Dinner in Heidelberg, Germany

I was exhausted. And even worse, I was hungry. I sat, nearly panting, as I searched up a place to eat. Schnitzelbank was about a mile away, and since I was in Germany, I felt like I wasn’t allowed to leave until I’d had some schnitzel. It was my last day, so might as well splurge on a sit-down meal.

The restaurant was a little hole-in-the-wall tucked down an alleyway off of the main street. It was inviting, warm. A Swede might describe it as mysig. It was so tiny, that strangers were seated with strangers. Nearly every seat was taken by the time I’d arrived. Luckily, I was alone, so it was easy to squeeze me in. I ended up on a wooden stool at a table with a mother and her son.

At first, I was too shy to speak to them, and too hungry to make an effort to. Sometimes I wonder if they were confused about this tiny girl sitting alone and absolutely scarfing down a giant plate of schnitzel, spätzle, and even the salad. The food was heavenly to say the least. I got it in this creamy mushroom sauce that I still dream about to this day, although any food tastes amazing if you’re truly hungry.

The woman got her drink and raised it towards me, saying, “Prost.”

I smiled and raised my glass back at her. I was afraid I’d butcher the pronunciation.

As the minutes ticked by, I was still shoveling food into my face but also studying the woman and her son out of the corner of my eye. She was wearing a mesh shirt that gave the illusion that she had sleeve tattoos. At one point, her sleeve slipped up while she took a sip of wine and I realized that she had actual sleeve tattoos underneath the fake ones. There was something about her that I liked. I wanted her to like me, too, but I had no idea how to start a conversation with a stranger.

Luckily, I didn’t have to, because she leaned towards me and started speaking in German. When I gave her a rather blank look, she switched to English, “So I take it you’re not German?”

And from there, the conversation flew. They were from Cologne, Germany, taking a short trip to Heidelberg. When I told her I was from California, she told me about how in the 80’s she and her friends traveled the California coast by motorcycle. God, she was so cool. We discussed the towns along the Highway One. She loved Santa Cruz, but hated Monterey, saying it was too bourgeois. She asked if each place was still how she remembered. From what she described, it was.

We talked about what we did that day. She’d taken her son to the zoo. I’d climbed a mountain (hence why I was so tired and hungry). We talked about my study abroad and what other places I should visit while in Europe. She told me about the Riesling wine, made locally, and I ordered myself a glass. In fact, we drank and talked for hours. Her son never said a word to me. He spent the entire conversation eating. He finished an entire plate of schnitzel and an entire apple strudel by himself, which, given his size, was quite impressive.

“If you ever have a son,” she said, “good luck trying to feed him.”

As I finished my last drink, the conversation started to wind down.

“I really like this restaurant,” she said. “It’s cozy and intimate. I like the brick walls and the rustic feel to it, don’t you? 

I nodded.

“Our friends back home suggested another restaurant that we’re going to tomorrow. They said it’s the best restaurant in town.” She paused for a second before saying, “Would you like to come with us?”

Shoot. I wanted to. I really did. But I was leaving in the morning.

We said our goodbyes and then parted ways. Maybe I should’ve asked for her contact, but maybe these sorts of encounters are best kept as a solitary entity rather than a full-length novel.

I wish I hadn’t forgotten the name of the restaurant she said was the “best in town,” though. I would’ve liked to go someday.