Romanische Cafe

Herr Krause chose a busy cafe half a block from the courthouse. The three of us crossed the street together, dodging a bus and a horse and buggy. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten in a restaurant. The smells were luscious: wurst, potato salad, beer, and herring. Usually I packed myself a roll for lunch and, if I felt wealthy, an apple or a banana. My stomach grumbled, reminding me that I had not eaten since breakfast yesterday.

In front of the restaurant a wizened organ grinder pumped away, his monkey capering at the end of a long chain. When Trudi dropped a few coins in the monkey’s cup, the organ grinder smiled his thanks without slowing his rhythm. His monkey tipped his tiny purple fez at Trudi, and she waved to him.

We sat at an outdoor table, encircled by a simple cast iron railing that followed the arc of the sidewalk and separated us from the passers-by. A draft horse in the street chewed his way through a nosebag of oats, his docked tail twitching in a futile attempt to shoo flies.

We all ordered wurst and fried potatoes from an efficient waitress in a starched white cap. Boris and I chose Schultheiss beer, a little strong for lunch, but better than mineral water with the wurst. When Trudi requested a lemonade, I noticed dark rings under her eyes. Was she one of the victims? Their names had been withheld from the press.

Photo from snapoo.com/out/de/berlin/romcafe.html