I used to live in the Yorkville section of Manhattan on the Upper East Side. The neighborhood was formerly known as Germantown because, well, it had a lot of krauts. At the time it was filled with various establishments designed to turn regular people into Germans, that is to say fat. I began to suspect the neighborhood was crawling with a certain teutonic element when I noticed swatiskas on Third Avenue. On two adjacent yellow brick tenaments, there was a series of crooked crosses which were formed of a pattern in dark brown brick. The swastikas remain, but they've recently been obsured by a coat of fresh paint.
Each year in October a sheissload Germans would put on lederhosen to march up Fifth Avenue to 86th Street where they pretty much depleted the beer supply. Germans like to march? Yeah, it surprised me, too. By the early 1990s, Yorkville had been depleted of much of its original character. Die Konditorei had closed in 1991 and Mullers vanished right before that. On 86th Street, all that remained was the venerable Heidelberg restaurant.
In the late 80s and early 90s, American beer pretty much sucked. The microbrew revolution had started to form, but in Manhattan distribution channels were controlled by big bucks and small breweries couldn't crack that market. The city had a single brewery in Brooklyn, but people from Manhattan don't visit Brooklyn. Hell, they wouldn't visit Queens if not for the US Open tennis tournament. Basically, Manhattanites don't get out very often. So in the midst of this beery desert, the Heidelberg stood out "like a shaft of gold while all around is dark."
When Monz came to visit, the Heidelberg was a requisite stop. We drank Dinkelacker until we were blue in the face. At the time, the Heidelberg specialized in Rhineland varieties. Now it has an equally large Bavarian selection. It was not uncommon to find drunken Germans in the crowd.
"So what kind of beer do you like?" I asked one.
"Weissbier," he replied.
"I know, but what kind of weissbier," I asked
"WEISSBIER!"
Monz tried, "He just wanted to know what brand of weissbier you like."
"You know," he told Monz, "I like you. But your friend is an asshole."
Now Monz had a new best friend and I was pretty much of an anal orafice. Note to readers: Never ask a drunken German which brand of weissbier he prefers. Apparently any brand will do just fine. Monz und sein deutscher Freund sprechen. And I was allowed to sit there and act interested. But that didn't last very long....
Monz: What part of Germany are you from, East or West?
Drunken German (raises and eyebrow then explodes): YOU FSCKING COLLEGE BOYS!!!. I oughtta. Eins, zwei, drei, POW!
From out of nowhere an Irishman stepped in to break it up...
Du, Du Liegst Mir Im Herzen
Du, du liegst mir im Herzen,
Du, du, Liegst mir in Sinn.
Du, du, machst mir viel Schmertzen,
Weisst nicht wie gut ich dir bin.
Ja, ja, ja, ja,
weisst nicht wie gut ich dir bin.
So, so, wie ich dich liebe,
So, so, liebe auch mich.
Die, die, zaertlichen Triebe,
Fuehl' ich allein nur fuer dich.
Doch, doch, darf ich dir trauen,
Dir, dir, mit leichtem Sinn,
Du, du, kannst auch mich bauen,
Weisst ja, wie gut isch dir bin.
Ja, ja, ja, ja,
Weisst ja, wie gut ich dir bin.
Und, und, wenn in der Ferne,
Mir, mir, dein Bild erscheint,
Dann, dann wuenscht ich so gerne,
Dass uns die Liebe vereint.
Ja, ja, ja, ja,
Dass uns die Liebe vereint.
--
Krazy and I will be at the Heidelberg on Saturday night. While he can still drink like he's twenty-five, I harbor no such pretenses. But that doesn't mean that I won't fun.
