The stairs went down at a very un-OSHA friendly incline and the treads, though made of stone, were well worn. They also looked vigorously unforgiving if you happened to loose your footing and got to the bottom the fast way. We made sure to use the handrail. At the bottom an open doorway to the left opened into a wide and low room capped by a repetition of double barrel-vaulted arches. To our left was the bar, made of dark wood and traditional in every aspect. Scattered throughout the room were tables with booths hugging the walls, all crowded with patrons. The music was jazz and it was evident that jazz was the reason 99% of the people here, had come. A second doorway was just visible along the wall opposite the bar. We couldn’t see what was going on in there. The way in was blocked with the backsides of other jazz lovers who stoppered up the portal. It was standing room only, who ever was playing.
We quickly grabbed a booth that was vacated and took in our surroundings. One thing was for sure. One of us needed to go for beer. Mountain Man went up and picked up the first round. Fine black beer from the south. We happily drank and listened to the old style jazz that was being performed in the next chamber. It was a fantastic way to spend an evening, we both agreed. After a little while, the beers were drained and it was time for another round or to head out. We had time. Another round, it was.
I had been having a great time traveling with my friends but my lack of knowledge in the German language was driving me crazy. Everywhere we went, I was dependent on one of my fellow travelers decoding everything for me. I felt like the old, deaf aunt that had been dragged along on vacation and needed humoring and constant help ordering the chicken broth soup. I made up my mind. I would get the beer. That, I could manage.
“You sure?” Mountain Man looked at me with an arched eyebrow.
“Yah, how hard can it be? So what do you want?” I tried to look confident.
“Umm. Just another Schwarz Bier. You sure?”
With a dismissive wave of my hand, I got up and walked toward the bar.
When I was a little kid, I discovered my Father’s “German One” book from his college days. I thought it was fascinating and he happily showed me some of the vocabulary from the early chapters. Though he only took it for one semester and had forgotten most of what was covered, he did manage to teach me how to count to ten.
Eins, Zwei, Drei, Vier, Fünf, Sechs, Sieben, Acht, Neun, Zehn.
I had all the components to make my order.
The number: Zwei (two)
The item: Bier (beer)
The type: Schwarz (stout)
And, a “please”: Bitte
I repeated it to my self under my breath as I approached the bar.
“Zwei schwarz Bier, bitte… Zwei schartz Bier, bitte… Zwei schartz Bier, bitte.”
I returned to our booth clutching three large beers.
“Uhh, what’s with the third…” Mountain Man looked confused.
“Shut up and drink. I don’t want to talk about it. Don’t you dare laugh”.
He didn’t need to. I could see his eyes twinkling at me with mirth over his foamy glass.
I had somehow, at the last second, blurted out “Drei schwarz Bier, bitte” With out hesitation, the barman had filled up three large glasses from the tap. I had no way to explain my error. Making him stop mid pour would have only made for a confusing moment for both of us. I got what I ordered and headed back to my table. Ugh.
The last problem encountered was that Mountain Man and I had already eaten a large dinner and then poured two giant glasses of heavy stout on top of it. We were stuffed and the third beer loomed at us like an unwanted friend. It was time to complete my humiliation. Next to us sat a nice looking, middle-aged couple, quietly enjoying the music and scene. Mountain Man offered the beer to them. Understandably, they were more than a little reserved at first. Then the situation was explained in his aggravatingly perfect German and you could see the two of them starting to get the joke. They smiled. She chuckled. I turned interesting shades of red and inspected the ceiling for… stuff.
As it turned out, the man spoke some English and we had a brief yet enjoyable conversation with them. We learned that the Tone was actually part of the old palace wine cellars and that it was THE place to come to for live music in this part of Dresden. They were also rather shocked that we found it at all since it was mostly locals who came here. Not tourists. He took the beer with thanks and we eventually found our way out of the bar, back up the stairs and into the cold night air.
The walk to the train station wasn’t far and we were eager to find our seats. We were tired and a bit tipsy and adventures a-plenty lay ahead. That night, the train pulled out into the dark with two happy tourists asleep and hogging the compartment all to them selves. It was a long trip, but that was fine. Tomorrow, we’d be in Friedrichshafen on lake Bodensee and then to Salzburg. I couldn’t wait.
Photo from here
I hope I can get back to the Tonne some day. For starters, I can hold my own now with the locals when it comes to chit chat and ordering. Also, there’s a guy there who owes me a beer.
Filed under: Back Packing, Beer, Europe, Germany, Guys, Helpful People, Humor, Travel, Writing | Tagged: Back Packing, bar, beer hall, DDR, dresden, east germany, Europe, friends, Germany, jazz, tone, Travel |