When I look back on my life in Munich, this is one of those evenings-turned-weekends that I love to remember.
Each time she comes with us to our favorite restaurant, Carolin tries again. When she orders the Creole Chicken dumplings, Daniel refuses to take the order. He’s certain she’ll hate it, and that’s all the reason he feels he needs. She’s pretty sure he hates it and that’s why he won’t serve it. The problem with that theory is: he’ll give it to anyone else. This particular February evening was no different. She ordered the dumplings again and somehow found herself having the scallops. We’d meant to order one bottle of white wine but ended up with a magnum instead. Daniel was his usual persuasive self.
It was one of those great nights that the place is famous for, among the people who love it.
On any night in winter, if you don’t have a reservation and you aren’t a regular, you’re not likely to do more than stand at the bar and eat olives. This evening was freezing cold and snow was piled high on the streets outside. Inside was so packed that bar stools were recruited as impromptu tables for drink glasses and appetizers. The place has a feeling that’s closer to a private club, or party, than a restaurant. Daniel and David, the quieter, more organized one, enforced a cheerful order. No matter how full it was, every guest was greeted like a friend or regular, which most of them either were or soon became. Sitting down finally, close to ten, we were content to have gotten a table at all.
Still here, Still foreign 