Viper Pilot_ A Memoi..

Every few nights, when the flying schedule permitted, we’d take little taxicabs
downtown to eat or see the sights. One of the initiation rights for an unworldly
American pilot on his first trip to Zab was the fabled Green Bean Tour. It worked
like this. The new guy was assigned an “instructor” to take him through the narrow,
dark streets behind the big cathedral in downtown Zaragoza. These little streets
were called the Tubes and were lined with carts, street vendors, and hole-in-thewall
snack shops. I use the word snack only because you could physically eat the
stuff.
Actually, that was the game. The new guy had to eat whatever the instructor
told him to eat. Between courses, he also had to drink the local red wine, called
Tinto, from a leather bouda bag. The rest of the squadron came along to assist in
this.
The idea was to survive this haute cuisine gauntlet, and the Tinto, without
puking. To my knowledge, no one ever did. At the end of the Tubes was a small
stone plaza, where the squadron commander and the higher-ranking officers
waited. Having seen this just a few times over the years, they usually opted for a
quiet drink together while we promoted goodwill for America among the locals.
Well, not really, but they did love our money.
I did fine for most of it. I mean, to the point where I thought I was going to
make it to the end. I’d used the Tinto to wash down and disinfect the candied
snake, locust poppers, and half a dozen other Spanish treats that had been shoved
in my face. But near the end my guide refilled the bouda bag and handed me
something on a stick.
“You gotta try this.”
There was some snickering from the crowd.
“Whaddacallit” I burped back.
“Kinda like a Spanish . . . corndog. Yeah . . . a corndog.”
More snickers.
Well, it was dark and I’d figured out pretty quick not to look closely at the
things I was eating. Besides, this was the last stop and I thought I’d made it. Feeling
cocky, I swallowed some Tinto to numb my one remaining taste bud, closed my
eyes, and took a bite of something crunchy.
I remember briefly feeling quite proud. Whatever I was eating wasn’t too bad
and then I’d be finished. The two other lieutenants were already on their hands and
knees, getting a better view of the thousand-year-old gutter. Everyone else was
chuckling, since they’d been in the same situation at some point in their careers.
“Howizzit” someone asked.