William Amerman's Blog - Posts Tagged "idiot-who-doesn-t-chew-right"
Holy shit I almost died
I was having a team dinner last night at a Brazilian steakhouse in Santana Row, San Jose. A very nice place. They bring meats to your table and slice you off whatever you want out of the twenty or so meat selection. If you like meat, this is the place to go.
All was going well. Among the twelve of us, conversation and wine were flowing. I was almost done with all the meat on my plate, when a piece of lamb slid the wrong way down my throat. I tried to work it down, but my throat started getting tighter and tighter. I realized I hadn't taken a breath in a while so I tentatively tried to breathe. Right about this time, the table behind us started a rousing performance of Happy Birthday for one of their table-mates.
My throat felt as tight as a rod, no air coming through, no movement at all. Which was right about the time I realized, I've actually got to do something about this, closely followed by the thought of, holy shit, this is going to be embarrassing in front of my employees. Which was then closely followed by some bizarre thought of self-congratulation for being so proactive and taking action right then, instead of mucking around with the throat of an iron bar.
I jumped to my feet, knocking my chair back, and grabbed the arm of Paul, sitting next to me. Paul's wife just had a baby last week and this was his first night out. Additionally, the poor guy was suffering from sleep deprivation, so his reaction was a slow, sleepy look of "huh?"
The eyes of everyone at my table were on me now, mostly with a semi-amused expectant expression as if I were about to perform some spontaneous, wine-fueled dance. Paul looked at me with confusion as I pantomimed arms around my belly, pulling in the Heimlich maneuver. Luckily, Tom, sitting one seat over, yelled out "he's choking . . . do the Heimlich on him."
Paul, a strapping 275 pound or so man built like a lumbering, powerful ox, got up, moved behind me, circled his arms around me and began squeezing. All that happened, though, was I spewed some sort of liquid, maybe wine, all over the table. This action seemed to rouse the other ten people at our table. As they recoiled from my stream, I had another thought. Hmmm, if this works, I'm likely to blow out a huge hunk of meat right out onto one of my employees sitting on the other side of the table. As the boss, that seemed a breach of etiquette. I needed a napkin.
As the table behind us continued with their energetic Happy Birthday singing, Paul circled me with his massive arms, alternately lifting my feet off the floor, then slamming me back down. On one of the down cycles, I plucked a napkin from the table and held it over my mouth. However, it wasn't working. I still couldn't breathe. For the first time, I began to feel panic.
Tom yelled at Paul to move his grip higher. Paul adjusted while I felt the aching, despairing and futile instinct to suck air. Paul began slamming again. This time, results were immediate. With each of his thundering clenches, things began to loosen up. At first, it was just more liquid. Then I began grunting at each clench, still not breathing, but even air going out of my throat felt like such a relief. Then, in a feeling I'll probably remember for the rest of my life, Paul gave another mighty pull and the stuck meat blew out of my throat and neatly into the napkin. I took a shallow breath, not eager to suck anything that might still be in my mouth back into my throat.
I tapped Paul's arms to get him to stop and he lowered me down. I wheezed grateful air into my lungs and grabbed his shoulder, thanking him profusely. As I sat back in my chair, the table behind us finished their Happy Birthday song and I assured all my folks that I was ok, thanking Paul again just about every five seconds. That was how my team dinner went at the Brazilian steakhouse last night.
I haven't eaten anything solid since.
All was going well. Among the twelve of us, conversation and wine were flowing. I was almost done with all the meat on my plate, when a piece of lamb slid the wrong way down my throat. I tried to work it down, but my throat started getting tighter and tighter. I realized I hadn't taken a breath in a while so I tentatively tried to breathe. Right about this time, the table behind us started a rousing performance of Happy Birthday for one of their table-mates.
My throat felt as tight as a rod, no air coming through, no movement at all. Which was right about the time I realized, I've actually got to do something about this, closely followed by the thought of, holy shit, this is going to be embarrassing in front of my employees. Which was then closely followed by some bizarre thought of self-congratulation for being so proactive and taking action right then, instead of mucking around with the throat of an iron bar.
I jumped to my feet, knocking my chair back, and grabbed the arm of Paul, sitting next to me. Paul's wife just had a baby last week and this was his first night out. Additionally, the poor guy was suffering from sleep deprivation, so his reaction was a slow, sleepy look of "huh?"
The eyes of everyone at my table were on me now, mostly with a semi-amused expectant expression as if I were about to perform some spontaneous, wine-fueled dance. Paul looked at me with confusion as I pantomimed arms around my belly, pulling in the Heimlich maneuver. Luckily, Tom, sitting one seat over, yelled out "he's choking . . . do the Heimlich on him."
Paul, a strapping 275 pound or so man built like a lumbering, powerful ox, got up, moved behind me, circled his arms around me and began squeezing. All that happened, though, was I spewed some sort of liquid, maybe wine, all over the table. This action seemed to rouse the other ten people at our table. As they recoiled from my stream, I had another thought. Hmmm, if this works, I'm likely to blow out a huge hunk of meat right out onto one of my employees sitting on the other side of the table. As the boss, that seemed a breach of etiquette. I needed a napkin.
As the table behind us continued with their energetic Happy Birthday singing, Paul circled me with his massive arms, alternately lifting my feet off the floor, then slamming me back down. On one of the down cycles, I plucked a napkin from the table and held it over my mouth. However, it wasn't working. I still couldn't breathe. For the first time, I began to feel panic.
Tom yelled at Paul to move his grip higher. Paul adjusted while I felt the aching, despairing and futile instinct to suck air. Paul began slamming again. This time, results were immediate. With each of his thundering clenches, things began to loosen up. At first, it was just more liquid. Then I began grunting at each clench, still not breathing, but even air going out of my throat felt like such a relief. Then, in a feeling I'll probably remember for the rest of my life, Paul gave another mighty pull and the stuck meat blew out of my throat and neatly into the napkin. I took a shallow breath, not eager to suck anything that might still be in my mouth back into my throat.
I tapped Paul's arms to get him to stop and he lowered me down. I wheezed grateful air into my lungs and grabbed his shoulder, thanking him profusely. As I sat back in my chair, the table behind us finished their Happy Birthday song and I assured all my folks that I was ok, thanking Paul again just about every five seconds. That was how my team dinner went at the Brazilian steakhouse last night.
I haven't eaten anything solid since.
