We’re in the square between the train station and the Dom. The spires of the cathedral watch over us. Wiener smoke billows from wooden shacks lining the square. My wife is hungry. We’re all hungry.
We walk around the stalls until we find an opening. Fran hits the beer shack next door. They’re opening bottles of Bitburger, a pilsner, and pouring them into plastic cups.
There is a round, medieval-looking rack hanging over a charcoal pit. It’s piled with wieners, steaks, and buns. I get the girl’s attention and order four bratwursts. Vier bratwurst bitte. She smiles, tells me the price in English.
I take off my gloves when she starts handing me wieners. By the time Fran shows up with the beers my fingers are numb. We all tap our cups together and say “prost.”