While in a sales meeting in the UK, my colleagues in the engineering department of this large plastic manufacturing plant invited me to dinner to continue discussions.
The restaurant was in a converted livery stable dating back about 400 years, where the décor was, naturally, equestrian. Large tables were set up where once horses were trained, fed, exercised and hooves were repaired.
My friends thought to teach me about original English fare, so they proceeded to order for me. I was content to have any food, as my palate is not as educated as theirs, and they were adamant I try one of the most known foods: “sweet bread”; but there is nothing sweet about it, along with blood sausage. Sounds enticing? It wasn’t bad, but I would not recommend it to just anybody. They all had a laugh on my behalf when they described how the meal was prepared and how much blood had taken to fulfill our dining orders.
Because the round table was very large, the meats and other food items were set in the middle of the table with a revolving tray to allow the diners to pick and choose the desired items for their plates; we all enjoyed the different food items and shared comments amongst ourselves.
Back at the hotel, we all enjoyed an after-dinner drink before resting for the evening; the next day would be a laborious one, and we needed a long peaceful night.
About midnight, I realized my whole body was on fire, my skin had bumps all over it, and my hands, arms and legs were about twice their normal size. I must have ingested something alien, or my body was rejecting dinner; could be one of my allergies, of which I have many.
Recalling my childhood, my mother would bake “paella”, a Spanish meal consisting of rice, abalone, shrimp, mussels and any other seafood known to mankind. It was delicious and I could not have enough at mealtime. About an hour later following dinner, my body would show a damaging immune response to the seafood; not knowing about allergies then, I was sent to wash my arms and legs with a bleach-and- water soapy mixture to alleviate the itching and the swollen spots. It worked, and no one mentioned it again, until the next seafood meal.
What do you do when you have an immune response to a meal in another country? For obvious reasons, my epi pen was confiscated at the gate before boarding the plane from the US and I had no way of combating this awful reaction with early meetings the following morning.
My best choice was to wear a turtle-neck sweater with long sleeves after showering with cold water to mitigate some of the itching; luckily my face was not swollen, only all other parts.
I never told my colleagues about the incident, as I did not want them to feel obligated to either feel sorry for me, or not invite me again in one of their haunts.
Today, in my golden years, I avoid any seafood as I remember the reaction back in the UK.