A heat wave is defined in the USA as 3 consecutive days of 90-plus temperatures. The July 4th Weekend the thermometer hit 100 every day. The meteorologists were predicting no relief for New York. Wednesday morning I left my Fort Greene apartment. A taxi across the Manhattan Bridge to Chinatown. It was a work week. The traffic grinded across the ancient span of steel and stone. The driver dropped me on the Bowery. The fare $10. I tipped an extra $2. I had made the 10am Fung Wah bus.
$15 to Boston.
4 hours later the bus pulled into South Station. It was 2:15. I called my sister, a college professor without tenure. Gina was working till 5. Over two hours to kill. Germany was playing the Spain for the World Cup. The Nazis versus the Inquisition. Jacob Wirth's restaurant was five blocks away. I hefted both bags over my shoulder and trudged through Boston's Chinatown to the storied establishment at 31 Stuart Street. I had drunk at the bar with my father.
1970.
No women allowed.
That rule was rescinded with the passage of the Equal Rights Amendment in 1972.
38 years later the bar was packed with Germans cheering on their team. Kick-off. Frauleins und Manns. SRO. I asked the maitre de, an Irish bloat with a military haircut, if I could order some food.
"Kitchen is backed up to hell." Accent from Dublin.
A glance at the kitchen. All beaners. Mexico had been eliminated by Argentina. Bad call on a score by Tevez. The kitchen staff had no favorite. Me too. The Irish had been ousted by the French thanks to a Patrick Henry handball. Bad calls in this World Cup were almost as memorable as the damned zuzu horns.
"Then I'll drink beer." Jacob Worth had Hoegaarden summer beer on draft. I found a place in the dining hall. A stool by the piano. Direct line The waitress took my order. One beer and a brat taster.
"The kitchen is out of the weeds." She had a good smile. Her name tag read Katherine. Accent Galway. My grandmother's homeland. Katherine was getting a good tip. The food came fast. Knockwurst, bratwurst, two cabbages, and potato with a beer gravy. AC at 68. World Cup on the big screen.
"Rah-rah ree, kick 'em in the knee. Rah-rah-rass, kick them in the other knee."
I didn't care which team did the kicking.
Three beers later the game ended with a defeat for the Germans.
I was in Hamburg in the summer of 1982. The streets were empty. Every TV in Deustchland was watching this game. I was with Helga. The thin blonde rarely said anything. She had an overbite. I stuttered in both our languages. We were in bed naked. No sheets. The Porsche Reich had high hopes. Le Azzuri counter-struck with force. The final whistle blew the end of the final. Germany was devastated by the 3-1 loss to the Italians. Outside my windows a collective sigh of defeat washed over Mittelweg.
"Netzt Ziet." Helga shrugged into my body. I didn't have to be at work until 10.
No one at Jacob Wirth's Bar offered any comfort. I didn't need any. A warm blonde body. Vierleicht.
I studied German in high school.
It's always good to know another language.
Especially you're own.
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