15 February 2011 at 4:09 pm
The boyfriend, wisely, made it very clear that he is not one to celebrate Valentine's Day.
I, in response, mentioned that it would never make me unhappy to receive flowers or chocolate on any old day.
He, wisely, took me out to dinner.
We arrived at Brummis, a German restaurant (I was having a rare schnitzel craving), for a 7:15 reservation (which I had made 15 minutes prior - crazy and suspect on the busiest day of the year for restaurants).
I usually favor another German restaurant in town, but they are open Wednesday through Saturday or something ridiculous like that, so I thought I'd give this one a try.
Ten minutes go by before a patient man saunters over to take our drink orders. We were ready to order food, but nay, said he, we had to wait for the waitress.
"She knows all the intricacies of the menu."
"Even if we already know what we want?"
"She might change your mind."
Another half hour goes by - blessedly, the gentleman had brought me a giant German beer, chock full of alcohol, and, inexplicably, delivered two beers to the boyfriend, perhaps aware that this would be service best experienced inebriated - before the boyfriend notices:
"It's order, serve, next table."
"No orders are taken until the food has arrived at the table that placed the order."
The waitress finally comes over.
She is dead drunk.
"Happy Valentine's Day!" she slurs, and then mutters something in German. I give her a big smile.
The boyfriend helpfully leads her on with, "So, we understand you may have some information about the menu?"
She says nothing.
I am starving at this point, really prepared to walk over to the table next to our and begin eating whatever they haven't, and say, "I want the schnitzel! May I have the schnitzel? The schnitzel! Bring me the schnitzel!"
The boyfriend orders his bockwurst, and the waitress leaves, speaking German gibberish on her way to the kitchen.
...to go cook our food.
...for the waitress was not just the order taker, but the order maker, in addition to being an avid beer drinker. She is apparently the owner as well.
Thanks to the high-alcohol beer, Chad and I can't stop giggling. Perhaps it was the leiderhosen the proprietress was wearing while she stumbled from table to table. Perhaps it is the fact that we are now used to the horrendous service the restaurants in this town insist upon.
At one point, she walked past our table to talk to another table and the boyfriend shouted, hilariously, and with a big drunk grin, "WHY AREN'T YOU COOKING?"
I mentioned that perhaps she subscribes to the same cooking philosophy that I do: make 'em wait until they're so hungry, they don't care what they're eating.
Whether or not that is the case, that was some amazing fucking schnitzel, served alongside the best potato salad I've ever had.
It was also enough food for four of me, so I will find out tonight if it was the starvation that made that schnitzel so scrumptious.
At some point during the torturous wait, Fraulein threatened the room with a round of singing. Fortunately, she was either too wasted or too busy, and we escaped sans aural agony.
A full two hours after we'd arrived, and after a good twenty minutes and several requests for the check, we were finally free to pursue other Valentine's-approved activities. I promptly went home and passed out, chock full of the romantic combination of beer and pork.
Should have taken Dan Savage's advice: fuck first, eat later.
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