Somehow, I've found myself wandering into a din for old men which smells as run down as the ages of those who frequent this establishment. The interior though, reminiscent of an old ship and marine fantasies, remind me of my similarly furnished Sims bungalow. Nodding to the music here as old men whistle along to the tune, why does my mood run along the same wavelength with that of retired German men? Ah, the age of my soul cannot be saved.
Menus displayed outside the restaurant, written in especially big font, is one way to capture the curiosity of a passing tourist. There, you've just earned yourself 12 Euros.
If ever, one would like to open a German restaurant, all they need would be meat, potatoes, and beer. Germans are walking sacks of alcohol infused Bratkartoffeln.
On the other hand, their bread is magnificent. Coming from an Asian who despises bread and would rather starve than be forced to receive bread out of sheer hunger, the quality of German pastry is truly worthy of praise, like their cars. Overall, their attention to detail when it comes to baking and making cars attributes them with the quality of good kitchen slaves. But of course, the air of entitlement about each and every one of their heads would suffocate even Pride reincarnated.
It is my opinion that German men are more interested in cars and potatoes than they are in women. Either that or they just drive very nice cars, alone. Often there'd be old couples in eye-turning sports cars driving past Königsallee. They must have worked hard in their youth.
Sad, that the population is facing a shortage of babies. Self-satisfaction leaves nothing to be sated after all. In my loneliness, the mechanics of a German lifestyle would refine my apathy until at long last, the tears I shed are of diamonds.
Ah, I could save myself from hurt like that.
Whenever I see a German on a bicycle, I think: this one is a Dutch import. Het spijt me, es tut mir leid, I've offended both cousins at once, twice.
