Fleshburgers (cont'd)
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She shrugged
and turned to a coworker who chopping up more unidentifiable things on
another counter and queried "Chic-ken?"
The
co-worker stopped chopping to wipe her forearm across her brow. "Nein,
nein. Ist nicht [German word for chicken, I presume]." She told our
server, then turned to us and shook her head, "No chic-ken."
"Fish,"
Lauren jumped in, unconvinced of my German skills. "Is it fish?"
Again
confusion.
For
a moment I thought we were going to have to resort to charades. A picture
flashed through my head of Lauren making a fish face while I strutted
around the room with my hands tucked under my armpits , waving my elbows
and going "Bak! Buk-buk-buk Bak!" while Frances quietly tried to pretend
she didn't know us and ordered the hamburger.
Luckily,
none of this came to pass, for the waitress was suddenly seized by a burst
of inspiration.
"Ahhh!"
she exclaimed. Oh boy! I thought. She has thought of the word in English.
"Fleisch!"
She exclaimed. " Ist Flesh!" And she plucked at the skin of
her own arm by way of a visual aid.
For
one sickening moment all that passed through our minds was that it was
a human-burger. Possibly, based on the name, made out of the daughter
and/or niece of the proprietor.
"What
kind of (audible gulp) flesh?" I asked tentatively, and not just a little
scared. At this point I had completely dropped the pretense that I could
communicate in German. Instead I was working on how to communicate in
any language the idea, "I would not taste good on a bun. Please
take my friend instead. We would not miss her, really. In fact, we have
been fattening her up on Italian food for several months now."
But
there was still hope. The blonde in the greasy apron had not yet told
us what sort of "Flesh" she was serving that day.
"Chopped!"
the waitress said triumphantly, and proceeded to make little chopping
motions on her arm.
I was
considering my options, which were leaning heavily toward running from
the place screaming when I felt someone poke me in the back. It was Frances,
the cannibal, who said "Just get it."
"Ein
Flesh!" declared Lauren. I shrugged and went along. So did Frances.
And you
know what? Fleshburgers are pretty darn good!
We parted
company with our new friends, leaving them to serve more family relations
to hungry customers. I hear the locals prefer second cousins, once removed,
lightly fried.
Frances,
Lauren and I walked down the street to the trolley (which we got on going
the wrong way, a mistake we were doomed to make for the rest of the day),
munching on our Fleshburgers and commenting on my uselessness as a translator.
Copyright
1993 © by Reid Bramblett. All rights reserved.
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