Rick Steves’ Europe: After hours at a German Stammtisch
As we’ve had to postpone our travels because of the pandemic, I believe a weekly dose of travel dreaming can be good medicine. Here’s one of my favorite European memories from Germany — a reminder of the fun that awaits us at the other end of this crisis.
In Europe’s tourist towns, the best social moments combust after a long day of work, and after the guests say good night. In an Irish pub in Galway after closing, the door is locked and the musicians play on. On the Italian Riviera, the dishes are washed, the anchovies are eaten, and the guitars come out. And in small-town German hotels, the family and the hired help stow their workplace hierarchy with their aprons and take out a special bottle of wine.
During many visits to Rothenburg, Germany’s ultimate medieval town, I’ve sat down hurriedly at the Golden Rose restaurant to update my guidebook listing, then dashed away. Tonight, I’ve decided to sit down and simply relax with the Favetta family. We gather around the Stammtisch: the table you’ll find in most German bars and restaurants reserved for family, staff, and regulars. (An invitation to the Stammtisch is a good life goal.) Except for our candlelit table, the once noisy restaurant is empty and dark.
Well into our second glass of wine, we indulge in the sport many in the tourist business enjoy: cultural puzzles. The daughter, Henni, asks me, “Why can’t Americans eat with a knife? You cut things with your fork.”
I confess I know nothing about holding silverware. And just to hit a Yankee when he’s down, she adds, “And you people love to drink plain water — we call this water the American Champagne. But you never eat liver or blood sausage. The Japanese love those.”
I ask Henni if it’s not dangerous to generalize about other cultures.
She says, “Even deaf people generalize.”
When I ask how, she explains with the help of her hands. “In international sign language, ‘Germany’ is my finger pointing up from my head,” she says, making a fist-and-finger Prussian helmet. ‘France’ is this wavy little mustache,” she continues, wiggling a finger across her upper lip. “And ‘Russia’ is the Cossack dancer.” Henni bounces on her chair and hooks her thumbs at her waist, while her index fingers do a jaunty little cancan dance.
“And what’s the sign for America?” I ask.
“The fat cat,” she says, propping up an imaginary big belly with her arms.
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