I recently stumbled across a review regarding the cuisine of Germany. It stated, and I quote, "The best thing about German food is that it's just so much dang fun to talk about." This brief story then precipitated a flashback to a traumatizing event that I endured more than 10 years ago in a German restaurant. In time, however, the night terrors abated, and I was able to finally move on with my life. Let me share the harrowing tale.
It was a dark and stormy night ... well, actually it was a weeknight after a long day at work. A friend of mine asked me if I wanted to grab some chow. Instead of playing the inane game of: Where do you want to eat? ... I dunno, where do you want to eat?, he suggested that we go to a German place nearby. As I used to like watching Hogan Heroes, I thought, why not? This could broaden my horizons and actually count toward that foreign cultures credit I was seeking at the local community college. So, I went along, but nearly to my doom.
When we got there, the place was empty. The shadows from the walls sconces cast eerie shadows across the floor. Then a hulking frau from the 1972 East German weightlifting squad emerged from the back room. Her soulless stare caused me to break out in hives. Her eyes snarled, "I will break you." I nervously gestured at the first menu listing I saw. When it arrived, it looked like someone had placed an old cigar on a bed of coarse, stained mashed potatoes. Squeamishly, I cut into the cigar, and was horrified to find a flagrant dill pickle inside. After 20 minutes the house frau returned and looked at my barely touched plate. She drilled me with a look so menacing that I wet myself. She bellowed out, "Vaat a Vaaste!", and she beat at her chest. Sensing that our lives were in jeopardy, my friend and I threw a wad of cash on the table and sprinted for the door. Without looking back we sped away, realizing just how narrow our escape truly was.