Bavarian Bust
It was our sixth or seventh date, dinner with his best friend and best friend’s girl. We chose a local German restaurant renowned for its splendid décor and exhaustive selection of Bavarian beer. Seated in the middle of the crowded restaurant, the four of us were finishing our sauerbraten, wiener schnitzel, smoked bratwurst, pickled beets, sauerkraut and second round of Berliner Weiss beer, when I suddenly realized that my date, who rarely stopped talking, had stopped talking. He sat silent, elbows on the table and head bowed down.
I leaned over and asked, “Are you okay?”
He raised his head. His cheeks began to inflate. A torrent of partially-digested beer, sauerkraut, pickled beets, smoked bratwurst, wiener schnitzel and sauerbraten burst from his mouth, accompanied by noisy, violent retching. It splattered his plate, covered the utensils and gushed all over the white table cloth. All conversation in the restaurant stopped. Other diners froze in mid-bite, forks poised in the air.
Just as I was about to whisk him off to the men’s room, his cheeks inflated again and he let loose with another round — this time less violent but way more plentiful. It spilled onto the table and spread in gentle rivulets. This episode seemed to last forever, since a captive audience of 50 horrified diners cringed in our direction until it stopped. His friend finally swept him off to the bathroom. The friend’s girlfriend, showing a fine knack for disappearing in a crisis, disappeared.
I was left sitting alone amid the acrid-smelling, gag-inducing mess. Our dirndl-clad waitress stood ten feet away, not moving, glaring at me with Teutonic disgust. I piled the plates and glasses into the middle of our table, gathered the four corners of the table cloth together, then hoisted and handed the vile clattering bundle to the waitress, who begrudgingly took possession and carried it away. My date’s friend returned after depositing my queasy beau outside for some fresh air. We emptied our wallets onto the table without waiting for the check and fled.
Did I eventually forgive my date for this mortifying spectacle? Reader, I married him.
and I love happy endings even more!
