Drinking Stories

It's been just about 5 years since I found my favorite watering hole in the world. I wrote this essay about it for my 3rd assignment. It was supposed to be centered on a particular place, but as usual with me, I ended up focusing more on the people in the place.

The Scottish Invasion

When I was 23, I left my mind-numbing secretarial job in D.C. to try my hand at being an illegal immigrant. My then-boyfriend, now-husband, Phil had taken a job on a military base in Germany. Since we weren’t married yet, I wasn’t permitted to come live with him. That, like many things in Germany, was verboten. I came anyway, expecting a jet-set European lifestyle but ending up as a haus frau in Stuttgart, a city which is roughly the German equivalent of Detroit. My favorite description of Stuttgart was made by a Berliner who said that the only way he would ever find himself in that city would be if he woke up there after being beaten and stuffed into a sack.

In short, I had kind of a tough time adjusting. One night, to cheer me up, Phil decided to take me out to dinner. While walking, I spied a restaurant called “Mexicana.” We rushed in with thoughts of burritos dancing in our heads. The interior was unexpectedly modern with no sombreros plastered on the wall or piñatas hanging from the ceiling. In fact, the only indication of the restaurant’s cultural leanings, other than the name, was a high shelf lining the room and containing precisely arranged bottles of Jose Cuervo gold. A man standing behind the bar shook his head and said something in German. We froze. The man repeated his statement in a louder, more irritated voice. I got a sick feeling that I had probably done something verboten again. Phil ventured a timid “Zwei?” The man blustered in a thick British accent, “no damn you, I’m closed!” “Oh,” Phil said, “I’m sorry, we’ll come back another time.” The man’s expression immediately changed from a stern mask to a friendly grin, “Oh wait, you’re Yanks? Come in, I was just kidding.”

Looking back, I can’t say with certainty whether it was the quality of the food itself or the fact that it was a tangible reminder of my much-missed home but after I had gorged on buttery smooth and spicy guacamole, perfectly-seasoned carne asada, and several sour and sweet margaritas on the rocks, I was convinced that this was the best Mexican food I had ever tasted. Proprietor and apparent friend of the “Yanks”, Collin, sat down with us as we ate. He told us that he was born in England, raised in South Africa, taught to cook in California, and been brought to Stuttgart by a fickle fraulein who now lived in Berlin. Most of his business came from the nearby American military base, and so he welcomed us with open arms. His friendliness was refreshing as we had arrived in Stuttgart just after the United States declared war on Iraq and had been running into a fair share of anti-American sentiment from the locals. We ended up becoming regulars. There was always something going on at Mexicana with Collin or his cadre of odd patrons, and I relished the drama in my otherwise too-quiet life. I garnered many of my drinking stories at Mexicana. This is my favorite.

I came into the restaurant and noticed that Collin was suspiciously eying a rowdy group of 8 or so men in green and white jerseys. He told me that those “Scottish bastards” had come through Stuttgart last year and had completely smashed up Molly Flanagan’s, an Irish pub down the road. He smiled briefly at that thought—he and Molly were rivals with an always hinted at, but never fully revealed, past. But his face soon darkened as he contemplated potential hooliganism at his own establishment. I wrote his concerns off as being the product of the long-standing enmity between England and Scotland.

However, it turned out that they were in the mood for some mischief. Almost immediately after Phil left for the restroom, the Scots began hitting on me. Because of their thick accents, I could only understand one of them, and he was nominated by the group to be the translator. Phil returned, yet they continued their pursuit. Risking a beating, Phil good-naturedly asked if they were even speaking English. “English??” one yelled, “NO, we’re speaking Scottish!” At that point, I fell in love with them. From Phil’s raucous laughter, I figured that maybe he had as well. They pulled up their chairs to our tiny table built for two and bought us drinks for the next few hours as we did our best to try to understand each other.

At one point, the translator looked me straight in the eye and began to caterwaul what I imagine was meant to be a Scottish ballad. I held his stare and shoved my fingernails into my thigh to keep from bursting into laughter. Once he had finished, he began trying to coax me into sharing a song of my own homeland. His enthusiasm was not dampened by the fact that the only such songs I knew were the Star-Spangled Banner and Rocky Top, Tennessee. Luckily for me, and for the ears of the patrons, Collin chose that moment to appear at our table with a tray of shots. He authoritatively stated that he was closing and would call them a couple of cabs. They shouted a cheer for their team and downed the shots. Then one by one, they all gave me a hug good-bye and walked out. I wondered to myself why Collin had given the men more liquor if he was worried about their appetite for destruction, and got my answer when I overheard him on the phone with the cab company directing the drivers to take them to Molly Flanagan’s.