Organizers of the Asian Cup, here in Qatar, did what host nations typically do for big sports events.

They set up a “cultural night” for the media. Which is a noble but hopeless endeavor. Sports writers/photographers/TV guys are pretty much immune to culture — even from their own country, never mind from yours.

They sold this, just as the Chinese did at Beijing 2008, as all organizers do … by making clear food would be involved. “Please join us for an evening of entertainment and fine dining” was how it was described, over and again, via the Main Media Center’s public-address system. Organizers had picked 6:15 p.m. on a day when no matches were scheduled, near the end of the tournament, figuring the media people were keen for a break. And they were right.

So, at 6:15 a couple of hundred of us piled into buses (free transportation, too) … to go see the culture … and have dinner at a fish restaurant (named L’wzaar) in Doha’s new, seaside cultural center, named Katara.

After an hour on the bus, because traffic was typically horrendous, we arrived at Katara, and went directly to the restaurant. In what I’m sure was a plan, our 7 p.m. dinner was (surprise) actually at 8, and the local organizers instead directed the media to a stage about 300 yards down the beach so that we could listen to “local musicians” perform. “Dinner at 8,” we were told. “Come back then.”

So, most of the media wandered on down, and listened to young men banging on drums and singing, and it’s nearly a certainty that those guys were very good at what they do and famous, locally, but exposing scribes to culture … well, the expression “pearls before swine” comes to mind.

At 8 o’clock on the dot the musicians finished a number, and about 100 media people got up and began walking back to the restaurant. The whole media contingent was there for dinner, period; no getting around it. While I’m sure local organizers hoped we would sit and listen to local musicians and watch local dancers, that wasn’t going to happen. It never does.

Anyway, once inside the sprawling resto … who should I see holding court near the front door than one of the most remarkable/colorful soccer people of my lifetime — Bora Milutinovic, coach of the 1994 U.S. national soccer team, as well as four other World Cup teams.

Bora, now 66, is a force of nature, seemingly indefatigable, omnipresent, a man who speaks five languages (Serbian, Italian, Spanish, French, English) and has more friends than anyone in the world. Seriously. This guy knows more people than Bill Clinton.

His ubiquitous greeting of “My friend!” is insincere but it’s not. It means “I know we’ve met, but I’ve conversed with literally one million people and I don’t remember the names of more than a handful.”

What is he doing in Qatar for the Asian Cup? Looking for another job, probably, though the velocity of his coaching career has gone almost supersonic the past few years, as he comes and goes after a handful of games. He may currently be the coach of Iraq’s Under 23 (Olympic) team.

Anyway, there was Bora, and I stopped and looked at him … huge glasses, big mop of hair (Balkan guys love big hair), looking almost exactly as he did 20 years ago … and he looked up and stared at me. Several seconds. Like, “I’m sure I’ve met you, but hell if I know where or when.” Then somebody asked for his autograph or asked him to pose for a photo, and I moved on.

I could have tried to speak with him, but English is the worst of his five languages, which I know well from covering him and the U.S. team throughout his tenure — 1991-94.

Bora eventually became famous for taking over lost causes and making something out of them. Specifically, Costa Rica, the U.S. and Nigeria. He took all of them to the second round of the World Cup, as well as Mexico, something no one else has done (four different countries into the second round), and for that reason he seems to be known and recognized around the world.

Anyway, I’ve seen him several times since 1994, when he got the Harkes-Ramos-Lalas Yanks into the round of 16, before the 1-0 loss to Brazil. Every time I see him, he’s surrounded by people, the center of attention, telling stories that probably aren’t quite true and just seeming to absorb the attention like it were oxygen.

I saw him again as I left (after a thoroughly unspectacular buffet-style meal), and he was in a prime table, at the front of the restaurant, with five people I didn’t know and, of course, he was talking. In what language, I have no idea.

Bora! A memorable guy. For us outsiders. Doesn’t work the other way round.