The Chief was having lunch, sitting beside four Germans who were adulating Dutch beer, getting close to one another, pushing one another, pouring foam (red in the nostrils) with big words and a gurgling throat, while the waiters, quick as lightning, moved among the tables (this one pushed by the drunks, that one pushed by impatient customers) and other fierce orders were coming from above (a concave dome of sensors, warning audio, warning lights, megaphones for internal communications – where the fast-food girls broadcast little code words, their breath heavy with the yellow smell of frying).
-God is my witness – the Chief was saying to one of the Teutons (who had spoken German since he was a child) – of the time I spent looking for a little place like this. Once, you couldn’t find any.
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