Involuntary dinner

I’m sitting on the second floor of the Americano, looking out over a bustling stork’s nest and tapping away. Wouldn’t have thought that we would experience so much in this town. Tanja’s knee is already feeling much better. She spends her time doing yoga, stretching exercises, meditation and a few hours in a greasy internet store. It’s a miracle that something like this even exists here. Although I’m sitting in my great folding chair, I’m getting a bit sweaty at 31 degrees. I feel really cooked after a nine-hour writing day and see double. At 7:30 p.m. we set off in search of a restaurant. We have to get past Mama Maria. She wants to invite us to dinner straight away, but her husband Christi groans and refuses to cook anything. Before they get into each other’s hair, we can convince them to come back later. At the end of the village we find the only restaurant in Isaccea. Not a soul for miles around. Nothing new in Romania. The tables are set. There is even a reservation sign on one of them. We hear voices. Then a young woman arrives. She tells us that the restaurant is closed. If we want to eat, we have to drive to Tulcea. What an irony. We don’t want to go back under any circumstances. Especially not by bike. We walk back into the village. We want to buy something for dinner in a magazine. Perhaps also a white bread that has not been so terribly tortured. We carefully sneak past Mama Maria’s pub on the opposite side of the street. She stands in front of it and sweeps the street. We have almost made it when she suddenly spots us. “Denis! Tanja! Come over here!” she shouts loudly. Startled, we both drive together. We don’t have the slightest chance of not complying with their request. “Sit down. Christi will cook for us.” I don’t feel the slightest desire to be cooked for by Christi. Due to his obesity, his dingy pants with an enlarged crotch and his obvious rejection of us, the idea is simply repugnant to me. “Have a seat! Christi is almost ready!” she orders. “No, no, we have to keep going. We’ll be right back. We’re just going to buy something in the magazine,” Tanja replies. “Sit down at last. Dinner will be on the table in five minutes,” it thunders somewhat menacingly. Tanja and I obey. We get the places of honor. They are worn-out living room armchairs. No sooner have we sunk our bodies into the squeaky suspension of the armchairs than a beer is on the table. Glasses are washed in a sink and placed wet on the table. I see the many lips that have been etched on it over the last few years and have to control myself. Yesterday I was probably too tired to register it but today I just notice every detail. “I don’t feel like eating here, but who’s going to ask me,” I say quietly. “Do you mean me? Just take it easy,” Tanja replies. “I’m pretty damn relaxed, but hardly any human being can be that relaxed,” I reply somewhat defiantly. Mama Maria lays a nice and clean tablecloth on the wooden plate to celebrate the day. Before that, however, she cleaned the table with the dark cloth. I’m just thinking about the age of the rag when the door to the couple’s house is pushed open and Christi squeezes through, groaning loudly. Christi places a bowl on the table, puts a well-tortured loaf of white bread next to it and sits down on a groaning stool, panting loudly. The black meatballs grinning at me from a bowl are called Mitsch or something similar. “Lo and behold. The meal took no longer than five minutes. Buna. Help yourself,” I hear Maria’s voice. I immediately have two of the dripping, blackened Mitsch things on my plate. Tanja looks at me mischievously. She has made it clear that she is a vegetarian and doesn’t have to deal with something like that. I reach for the fork and squeeze off a piece. I can’t believe it when I realize that the Mitsch inside are raw. I don’t know if they are consumed like this here, but raw minced meat in this heat? Alarm bells ring in my head. “Buna?” Maria asks with a hopeful smile. “Buna,” I fib and bite into the meatball to prove it. Tanja looks at me and has to control herself. “Next time I’ll say I’m a vegetarian too. It’s a good trick,” I whisper. “But I’m a vegetarian,” she replies. “I will be in the future too. And if the food looks good, I’ll make an exception,” I reply. “You’ll get through it,” she encourages me. “I can only hope. In the end, your knee will be fit as a fiddle and I’ll have the shit,” I whisper, laughing at myself. Tanja gets unseasoned tomato salad with cucumber. A jar of yogurt is also opened. I poke around in my Mitsch things. Flax and other undefinable things are crushed by my teeth. When I accidentally glance over at Christi, I get too much. He shoves the meatballs whole into his big mouth. It looks like he has no teeth and when he starts to speak, everything is under his upper lips and cheeks. “What kind of a wimp am I?” goes through my brain. Christi schmatz. Of the 20 cats owned by our two hosts, at least 12 are lurking around the table. One has completely festering eyes. Another has an open back. Thank goodness the rest looks healthy. When a particularly cheeky one wants to jump on my plate, Maria pulls a plastic bottle over her. Christi, a real cat lover, complains. The two fence back and forth with words for a few moments while Christi spits undigested food across the table. Oh dear, what have I done to deserve this? I reach for the mustard bottle to squeeze some of it onto the Mitsch things. The bottle is greasy and dirty. How was that? Tanja has just said, “Take it easy. Well, at least I’m trying. But somehow the whole scene reminds me of a dinner invitation to a Mongolian family. There were arteries in blood soup without spices. A special feature for special guests. Tanja was able to escape by quickly grabbing a movie camera to document everything. It’s strange that it took so long for her work to empty the blood soup pot. ‘Why don’t you grab it’, Maria urges me energetically. “Phew, I’m totally fed up. I spent the whole day today sitting in a chair and writing. You hardly burn any calories. Honestly, I’m absolutely full,” I fib. Christi takes the opportunity to smash five more Mitsch things behind his gills. Then he groans successfully, rinses out his big mouth with beer and the meal is done for now. We drink two more beers and try some rudimentary communication. Today, the politician is nowhere to be seen. “Do you want vodka, cognac, schnapps or a liqueur?” Maria snaps us out of our dreamy mood. “No thank you”, we kindly decline, but who is going to ask us. Seconds later, Maria presses an unopened bottle of chocolate liqueur into my hand. “Open up,” I hear. I obediently turn the catch. Maria conjures up glasses on the table, takes the bottle from my hand and pours. We manage to convince them to take just one sip, while Christi grabs the bottle and fills his glass to the brim. “No wonder his body has reached such proportions,” I think. Maria wants to fill our glasses again. We can get out of the affair with a surprising bout of tiredness and the declaration that we have to write again tomorrow. We hug Mama Maria, make her promise to come back tomorrow, squeeze Christi’s big, soft hands and stroll back to the Americano. At night I only need two bullrich salt tablets to settle my stomach. We were lucky.

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