Today was jammed packed full of excitement ,war crimes, and the Super Bowl. But before the skinny on that, there was fatty shaved meat in my mouth. The national dish of Germany is not wurst, not schnitzel, not even spaetzle. It’s that delicious, juicy, crispy combination of meat and salad all wrapped up in a pita. Aka the doner, and the best place in town to get one is found in Sachenhausen called Koylu Doner. The place is nondescript, the workers speak no English, little German and there is no seats. With THAT out of the way, let’s eat! A single standing only bar lies against the far wall to the right. On the left, lies the counter and IT. Glistening, revolving thick block of veal daring those that pass by within eye shot of its glory to not stop and pay tribute. Wanting to fulfill maximum meat craving, I told the Turk to skip the bread, skip the rice and simply pile on the meat. With a little salad of shaved onion, tomato, and kidney bean to round out the plate, at least some semblance of a health standard would be kept. The rest of the standards would be caught up in a meat murder. As I plunged my fork into this jungle of carnivorous rapture, and tasted my first bite, angels began to fall down from heaven riding unicorns on waves of light. A blind man walking by threw his cane up in the air and proclaimed that he could finally see! A bus full of terminally ill children collectively ripped out there IV’s and began break dancing over joy for being fully cured! And then the Russian spoke, “You’re going to want to put some garlic yogurt sauce on that.” Garlic yogurt sauce? Why yes? I think I am going to want to put a whole LOT of garlic yogurt sauce on that. In fact, I’m going to draw a bath of garlic yogurt sauce and just float the day away my fine sir. It turned out the Russian had lived in Brooklyn for a time, and takes the pilgrimage weekly. There was another tall yuppie lawyer type who chimed in stating proudly how he travels form Stuttgart with his family (the wife and kid were there) to come and be privileged. After devouring every last morsel, and declaring this day a new national holiday (National Delicious Donner Day) I paid the Turk who tried to short change me. The heathen. He stated acht euro fuenfzig. I handed him a 10 which he then deposited directly into the register, closed it, and said, “Thanks”. I guess he was thinking that I was some schmuck American from Kansas here on a day trip, wearing a fanny pack, and Mickey Mouse underwear who was just simply going to walk away. Kudu’s to him for the try, but he didn’t realize he was dealing with a professional asshole from NY! I simply stood there staring a hole in the back of his uni-browed head, with my hand out while the yuppie lawyer let out a laugh He seemed to understand what the thief was attempting to do. After a few moments, he stopped acting like he was doing something else, looked up, popped open the cash register and gave me my 1.50. Next, I politely thanked him for a wonderful lunch and then told him to go straight to hell. Not understanding English, there was no threat of retribution by clever wielding Turks, and it made me feel better. A fairytale ending!
Feeling properly full, and vented, I made my way over to a small house found right on the Alte Bruecke. An exhibit titled Mengala’s Skull was showing. Sounded promising! I decided that spending the rest of my day with one of the greatest perpetrators of the Holocaust would be a perfect lead in to the Super Bowl! The exhibit opens into a dark theatre room, where a film called “The Kiss’ talks of the kidnapping of 20 passengers by a paramilitary group during the war in Bosnia in 1993. Using forensic 3D technology, Hito Steyrel’s installation reconstructs the events that led to their disappearance. I didn’t get it and more importantly I was suddenly depressed. Simultaneously, the bottom dropped out of my meat high and a profound compulsion to go back for MORE doner began to emerge. But first, to check out the namesake exhibit upstairs. Passing two yuppie museum curators who looked hung over and in need of a cigarette, I walked up a thin stairwell to the upstairs exhibit which was fascinating. A huge screen showed a documentary based on a book by Thomas Keenan and Eyal Weizman titled after the aforementioned exhibit. It goes into how the forensic identification of Dr. Mengel’s exhumed remains in 1985 in Brazil helped pave the way for the new era of forensic pathology in which objects, such as bones, act as the witnesses of past events. A good hour was spent up there going over all the horrific details of the 1982 US backed genocidal ant-communist campaign in Guatemala that killed thousands of people. That turned out be the perfect amount of flagellation for my earlier over indulgence of donner.
With penance paid, I made my way back across the bridge. I was nearly to the other side, when what juvenile prosecutors in South Side Chicago call a life defining moment occurred. A strange glimmer of light emanating off one of the stone pilings caught my eye. Upon further analysis, it turned out to be a 5 hooped earring that appeared to be gold. The NY’er in me immediately wanted to put it in his pocked and proclaim “finders keepers, losers weepers”, but sense prevailed. What the hell was this doing here? Calling my wife for support, I asked her what to do. “Take it. You’re a freakin NY’er”, was her direct quote. Ditto. But then there was the cynical Jim thinking it might be some kind of police sting. Not knowing the details of entrapment in a country can make you think twice. “Your right, wipe your finger prints and leave.” Jesus Christ women. Wipe my finger prints and leave? Oh dear lord. Deciding against spending the rest of such a magical day locked up in some police car for what turned out to be fool’s gold, I got the hell out of there and high tailed it home for the game!
From doner, to Mengala, to fool’s gold, and then to the Super Bowl. What do these things have in common? Not a god damn thing! But deep into the morning, with 3:39 left on the clock, and my NY Giants getting the ball back with a chance to win the game, I realized that these events helped to preoccupy and settle my nerves for the coming heart attack of the 4th quarter. They helped me to focus, use my breathing like some yoga instructor, and find my inner chi. They were what Tommy Lee in an episode of MTV’s cribs referred to as his koi pond. His own place to go get away from it all, and enable the struggle to be endured. When the clock ran out, and Tom “I-Can’t-Beat-The-Giants” Brady’s last second heave fell harmlessly to the ground, a silent prayer went out to the sucker who got nabbed in the gold earring drag net. Believing that I have the power to control football games with my mind through screaming, jumping, kicking and biting in my living room, I knew these events in some sick, unexplainable way helped me to achieve the ultimate victory for my big blue. Another Giant victory over the favored New England Patriots, again! Go Giants!!!!!
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