Sherlockian, Pasta Agliolio and € 0,60 trinket
Autor: Mei_Ilan
Tonight it will be a little artical written in English. I could write it in German, yet, I fear the hard matter-of-factly vocabulary of my mothertongue would fail to sincerly express the feelings I experienced during my sweet little adventure.
Today, I was sent home earlier from work, again. Reason being, that me and my fellow workers has worked too good, today. That glaring paradoxy never failed to amuse me every single time, it happened. However, being as it was, I was ermerging the Underground train at Warschauer Straße one hour earlier, as it would have been on "normal" days, watching the train, I had to catch just leaving the station as I was walking towards it.
While I stood on the platform, freezing slightly and staring at the little asian imbiss, I was wondering, like every evening, as if I should get myself an early breakfast, just to realize, again like every evening, that I had no cash on me. Knowing that the bank I had entrusted with my feeble income wasn't very well-presented in Berlin, I was sincerly pondering, if it was worth its while, to leave the station and see, whether I could catch a glimpse of the familiar blue sign, sporting the words "sparda-bank", or if I schould just shove it and wait till I get home. Usually my inner argument would go on forth and back, until my train arrives relieving my from the heavy burden of having to decide.
Anyhow, tonight was a major exception, for I suddenly told myself, that even if I couldn't find a bank I might at least find an imbiss, which accepts credit cards, since Warschauer Straße was a street frequented by a lot of tourists and well-laid evening strollers.
So I descended up the stairs, to the bridge and, out of a whim turned right, to start my search. Much to my surprise I hadn't even walked a few hundred meters, when my loyal bank greeted me with its cold sky blue glimmer. After I decreased my deposit by four greenish little five Euro notes, I stood infront of the bank, unsure again, whether I should go back to that greesy little asian imbiss, which would provide me with a box of tasteless noodles, or if I should extend my journey a little more to find an imbiss that would be more pliant to please the sensible needs of my tongue. Again, I decided against my usual routine and turned to walk farther down Warschauer Straße. I walked past a few shops, when I lay my eyes on a pizza. It was not the round ones, you get delivered in cartons, or the big square ones, sold on train station. It was something in between. A long creation of bakery, almost square, but with rounded corners. The edge looked deliciously fluffy and the things placed on that half-assed square of pastry, well, lets say I felt suddenly very wet around my teeth.
So, after a few seconds of inner monologue, which was going like "Damn, that looks tasty...It's probably too expensive... Oh, shove it! I've got twenty bucks on me, that sure is more than enough for a bloody peace of Mista!" I hesitantly entered, the empty little imbiss.
Inside my eyes fell on the huge price card, written in chalk on a blackboard. I was immidiatly confused, for I failed to find the prices for pizza. Instead, there was standing in huge, letters, written in a very clean, yet playful hand: "Pasta Agliolio"
Hah! Everybody, who knows me, probably guessed already, what happened next. My hyperreactive mind clinked into a chain of connections right away, processing the new information and coming to one unavoidable final conclusion: Pizza Agliolio - Aglio means garlic - Garlic - goddamit, GARLIC - shove the pizza, I want garlic, at once!!!
And so, when I was greeted, by the chef behind the counter, a middle aged man, slightly shorter than me, with a heavy arrabic accent, all I could say was "Pasta Agliolio, please."
While I still pondered over his question, whether I want to eat hear or have take away, my eyes automatically skimmed through the rest of the card, until they fell upon the very short card of drinks. Espresso, was standing there, with a big E towering over the smaller letters, like a gouverness over her servants. And then Macchiato, where the smaller letters were pressing so close to the M as if they were afraid of the price written after a huge gap: € 1,40.
"I'll eat here, and I'd like to have an Espresso Macchiato with it, please."
The chef hastily prepared his kitchen, it was obvious, that he wasn't expecting any visitors right about now, and asked over his shoulder, in a kind and slightly curious tone of voice, if I was living here, or if it were just the waves of work that washed me onto the steps of his small trattoria. I answered 'work' in my mono-syllable fashion, I sport, whenever I'm faced with strangers, who try to start a conversation with me. He didn't take offense though, and disregarded the money I had already placed on the counter with a warm smile and a polite: "You can pay after you eat."
