At lunch there's a table of former roughnecks behind me--old-school Texas oil men who've moved up the ladder to "consultation work" over the years. One's holding forth about his experiences in Siberia, working those frozen oil fields with multinational crews--Aussies, Kiwis, Canadians, Russians. The only locals on the team are the cooks.
"Try as they might, they just can't get it right when they try to fix our kind of food. They might get the name right, but that's about it. They just don't get it.
"Lemme give you an example: Liver lasagna. Yeah. You know how bad that sounds? It's worse in person."
Somehow, I manage not to spew iced tea across the restaurant.
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