The Black Forest Inn

Is not in the Black Forest at all, which meant my dinner date was later than usual. It didn't matter much though. The host took a pretty long time to figure out that we were waiting to be seated anyway. He genuinely seemed surprised that we were here.


The time I spent waiting did give me a moment to take in the eatery. Rich paintings of stocky bavarian men with winged helmets eating, drinking, and making merry decked the heavy wood walls. I though I recognized someone from a long time ago, but shook my head. Those days are over.



My dinner guest finally arrived, looking a bit windswept. He shook hands with me by gripping me almost too firmly by the wrist, then set down his large hammer.

"Wench, bring me a Sprecher's root beer!" He demanded at the sheepish looking waitress that was assigned to our table. After a while she came by and told us they were out. I think he settled on tea, ultimately.

"Wench, bring me the leg of a swine!" He bellowed. This she was able to help us with, although she came with a slowness that caused me to realize she was in training and not actually afraid of the old man that sat across from me. When they arrived he bit into his viciously. I followed suit and was greeted by a warm symphony of pigmeat and buttery gravy that made my heart cry out in agony and my gut cry out in pleasure.

The food, we agreed, was fit for the divine, even if the service was momentarily lax, and the atmosphere was appropriate enough. I'll definitely return to this place.