One of my basic business rules is that I do not dine with clients. I hate making small talk and being on my best behavior during mealtimes so I will meet them for a quick drink, if I have to, but not for breakfast, lunch or dinner.
Dining with co-workers is another story altogether, and I’ll eat with certain coworkers (the ones I like) when we are on the road. That’s why I was having lunch with Sage during a Conference we were hosting in Atlanta recently. Sage and I have worked together for almost 20 years and she is one of my favorite people. Now, Sage was impressed. “How do you get away with it” she asked. “”Don’t you need to schmooze your clients?” she asked. “Don’t you need to charm them?”
I put my fork down. “Charm them?” I asked. “Have we met?” Sage laughed. “There’s always that,” she said.
It was not three minutes later that one of our attendees passed our table on her way out of the restaurant. She was 40-ish and pasty faced and had hair the color and texture of a whisk broom. She stopped short as she passed and looked at my lunch, then at me with total contempt. “I can’t believe you’re eating that,” was how she introduced herself.
Sage and I looked at my lunch, then at each other. I was eating a chicken Caesar salad and drinking Diet Coke. I looked at the attendee’s name tag, stood up and offered my hand. “Hello, Robin,” I said and introduced myself. The hand she proffered was so cold, damp and limp that for a moment I thought she handed me a catfish.
Robin glared and started digging in her purse. “My name is Roe-BIN” she said shortly, pulling a bottle of Purell out of her purse. She squirted the Purell into her hands and rubbed vigorously. “Thanks for stopping by,” I said, and sat back down thinking I had just achieved a new world record for the shortest time to hate someone I just met. But “Roe-BIN” was not done with me yet.
“Meat is murder,” she said flatly, and I sighed. Of all the people I meet in the course of my job, the militant vegans are the worst. Unlike your average vegans, who just don’t eat meat, the militant vegans have a take-no-prisoners attitude towards those of us who are unabashed carnivores.
Now, as Robin launched into a practiced tirade about the exploitation of animals, my mind wandered and I looked down. Inspired, I looked back up and cut her off. “Your shoes are leather,” I said. “Isn’t that murder?”
Robin sniffed. “This leather comes from cows that died of natural causes,” she said.
There was a long silence. “You’re making that up,” I finally said, but Robin shook her head. “Just how does a cow die of natural causes?” Sage asked.
Robin looked smug. “They die of old age,” she said. Sage, who was raised on a farm in Iowa, choked back a laugh but Robin ignored her. “Or they’re struck by lightning.” I had a sudden vision of an old cow in a field with a lightning rod attached to her horns. “Lightning?” I said.
A look of uncertainty crossed Robin’s face. “Or they die of heart disease,” she said, and Sage laughed out loud. “Carrying all that beef can’t be healthy,” I said politely. I picked up a piece of chicken with my fingers and bit it, hard. Robin’s eyes narrowed and she flounced off. I looked at Sage.
“You certainly charmed that one,” she said.