DRUNKS, their stomachs full of crayfish, lookers-on stomping, laughing,
and pointing, and all of it happens while you and other strangers are dancing in a kick-line. Where are you? Your first guess is New Orleans, right? Sweden was probably not in your top three, definitely not mine. I was CEO of a division of a multi-billion-dollar international corporation. I was very young, and anxious to impress. Because of my title, I went to an invitation-only executive dinner in Malmö, Sweden. It’s my first time with many of these executives, I’m probably one of the youngest presidents there, and I promised myself that I would fit in with the company culture. As I get ready for the evening, an affair that required slacks, dress-shirt and sweater, I keep reminding myself, “I am here to fit in and impress.” The Swedes (I am told, and it is possible that I was lied to) celebrate the annual harvest of crayfish with a big banquet of… right, crayfish. OK, I can understand an appetizer of crayfish, or maybe a stew. It’s Sweden, so possibly it’s served cold. Remember, I’m just trying to get my bearings and I do not have any information or help from a local friend. Having been dropped off with other company heads at a large chalet up on a mountain, miles from anything, we all stomp our shoes and hang our jackets as we climb stairs to the second floor. I have already violated two of my rules for affairs like this: Always have your own transportation home. Always have a way to slip out. But I want to be a part of the “club” and we are just going to eat some crayfish and then head back, right? It
can’t be that bad. I mean, these are heads of billion-dollar companies around the world, not pledges at a second-tier fraternity. I figure that I will eat a little of what is offered for crayfish, order off the menu, drink a couple of drinks, and get out of there. The bad signs started at the top of the stairs. The table was arranged in one large U shape. As we sat down, a second bad indicator of the night was that each seat had six separate glasses at it. There was a champagne flute, a wine glass, a beer stein, an aperitif glass, and two others I did not exactly recognize, but that seemed to have a decent volume potential. I was a little concerned. There were metal tubs—like wash basin tubs—of steaming crayfish put at the tables in front of us. Tubs the size you might wash a hunting dog in, or a car engine. We milled about until our host yelled out from the center of the U-shaped table at the front, “SHUT UP!!!” A toast was made. It was in Swedish, a language spoken by nine million total people on the planet—and I believe that there were nine of those people in a room of fifty. We all knocked back our first round of the night. Unimpressive, except that none of the other glasses at each of our places had been filled, and none of the steaming crayfish that we were celebrating had been touched. Bread was available. That would possibly offset the impact of pounds of steamed crayfish and every liquor known to man. I was wrong about the drinking. A kir was handed out to each of the people sitting at the large U-shaped table, arranged so that everyone could see everyone else in the room, and there was truly no place to hide. The very large and important man at the front of the room, at the center of the U-shaped table, held court. If he did not think you were eating fast enough, drinking fast enough, or generally loud enough, he would shout in your direction, and someone would bring you more crayfish and booze. All the people around me were just grabbing crayfish, sucking out the meat, I guess, and then throwing the shells into other metal tubs on the table. The speed was absolutely staggering. I am not certain how the wait staff knew when to pour the various alcoholic beverages into the different glasses to match the courses. I mean, there was one course—crayfish ! But somehow, you were not allowed to refuse more
C r ay fish i n M alm ö
crayfish or a glass of any of the different alcohols. Every drink had to be drunk, crayfish eaten, and yelling in some language close to Swedish. I do not know the amount of time. I think it was the equivalent of SEAL training, where you were expected to do more, yell loudly, and never let your commanding officer down. Then, at some point, while the beer and (I believe) brandy were being poured, there were performances by the different attendees. I felt like I was a hostage in a WWII performance by the Russians. Attendees broke off and began singing in different groups, stamping and doing what I guess was dancing. At some point, I sensed a waiting expectation that I would perform. At this point I believed my best performance would be standing. I did not think this possible based on the out-of-balance consumption of alcohol to steamed crayfish at speed. Yet, this was my moment to show what balance and poise I had left. I summoned my courage, took a deep breath, and stood. I was proud of this accomplishment, but few else in the room felt that it was enough. I moved to Plan B. I grabbed some Brits who sat near me who looked pale and near vomiting. I determined that they were in a similar condition to me. I dragged them into the middle of the floor. Somehow, I conveyed to everyone else that those in the room should start a stamping rhythm with hands and feet to a level that was almost