Friday, February 06, 2004

08:30 – Baghdad. Friday mornings are supposed to be our weekends here, but they rarely work out that way. Given a free weekend morning in the States, I might find myself at the home improvement center working on a solution to something or another, or at the range making noise, or slack on the couch watching cartoons. Those aren’t options in Baghdad. My free time here is generally spent reading, or writing, or working, or drinking. This Friday morning, I found myself at the office, having slept in as long as I could, or about an hour longer than usual. I read last night. I’ll write some today – some for work, some not. Tonight, some drinking.

Some Americans here aren’t so fortunate as I in this regard, as all duty personnel assigned to the Coalition Joint Task Force Number Seven (CJTF7) are prohibited from consuming alcoholic beverages (as well as fornication, but I think that one’s a health issue more than anything). The CJTF7 is most of the active military here. As such, soldiers can’t drink. Most soldiers that is. Those assigned directly to the CPA are not under the command of General Sanchez, and can get a snoot full whenever they’re off duty.

Civilians as well are immune from this policy. There’s a duty free shop at BIAP where one can purchase assorted spirits. There’re the bars at the Al Rashid for beers. Bechtel has a nice recreation center with a bar and pool table (you can play dart there, as well, until someone finds the others). Iraqi workers are more than happy to bring something back for you from one of the many Baghdad liquor stores. The really big wheels have access to the Hussains’ cache of really rare wines, but those wheels travel outside and far above my circle here. My circle is drawn in the dirt.

On Groundhog’s Night, we strayed to the local Chinese restaurant named, ever-appropriately, “Chinese Restaurant”. Despite making reservations (stopping by earlier and telling them, in broken English, to expect a crowd) for our Whiny dozen and a half, the crew there was overwhelmed. Out of a sense of disbelief, I’d guess. Eighteen dinners is probably a few days of business for them, an Iraqi and Chinese as partners, with four or five Chinese cooks. The economics may seem weird here at first, but not so much when you figure that each of us would pay twelve bucks for supper and sundries and a cook earns three for the day.

It’s not bad food at all, and a welcome respite from KBR’s Chicken Kiev. They serve a nice tomato-based hot and sour soup, good appetizers, and make their own egg noodles. Supper included a case each of Turkish Corona’s and Egyptian Heineken’s. And, because they like us (you be the judge), the manager bought us a bottle of whiskey. Last time he did this, it was a bottle of scotch. Scott’s Brand Scotch. Pure grain scotch, if I’m any judge of bad scotch.

This time, it was whiskey. Nancy Brand. “Fine Old Whiskey.” In a three quarter liter container intentionally reminiscent of a fifth of Black Label, was served fine old whiskey “from concentrate”. Nancy, if that was her real name, was pictured on the label – a skank Asian girl sitting, leather skirt, knees apart, black brassiere, drink hither look on her over made up eyes.

I switched to tea.