Singapore’s Steak Tartare, Hotel Prisoners, and the Difficult Art of Trust
The steak tartare was in fact consumed in Warsaw, and not in Singapore, yet the aftermath of consumption cast a long shadow reaching far beyond the runways of Warsaw-Okęcie Airport. It is only my innate good luck that I have to thank for my business trip to Singapore not ending in a spectacular fiasco.
But first things first…
My company was negotiating a contract with a Singaporean partner. The early 1990s in Poland were a time of fulfilling dreams and desires stifled for decades: we were starting to live life to the fullest, or at least we thought so. At last, a Polish home could boast a two-cassette tape recorder with flashing colourful LEDs on a shelf, with time followed by a VHS recorder. Why on earth should our part of Europe be worse than the rest of the world? Singapore was where I intended to buy a large batch of such equipment. Electronics were taking the Polish market by storm, quickly turning into the symbol of the new time.
I delegated two of my staff to prepare the contract and deal with all the red tape, intending to join them a few days later with the money in hand.
Back then, cash transactions were the standard, and nobody wondered at wads of banknotes passed from hand to hand. Contracts, too, as a rule were concluded differently than today; a word and a handshake were sometimes enough. The decision was far from easy, though. I put much at stake: I was to pay the full amount and then have to wait for the goods for months. However, aware that it is usually those prepared to take reasonable risks who are the winners, I resolved to step into the game.
Trust was key here as well.
Initially, my employees carried out their duties meticulously, updating me on the phone. Yet two days into the stay, the calls became quite infrequent, before ceasing completely a week later.
I dialled the long number in distant Singapore again and again, and had my time metered in the succession of long waiting tones, as if some hidden censor at the other end was diligently bleeping out a continuous string of dirty words.
At last, the time of my departure came.
With a friend and a suitcase packed with dollars by my side, I boarded the plane that would take us to Singapore.
Time now for the titular steak tartare. Eaten an hour before take-off, it knocked me out as thoroughly as a certain burly chap outside Warsaw’s Korona Sports Hall once when I’d looked down at my watch to check the time. My only excuse is that both the villains took me entirely by surprise.
A sudden spike in my temperature liberated me from the weight of consciousness, sending me off into feverish visions and delirium.
I have no memory of how we made it from the airport in Singapore to the hotel. Without as much as a word of complaint, my friend tugged my all but limp body, while my numb hand clutched at the handle of that dollar-stuffed suitcase. Losing a suitcase-full of dollars would have made for a wretched story, even if the tragedy were set against the dramatic Singapore skyline.
I did hear that some souls had a knack of drinking themselves senseless, but I’d never heard of anyone who had managed to eat themselves into oblivion on steak tartare.
Once again, I found myself wearing the quite uncomfortable boots of the pioneer.
My fever had subsided by the next day. I regained my clear view of the world with keen eyes, and when I eventually regained full conscience and motor skills, we tracked down my two employees at the hotel. They looked as if they’d stepped straight out of a picaresque ballad by Adam Mickiewicz. Their stare was wild, and their robes grimy. Seduced by the luxuries of life, they’d yielded to the delights of table and bar with such unbridled enthusiasm that the hotel staff had decided to detain them until the bill was settled.
Once I paid the ransom for my prisoners, my valiant employees could enjoy a return to freedom.
I checked the contents of the suitcase, and went to see our business partner.
The man I was negotiating with was the local head honcho. He played the tune for half of Singapore, while the other half, as they say these days, considered him a man of influence. As he confided over a dinner at his home, he had built his colossal fortune and status on cigarette smuggling, having quite early on realised that trade, be it legal or otherwise, could be a springboard to future success.
To this day, it remains a mystery to me why he wanted to meet me face to face and what made him invite me to his private residence. As far as I know, it was not his custom to bestow such honours on anyone.
I’ll be honest: I did feel special. I have no idea whether he actually came to like me, but he certainly trusted me. A feeling I reciprocated.
Trust is fundamental to the smooth running of a business and a properly ordered life. Without trust, there can be no talk of business or normal human relations. Of course, it is essential that we do not mistake trust for naivety, as they belong to entirely separate realms.
To trust is to take risk. As we age, our appetite for risky solutions decreases, yet the element of risk can never be removed from key decisions altogether.
Once trust has been strained, healing is a long process, if complete healing is altogether possible. And yet try we must! I did, and it worked out. Even today, I still have a hearty appetite for tartare.