As you wish, I thought and stuffed the two notes into the left front pocket of my trousers. After I knew, that there was no more need for me to wait on the counter, I turned around to a long board connected to the wall, which most supposedly was meant to work as a long table, seeing as there were bar stools placed infront of it. Heaving my heavy bag onto it and placing my coat, my hat, my scarf and finally my jacket on top of that, I suddenly felt slightly out of place. Here I was standing, halve past five in the evening, in an imbiss, I've never had been before, waiting for a serve of pasta and an Espresso with milk. Speaking of which, a soft clink behind me, was signalling me, that the drink was prepared. I turned around and did a double take at the huge heap of milk foam on top of that tiny cup. Carefully manovering it over to the table I hastily grabbed the pot of sugar to lift the heap of foam even higher by pouring a considerable amount of sweetness in that cup. After I somehow managed to stir this whole mess around without spilling anything, I decided I could as well get my book out of my bag. The short probably-arabian chef chose the same moment to tell me, that my pasta was ready.
So, a few disorientied minutes later, I was finally sitting on the table, infront of me a cup of what used to be Espresso awhile ago, a serve of pasta agliolio and a soft-cover of Graham Moore's "The Sherlockian".
I like that book pretty much. I bought it on a whim two days ago, when I was actually searching for some English books from the "Sherlock Holmes" serial I was still missing. Reading the back text I found out, that it was a mystery novel in reference to old man Doyle. I didn't expect much, for I know that there are a lot of Doyle-imitators outside, not one actually worth a second thought. To say that my expectations were surpassed, would be a bloody understatement. The story was thrilling, lovely, moving and moreover it was so very sensible telling not only the actual mystery story, but a part of Sir Doyle's live himself, that I more than once, fell in love with and then again felt raging anger towards Holmes' father, while reading this book.
I've been almost through the whole story this evening, and when Dr Doyle was suddenly finding himself in Newgate prison, I took the first bite of my pasta... and almost chocked on it. It was not, that the pasta tasted bad, quite the contrary, they were absolutely delicious, but so bloody spicey, it watered my eyes. There must have been at least five cloves of garlic in it. Damn my whole tongue was on fire. But it tasted so damn amazing, I couldn't help but shove another fork full of spicey pasta into my burning mouth.
After I calmed the first fire with a sip of my Espresso-milk-sugar, I continued eating, revelling both in the taste of my serve of pasta and the story my eyes were eagerly sucking in. I faintly remembered asking for a cup of tea halfway through my meal. I accidently poured too much sugar into that and gawd that tasted awfull, but I didn't really care. I was so enraptured by the thrill of the story, that I completly lost my sense for everything around me or the time at all. Thankfully, the short was-he-really-arabian chef was sensible enough, not to try and disturb my pleasurable reading time. When I finally closed my book thinking I've been here for at least two hours, a look on my wrist watch told me, that it were only thirty minutes.
Yet, I felt so relaxed and refreshed, I haven't felt for weeks. This short intermezzo in this tiny trattoria, with this book I bought on a whim, was by far the most pleasant experience I had for month.
I didn't have to think twice, when I said "make it eight", after I was told that the oral explosion of pasta, the Espresso Mount milk and the -have I already told you, how huge it was - big glass of tea costed no more than € 7,40.
When I walked back to the station and waited there for my next train, I promised myself, to visit that little trattoria again, maybe with another book, maybe this time, I'll try that pasta pomodore, but I'll definetly come again. Whenever I feel stressed out again, I will seek out this tiny, tidy place of social vacation.
Why was I telling you all this? I don't really know. Maybe it is, because I always feel bitter, when I think, that we all too easily forget all those small pleasant moments, we experience throughout our lifes. Or maybe because, I want to show you what pleasant surprises a slight random turn in your daily routine could bring. I know, it could have happened the complete opposite as well. But right now, I'm absolutely content with the fact, that no, it didn't and that yes, it was a wonderful change of routines.