deafening. With that encouragement, and neither rhythm or talent, we began a kick line. Imagine five-year olds playing a game of crack the whip outside. This is close to the quality of our kick line. The tempo increased from the stamping, and our little group of four did our best to keep up until we became a semi-conscious heap on the floor. The crowd roared us to a standing ovation! The crawling to our feet with additional drunken and dizzy falling only added to the rodeo clown-quality entertainment. Somehow this humiliating drunken display of idiocy was now the favorite performance of the evening. So goes Swedish humor. Tragic outcomes of this evening included two of my Brit dancing partners getting arrested for being found intoxicated and sleeping on a bench outside a railway station the next morning. One Brit dancer went to the wrong hotel and demanded a room—until he showed his card, and the correct hotel sent a car to pick him up that night. C r ayfi sh i n Ma lm ö
My evening was not over. A very pretty blonde, who happened to be the chairman’s daughter, had taken an interest in me. I say interest, but I think that I later realized it was more of a curiosity. I had an interest in her. She had her own transportation with security driver. Ah-ha! Everyone else had come by either shuttle or bus, and would be leaving later. If I could get out of here with the blonde, I could get back to my hotel room. Now, there are some of you who are finding this story a bit dubious. I assure you that my interest was transportation. A large Swede about my age, with whom I had become friends, had offered to come along as a chaperone, and gave me a wink. I followed along as if I knew what was going on. Once we were in the car with security driving, he and the blonde thanked me. They were quietly going out and I was a great cover for them. You get all sorts of advice about what to do when you are going to a new environment or an event with people that are possibly a little out of your league. They say, “Be yourself,” and “Don’t forget, they’re just people too.” This advice was worthless in Malmö. First, in my twenties, I had not figured out who I was, well, really anywhere. I had been dropped on top of a mountain as the president of a company, and was riding this rocket ship of growth the best I knew how. Second, this kind of festival of crustacean horrors was like sending a convent of nuns to a Burning Man festival. If this was normal for the forty-plus-year-old Europeans that were there, eating crayfish and drinking the alcohol content of an 80%-off discount liquor store sale, I was never going to fit in. From what I could tell from the end results of the Brits, we all should have just sent stunt doubles. I woke up the next morning hung over, with my head feeling less like a headache and more like an axe-wound. I am pretty sure I did not fit in any more or less than I had before. No points or gold stars. Even attendance check marks were not given. There was little speculation about how things ended with the beautiful Swedish blonde. Guards would have stopped anything I had not already stopped and my interest was in getting a ride back to the hotel while hers was in the “escort.” My performance did not even merit gossip.
C r ay fish i n M alm ö
TRADE #1 “Fitting in” is unrelated to “being in.” The trade-off had been
made before I got to the party or visited Malmö. I probably would never be “in” through that party door (red light number one: I’m not Swedish). I would be “in” based on something other than the party I showed up at, how much I drank, or any other fitting-in trick. Fitting in was about performance. When you make a difference on the organizational scorecard, whatever that is, you are in. Only the middle of the pack play the games to “be in.” I would be in by sticking out in performance. I could have stayed in my hotel room and been just fine. I made the wrong trade-off. TRADE #2 Houdini exits are better than grand entrances. I used to have
an executive who worked for me, then I for him, and so on. No matter the large event, cocktail party or impromptu get-together, at some point in the evening, he would disappear. It was not dramatic, it wasn’t always the same time. He just wasn’t there anymore. His trade-off was the last joke or round of drinks for being gone before there was any risk of that being the end of his evening. The great Houdini. He always made the quiet and unseen exit. Sometimes he missed great ongoing evenings, others were wind-downs. Who knows, he traded. I wish I had had transportation for that exit in Malmö! TRADE #3 Go for the middle. No matter how well you plan, you will be
in circumstances for which you are unprepared, incorrectly dressed, at risk of messing up on customs or making a fool of yourself. If this is never going to be a problem for you, then you will have spent your life without risk or place of consequence. You are going to study the smartest person you see for what they do, and you are going to imitate them. If you can, you will ask the person next to you what you are supposed to do. After that, you are going to do your best. Truly, that’s it. What you read in the story above of the kick-line was me doing the best I could, knowing that watching three Brits and an American on their asses would at least get us back to our seats.
C r ayfi sh i n Ma lm ö