The Teeth of the Tiger - Tom Clancy [165]
"Was darf essein?" the waiter asked, appearing at the table.
"Zwei Dunkelbieren, bitte," Dominic replied, using about a third of his remaining high-school German. Most of the rest was about finding the Herrnzimmer, always a useful word to know, in any language.
"American, yes?" the waiter went on.
"Is my accent that bad?" Dominic asked, with a limp smile.
"Your speech is not Bavarian, and your clothes look American," the waiter observed matter-of-factly, as though to say the sky was blue.
"Okay, then two glasses of dark beer, if you please, sir."
"Two Kulmbachers, sofort," the man responded and hurried back inside.
"I think we just learned a little lesson, Enzo," Brian observed.
"Buy some local clothes, first chance we get. Everybody's got eyes," Dominic agreed. "Hungry?"
"I could eat something."
"We'll see if they have a menu in English."
"That must be the mosque our friend uses, down the road a block, see?" Brian pointed discreetly.
"So, figure he'll probably walk this way ?"
"Seems likely, bro."
"And there's no clock on this, is there?"
"They don't tell us 'how,' they just tell us 'what,' the man said," Brian reminded his brother.
"Good," Enzo observed as the beer arrived. The waiter looked to be about as efficient as a reasonable man could ask. " Danke sehr. Do you have a menu in English?"
"Certainly, sir." And he produced one from an apron pocket as though by magic.
"Very good, and thank you, sir."
"He must have gone to Waiter University," Brian said as the man walked away again. "But wait till you see Italy. Those guys are artists. That time I went to Florence, I thought the bastard was reading my mind. Probably has a doctorate in waitering."
"No inside parking at that building. Probably around back," Dominic said, coming back to business.
"Is the Audi TT any good, Enzo?"
"It's a German car. They make decent machines over here, man. The Audi isn't a Mercedes, but it ain't no Yugo, either. I don't know that I've ever seen one outside of Motor Trend. But I know what they look like, kinda curvy, slick, like it goes fast. Probably does, with the autobahns they have here. Driving in Germany can be like running the Indy 500, or so they say. I don't really see a German driving a slow car."
"Makes sense." Brian scanned the menu. The names of the dishes were in German, of course, but with English subtitles. It looked as though the commentary was for Brits rather than Americans. They still had NATO bases here, maybe to guard against the French rather than the Russians, Dominic thought with a chuckle. Though, historically, the Germans didn't need much help from that direction.
"What do you wish to have, mein Herrn?" the waiter asked, reappearing as though transported down by Scottie himself.
"First, what is your name?" Dominic asked.
"Emil. Ich heisse Emil."
"Thank you. I'll have the sauerbraten and potato salad."
Then it was Brian's turn. "And I'll have the bratwurst. Mind if I ask a question?"
"Of course," Emil responded.
"Is that a mosque down the street?" Brian asked, pointing.
"Yes, it is."
"Isn't that unusual?" Brian pushed the issue.
"We have many Turkish guest workers in Germany, and they are also Mohammedans. They will not eat the sauerbraten or drink the beer. They do not get on well with us Germans, but what can one do about it?" The waiter shrugged, with only a hint of distaste.
"Thank you, Emil," Brian said, and Emil hurried back inside.
"What does that mean?" Dominic wondered.
"They don't like 'em very much, but they don't know what to do about it, and they're a democracy, just like we are, so they have to be polite to 'em. The average Fritz in the street isn't all that keen on their 'guest workers,' but there's not much real trouble about it, just scuffles and like that. Mainly bar fights, so I'm told. So, I guess the Turks have learned to drink the beer."
"How'd