Fleshburgers (cont'd)

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She shrugged and turned to a coworker who chopping up more unidentifiable things on another counter and queried "Chic-ken?"

The co-worker stopped chopping to wipe her forearm across her brow. "Nein, nein. Ist nicht [German word for chicken, I presume]." She told our server, then turned to us and shook her head, "No chic-ken."

"Fish," Lauren jumped in, unconvinced of my German skills. "Is it fish?"

Again confusion.

For a moment I thought we were going to have to resort to charades. A picture flashed through my head of Lauren making a fish face while I strutted around the room with my hands tucked under my armpits , waving my elbows and going "Bak! Buk-buk-buk Bak!" while Frances quietly tried to pretend she didn't know us and ordered the hamburger.

Luckily, none of this came to pass, for the waitress was suddenly seized by a burst of inspiration.

"Ahhh!" she exclaimed. Oh boy! I thought. She has thought of the word in English.

"Fleisch!" She exclaimed. " Ist Flesh!" And she plucked at the skin of her own arm by way of a visual aid.

For one sickening moment all that passed through our minds was that it was a human-burger. Possibly, based on the name, made out of the daughter and/or niece of the proprietor.

"What kind of (audible gulp) flesh?" I asked tentatively, and not just a little scared. At this point I had completely dropped the pretense that I could communicate in German. Instead I was working on how to communicate in any language the idea, "I would not taste good on a bun. Please take my friend instead. We would not miss her, really. In fact, we have been fattening her up on Italian food for several months now."

But there was still hope. The blonde in the greasy apron had not yet told us what sort of "Flesh" she was serving that day.

"Chopped!" the waitress said triumphantly, and proceeded to make little chopping motions on her arm.

I was considering my options, which were leaning heavily toward running from the place screaming when I felt someone poke me in the back. It was Frances, the cannibal, who said "Just get it."

"Ein Flesh!" declared Lauren. I shrugged and went along. So did Frances.

And you know what? Fleshburgers are pretty darn good!

We parted company with our new friends, leaving them to serve more family relations to hungry customers. I hear the locals prefer second cousins, once removed, lightly fried.

Frances, Lauren and I walked down the street to the trolley (which we got on going the wrong way, a mistake we were doomed to make for the rest of the day), munching on our Fleshburgers and commenting on my uselessness as a translator.

Copyright 1993 © by Reid Bramblett. All rights reserved.