Back at our home base in Berlin, I tugged William out of the apartment on a Sunday afternoon and we visited the neighborhood of Charlottenburg. We left our Potsdamer Platz location via the S-Bahn.
Emerging from a station stairwell, we viewed tree-lined streets with enchanting nineteenth-century apartment buildings. The air, October-crisp as a Macintosh apple, warmed up enough to keep us comfortable. We held hands and strolled under maples dripping in red and gold leaves. We window-shopped and settled on an Austrian restaurant for an early dinner.
Back home in Los Angeles, William and I had explored our city's restaurants a couple of times a month. On other dates I cooked. I love cooking and William is an unfussy audience for whatever cuisine I set before him. Perhaps too unfussy — he wouldn't think twice about making a meal of beef jerky and Coca-Cola.
Does this broccoli have lemon on it?
Yup.
Hmmm.
I'd order two glasses of red wine to his one beer. I'd rattle off exotic menu items and he'd order steak and fries. I'd whip up a sandwich with roasted peppers, fresh tuna and arugula knowing he'd enjoy it as much as he would a McRib.
Seated at a picture window of the Austrian restaurant, we were lit golden by the setting sun. Classical music floated around the hexagonal room that could well have been a family's parlor in another lifetime. White tablecloths and large matching napkins signaled an elegant meal. We were the only customers and grateful for the courtesy of our highly professional waiter. Genteel in his black suit, white shirt and navy tie, he did not look askance at our bourgeois early arrival.
William drank a beer, amber and foamy, in a frosty glass. I sipped a German red wine and we chose an appetizer to share. Warm, breaded slices of duck lay atop braised red cabbage. The meat tender and the salad tangy, and...oh Lord, bring on more wine, this was delicious.
I was in a mood for schnitzel and this was the place to have it. As with the duck, the veal was sweet and the breading light and crispy. My entrée came with boiled new potatoes and a green salad dressed in a lemony vinaigrette. William ordered a beef dish served with horseradish and a freshly-made applesauce.
We took bites, shared forkfuls across the table and savored exquisite flavors. I would always remember this meal as one of our best, in part because we happened upon it at the end of a long walk, but even more because we were far from home and experiencing it together.
And I would remember this dinner forever because of the light. A caramel-colored October light found its way through tree branches to lay its long fingers across our tablecloth. As the sunlight disappeared into twilight, we stirred cups of cappuccino and spooned up a fluffy pancake-type dessert simmering in a warm plum compote. So, so far from home.
It was Auschwitz, in all of its beauty and sadness, that gave even greater value to this dinner in Germany. The idea of together had deepened for me. My awareness of time and how I intended to spend it grew in importance. William took my hand and I could not explain why my eyes were wet. I squeezed his palm with a rush of love.
Time. Together. Home. I turned these words over in my head as if I'd only just learned them.
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