So the job in Berlin is going well, but as I mentioned in the last post, the days were long. However, if there was one thing that I was going to do before I left Berlin, I was going to eat at White Trash Fast Food.
It’s supposed to be THE uber-cool restaurant/bar in Berlin. I know immediately that it will mean bad service, shoddy food and attitude up the wazoo, but naturally, being the victim I am, I gravitate towards it like a moth to the flame. Or rather the smoke.
It was decorated like a Chinese restaurant out of a Peter Sellers movie and staffed by a bunch of people who dressed like they’d come straight out of a trailer park in the States. But like Germans with more money. Kind of thing.
Anyway, the eating area is situated right above the bar. When we arrived, there was hardly anyone there, and after an hour we had a waiter who would take our order, then deliver the wrong food an hour after that.
I should tell you here that in Germany you can smoke in restaurants and bars, and like the French love to fight, the Germans love to smoke.
So while we were waiting for the food that almost never arrived, a lot was happening in the bar below. Peter Stuyvesant met his old mates Benson and Hedges, the Marlboro Man rode in on his horse which he tied up next to a Camel, Virginia Slims looked ravishing in her Silk Cut gown as she arrived on Kent’s arm and I saw Lucky Strike up a conversation with … cough, cough.
In no time at all I couldn’t tell whether our food had arrived because I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face.
My eyes were watering, my inhaler was going full tilt and all I could think about was a commercial I saw when I was seven with Ronald McDonald talking to all of us kids about what to do if your house is on fire.
As I wondered how Ronny crawled along the floor with those big red shoes on, I tried to find our waitress. And tried. And tried. In the end I led the charge from our table; we grabbed our coats, physically found the waitress (who was, surprise, surprise, smoking), thrust bills in her hand and then fought our way to the front door, crawling on all fours.
I marveled at the array of Chuck Taylors on German feet, I knew I should have bought stock in that company when I had the chance.
Bursting out into the fresh air, I half expected to see fire trucks rolling up and an opportunity to be on the nightly news. Ah well, no photo op, but at least we all got out alive. Well, almost all of us.
My brand new Hugo Boss pea coat has been diagnosed with cancer. We’re waiting on the test results, but it doesn’t look good.