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Lyle B. Fogarty Goizueta Business School, Emory University

The Greatest Challenge I Have Faced...
Training for and running the Chicago Marathon - Cliche
Getting an A in Chemistry - Pedestrian
Climbing the highest peak in Spain in late January - No good
Holding two jobs in college - Nothing special
Running with the Bulls - They will just think I'm stupid
Working at a client trying to avert financial disaster - Expected
Hiking the Inca Trail to Macchu Pichu - Hard but sappy
The dreaded encounter with the olives - BINGO!

CiudadReal, Spain, 11 years ago—If my worst nemesis were a food, it would be an olive. Its cronies would be mustard and pickles. Besides those, all other foods would be on my side of the eating experience. If this were an analogy on the SAT, "Olives would be to Lyle as Boss Hog is to the Dukes!

My disdain for the olive runs deep. I do not know when this adversarial relationship began, but I can tell you when it intensified. I had been in Spain on a high school exchange program a mere two months. My Spanish was rusty but I was eager to make friends. One of my classmates, Tomas, invited me to eat at his house the following Sunday. Since eating at a friend's house is not common in Spain (Spaniards typically meet at a local pub), the invi­tation was quite an honor. Tomas' mother asked me on the phone what I liked to eat. Strictly abiding by the Fogarty code of manners, I answered that I ate everything put in front of me. Knowing how Spanish mothers love to cook and leave you satisfied I also added,”But Dona Antonia, just so you know, I eat a lot!”.

Looking forward to the Sunday feast, I anticipated a heaping serving of Paella or a delicious serving of migas, a typical dish of La Mancha. The meal started out harmless enough, with slices of savory Manchego cheese and Spanish wine. Dona Antonia then came with a piping hot dish, surely the main course. She served me first proclaiming that I was the first foreigner ever to eat in their house. I asked what it was we were eating. She proudly responded, "Olive casserole, made with olives freshly picked at the family farm." I felt my face crumple into an anguished look, quickly catching my­self, before anyone noticed. In my head I heard my mother's voice saying, "You'd better eat it!" As Dona Antonia served everyone else, I pondered my options—No dog under the table; no way to stealthily pour it back into the pan. Refuse it? Unacceptable! The olives would have to go in.

I took the first bite, telling myself not to overreact. As I carefully bit down on the olive, the juice squirted out, instantaneously reaffirming my revul­sion. It would be impossible to continue chewing this bite, much less the heaping portion she served me. At this point there really was only one way out—swallow whole—an uncomfortable, but successful strategy. As everyone conversed around the table, I was in intense concentration. I was in an olive swallowing zone. It required perseverance and most of all, discre­tion to tackle at least 25 olives. I was proud not to break Fogarty tradition. I was especially proud that I took on my kryptonite and won, albeit with a slightly aching stomach.

After the meal, as Dona Antonia was clearing the table, I suddenly noticed a quizzical look on her face as she picked up my dishes. She looked at me and asked, "Lyle, what happened to the pits?" Quickly glancing around the table, I immediately noticed that in front of everyone's dishes was a little plate with olive pits. Flustered I responded that the meal was so good I had not even noticed the pits!

The story has followed me for years. I returned to La Mancha this fall for Tomas' wedding. At the elegant reception I saw the menu for an eight course banquet. At my place, however, there was a special menu just for me. It read, "One heaping portion of olive casserole." Signed Dona Antonia.

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