Sam and I went fishin’, particularly in the backwaters of the world, we often had some strange and wonderful culinary experiences as well. But let me give you a couple of examples.

Any story about fishin’ in the Brazilian jungle would not be complete, without a word about the food. Breakfasts were fairly conventional, but dinner was a real experience. For starters there was all the delicious soup one could eat, then two main courses. One course consisted of fish, and the other was an unknown jungle creature. Inquiries as to exactly what we were eating were useless, as the lodge staff knew even less English than our guide, which was none. One day, though, a couple of the guys went hunting and bagged a croc and a pica, so at least we knew what was on the menu that night. We eventually figured out that the soup, while very tasty, was concocted from yesterdays unknown jungle creature, ground up and mixed with a liberal helping of beans.

And when fishing in Yap, a godforsaken flyspeck of a tropical island in the Carolines, a typical day’s catch would be maybe a dozen or so Tuna, Skipjack, and a colorful variety called Rainbow Runner. Along with this would be a couple of Barracuda, a Wahoo or two and an occasional shark.

We would take a couple of each variety back to the hotel for supper, and distribute the rest to the natives. So each evening we would sit down to a plate of assorted raw fish, a plate of assorted grilled fish, and a heaping bowl of rice. All eaten with chopsticks, and washed down with copious quantities of Korean beer.

This island also had an open air cafeteria, used during Yap days, where topless women worked the serving line. But that is a story for another day.

But in some spots ‘round the world, due to language difficulties, or whatever, it seemed almost impossible to explain to the wait staff what one wanted to eat. But I finally figured out several ways to solve this problem. In Japan, for instance, I printed up a menu, in both English and Japanese, listing dozens of exotic Japanese dishes. Along with an explanation that I was a foreigner, and an exhortation to please have patience. This worked well, and had the unexpected benefit of being an instant ice breaker. ‘Cause when I pulled out my list and explained it, ‘most everyone in the restaurant would cluster around to see what the nutty foreigner was up to.

Standing by the establishment door and asking every patron coming in if he or she spoke English was another method, but it did get a little tedious. A variation on this was to wander around the establishment, asking likely looking diners the same question. And a final last resort was to grab the waitress by the hand, lead her through the restaurant, and point to any food on a diner’s plate that looked interesting.

This all puts me in mind of an evening in Bangkok, when an associate and I were wandering around town, but couldn't seem to find an authentic Thai restaurant. Finally in desperation we enlisted the help of a native kid, about ten years old, who had been shadowing us with the avowed intention of selling us his sister. Anyway, upon explaining our problem, the kid took off, with us in train, ducking through dark alleys in a fairly disreputable part of town, till we came upon this run down looking shack, which he assured us was the place. So, giving our new friend a couple of coins, and bidding him goodbye, we, with some trepidation I might add, made our entry. But again, the old communication problem rears its ugly head, which we solved handily when we spotted a couple of guys in turbans. We correctly took them to be East Indians and it turned out they spoke English. They seemed more amused than put out by our antics, and actually ordered for us. And the food turned out to be surprisingly good. But guess what, when we finally exited the establishment, the kid was still there, and still pitching his sister

.

But one day, in Germany, the tables got turned, and I was the guy who had to explain. Seems I was having lunch in this neat Alpine eatery, with a killer view of the Alps, I might add.

And then I began hearing some kind of a commotion, which I attempted to ignore, that seemed to involve Americans, probably US military. But soon, the Fraulein server came over to my table, ascertained that I spoke English, which she did not, and speaking German of course, asked for my assistance.

What had happened, was that one of the Americans wanted a ham sandwich, or so the Fraulein thought. Not speaking German, of course, the GI apparently did not understand when she tried to tell him that such fare was not available. And as some Americans are wont to do, just ratcheted his request up a few decibels. So, rapidly getting totally frustrated, the lady called on me for help.

Wandering over to the American’s table, I heard the whole story again, then carefully explained that ham sandwiches were not an option that day. I further suggested that since they were, after all, in Germany, which was obviously a foreign country, American food might not be readily available, and perhaps they should try some of the local ethnic stuff. The guy decided that this made good sense, so at my suggestion he ordered the “House Sausage. At which point I wandered back to my table to finish my beer. Pleased with myself for having helped avert an international incident.

But all was not over yet. A minute or two later the waitress appeared at my table again. “Remember that Hauswurste that you just sold the Americans” she said. “Well, I found that we are out of that”. So, I had to get up, go over, and go through the whole routine again.

In those days I could generally eat anything the third world had to offer, including dog in Hong Kong, but one time it did get the best of me. Seems I was in Karachi, at a pretty good restaurant, or so I thought, and decided upon some exotic curry dish, which the waiter talked me into. I had momentarily forgotten, I guess, that the English planters invented curry to disguise the smell and taste of spoiled meat.

Perhaps the chef that night found a way to use up some spoiled meat, but anyway, I got sicker that the proverbial dog. Now being a long way from home, and not trusting third world medicine, I had kind of a problem. But I rose to the occasion, made an overseas call to a friend of mine in Frankfurt Germany, and asked her to take me in. So I crawled onto a Lufthansa nonstop to Frankfurt, and several hours later appeared at her door. And seeing this apparition who looked considerably worse than death warmed over, and in truth, would have had to get better to die, she took me in. Actually she had little choice, as I had already collapsed on the couch. Anyway, after three days, I was feeling much better, and resumed my journey, only a little the worse for wear.

Another time when I was in Karachi, I was wandering down the street when two white guys, drunk as the proverbial skunks, were attempting to ride a camel. About that time a donkey cart wheeled by, and the driver hollered out in English “Look at the two ass holes on that camel”. The riders having not noticed any deformities on the beast, immediately dismounted to check whether or not he really had two such orifices, and the camel promptly took off, leaving them adrift.

Not really though, I kind of made that one up. But I couldn’t resist throwing in a camel joke.

And speaking of camels, here is one last story. Seems that two friends and I were motoring through Morocco, on the way to Casablanca, when we saw this rather mangy camel tethered by the side of the road. Upon seeing this beast, one of the guys insisted that we stop and investigate. I wasn't too excited, as this was far from my first camel sighting, but I finally acquiested.

The car had barely stopped rolling, when out of the desert materializes an entire Arab family. Guy, lady, and kids all dressed in native garb. And you guessed it, they had a lunch all ready for us.

Some kind of sweet cakes, goats milk, and some clear looking drink which turned out to have quite a kick.. Well, it was lunch time anyhow so we partook. And the stuff was really good. Then after giving the guy what was probaably a month's wages, we were on our way. And wonder of wonders, nobody got sick. Finally arriving in Casablanca about 10:00 PM., after several other adventures, the guys are ready to eat a horse. But they wanted to do it up in style, at Rick's Americana Cafe, ya know, like in the movie Casablanca. I wasn't sure that the place even existed in real life, but after wandering around town for a couple of hours, we did find the establishment, but it seemed tht they had built a Hilton hotel around it. Anyway, I took a pic of the sign for the record, we had a couple of beers and the ubiquitous over priced hamburgers, listened to "Sam" pounding on the piano, and then trucked on back to the hotel.

And that, friends, just about exhausts my repertoire on eateries, cats, and dogs. And camels.

Edmonds WA, May 20, 2011