Heineken Pancakes

I have had a long week of 16-18 hour days and constant bitching from the customer trying to get the unit to baseload. When the weekend finally comes (which in a muslim country is Thursday not Saturday) I am geared up for getting sloppy drunk. A man-camp starts wear on you after a while; the combination of long hours, shitty food, and no women can make any man start to go mental. So when the opportunity arises to blow off some steam it sometimes can get a little messy. There is a poker game every Thursday night; I don’t play I just like to drink and talk shit; but anyway on this particular night poker table is heated. I use this as a great opportunity to get hammered, no pun intended.

We start to pound brews with this old timer. I’m going to hide this poor old fucker’s name and call him Spits; mostly because he makes a “brrp” sound every 10 seconds. It’s enough to drive you mental. He’s a nice enough guy but I can tell this poor cunt is way past his prime and is ill-equipped to handle the 5 am drinking sessions anymore. But he’s up for the challenge tonight fights going back and forth; spits is selling his tall stories of jobs in this place and jobs in that place

Spits: “brrp” You see I’ve been to sites all of the world you see “brrp”. I know how this business works “brrp”. You want to be successful in this business; “brrp” you need to listen here.

We just kind of ignore him and watch the poker game. Then out of nowhere; down goes Spits. And when I say he went down…he went DOWN. Basically did a straight legged keel over and landed flat on his back. No one was around him no one pushed him, no one is even talking to him, just all of a sudden, down goes spits.

Poker1: Jesus somebody better help the fucker.

Poker2: Look at your fucking cards you cunt, he’ll be alright…raise.

But he wasn’t alright he just laid there looking up a the ceiling glassy eyed. I honestly thought that this clown was dead. I mean we are in a camp in Algeria…if the guy has a heart attack; he is dead for sure.

Me: Dude, are you alright?… Dude!?

Spits:….arrggh

Poker1: Yeah, he’s all right. Let’s get some more beer

Waiter: Number one?

Poker1: No we want more than fucking one.

Waiter: Eh…sorry. Is finished. Beer finished

Poker1: … Crack open the cooler

Me: No problem

They put a padlock the coolers after a certain point in the night, maybe to discourage the same debauchery that was going on at that very moment. But anyway I found the largest stick I could in the camp and started to beat the lock mercilessly with no success. As I’m hammering away somebody whispers some words of wisdom in my ear.

Poker2: Dude just get a screwdriver.

Me: Ahh, the hinges, smart man.

Success, stolen beer for everyone, but now that we have beer we need late night vittles, and this night for some reason I had a hankering for pancakes, so off to the cantina we go.

Waiter: What is this pancake? I am Algerian. No pancake

Me: If I don’t see pancakes on my plate tomorrow there’s gonna be problems…Here, lets go I’ll show you how to make some fucking pancakes.

Of course this is Algeria and there is no pancake batter anywhere so I had to make them from scratch. Flour…check; eggs…check; milk…check; sugar?

Me: Sugar, where is the sugar?

Waiter: Sugar?

Me: God damn it. You know sweet, sugar.

He hands me a bowl of white powder and I make the batter and slap it on the grill and away we go. Luckily they had fruit and syrup. The first batch I wanted them to try. The sour look on their face was priceless; it was like I asked them to choke down a shit sandwich.

Me: Give me that, their not that bad…oh these are awful.

I went over to the bowl of white powder…salt.

Me: Dammit!!! This is salt not sugar. We have to make it again.

Second batch was a success and from then on pancakes were on the menu…you’re welcome.