Chapter 5 - Schillerburger Part 1: The Dark Heart of Friedrichshain

We rejoin our heroes in deepest, darkest Friedrichshain, as they embark on their truly heroic quest. They are making their way from Warschauerstr. station towards Wühlischstr., dodging the hordes of roving punks and general ne’er-do-wells as they do so. Or rather, avoiding the new, special brand of well-off hipster and the odd remaining punk who hadn’t yet read the memo ordering them the f**k out of this rapidly gentrifying neighbourhood. (Seriously, an oyster bar at a food market housed in a graffiti-covered, abandoned warehouse? Get the f**k out of here...)

“Dios mío,” remarked Hector. “This is not the kind of place I would bring mi más querido madre.”

“No, I wouldn’t bring your mother here either,” Alan replied. “However, let us not judge until we reach our dining establishment.”

Schillerburger itself proved to be a pretty little spot with very limited seating inside but a few benches and tables outside, opposite a very pleasant drinking establishment which brewed its own ales. Owing to the balminess of the evening, our heroes unanimously decided to seat themselves outside. Perusing the menu offered them a small delight, as they spied the offer of a mixture of sweet and regular potato fries.

“I say Alan,” remarked Hector. “Their BBQ Burger looks most appetising. I must say that, to me, having a few rashers of delicious streaky bacon is a most appreciated aspect of the burger. I know that everyone likes bacon, but I feel I could play flamenco odes to bacon the entire day. And I very much like the sound of that fries option.”

“I must agree,” replied Alan. “A marriage of sweet and conventional potato fries sounds very much like manna from heaven. And I agree that the BBQ Burger, with its BBQ sauce, bacon and an optional slice of authentic Irish cheddar, sounds positively divine. However, in the interests of impartiality, the duality of our judging experiment, and the fact that I had bacon for both breakfast and lunch today, I believe I will make a slightly different choice and plump for the Chili Cheese Burger.”

“Also a splendid choice,” reassured Hector. He had known it would come to this, and had been determined to get his order in first, thus forcing Alan into an alternative choice. It was partially because he especially enjoyed the addition of both bacon and cheese to his burger, but mostly out of petty spite.

The menu chez Schillerburger did not go into exhaustive detail as to the contents of the burger. Neither of our heroes were particularly perturbed by this as both were experienced veterans of the burger-consuming world and thus knew their way around a burger joint, but also because each preferred their lives spiced with a little adventure. Alan never missed a chance to tell people about the time he once walked the entire length of a British hen party while wearing a kilt in the manner of a ‘true Scotsman’ (that is while drunk and because he liked the feel of a cool breeze on his testicles). Hector had once wrestled an angry bull to the ground in Pamplona, but that was less in the search of adventure, and more because the bull had the temerity to suggest that Rafael Nadal was a greater athlete and tennis player than Hector’s beloved Roger Federer (Hector was astronomically high on painkillers and cheap Sangria at the time, and indeed was nowhere near Pamplona).

Orders placed, the pair chatted idly to pass the time before their food arrived. Both were educated, well-read gentlemen, prone to quoting poetry (at least where they remembered it from earnest post-punk songwriters) and staying up long into the night discussing the finer points of viticulture and late-period Black Sabbath. Alan was in full flow delineating his theory that Ian Gillan was the best thing that could have happened to a post-Ozzy Sabbath, when their names were bellowed out by the hefty ‘grill cook’ within, signifying the completion of preparation of their order. Alan broke off mid-sentence to dash inside and retrieve their comestibles, lest some unsavoury character attempt to make off with the foodstuffs. He returned and placed the platters on the table in front of Hector, and sat down himself.

“So, first impressions, my good man?” queried Alan.

“They forgot my bacon,” muttered Hector in a small voice.

“I’m sorry? I didn’t quite catch that,” asked Alan.

“They. Forgot. My. Bacon,” Hector enunciated clearly, the venom dripping from his voice.

Hector was clearly fighting the urge to stand up and leave. Alan placed a comforting/restraining hand upon his arm.

“Don’t give them the satisfaction,” he urged. “We’ve paid for these burgers, and by God we will eat them. Don’t forget, this is only the beginning of the quest.”

“Very well Alan. But this is not a good way for Schillerburger to begin our evaluation.”

“Noted. We can include all of this in our report. Now, to the burgers.”

“It’s a good size, not too large but still a proper mouthful,” judged Hector. “The juices are not yet running onto the platter, but that does not mean too  much at this early stage. I do have one further concern to voice, though.”

“Please go on,” urged Alan.

“Well, the bun appears to have been lightly toasted. Upon the grill, if these brown, cross-hatched markings are anything to go by, which at least means that it hasn’t been forced into any toaster or damned panini-press.” Both men spat on the floor instinctively. “And you will remember my previous warning, that a toasted bun is a possible sign of less-than-fresh baking.”

“Do you know, I believe you’re quite right,” remarked Alan. He still couldn’t quite rid himself of the tone of shock whenever he agreed with one of Hector’s observations. “Still, the proof is in the eating. Bottoms up old chap.”

And with that, the pair of them simultaneously lifted their respective burgers to their mouths,  paired like some grotesque synchronised performance partnership. Eyes closed, their mouths enveloped as much of the burger as they possibly could, Alan ever so slightly choking as he fought once again with his gag reflex. Both sat and chewed thoughtfully for a while, wringing every last drop of flavour from the meat patties. Alan was the first to successfully swallow his mouthful, reaching almost subconsciously for a fistful of fried potatoes as he did. Cramming this into his mouth, he shared his opinion.

“Well, I would have to say that this is not a bad place to begin our journey. From my first taste-based impressions, I would remark that this seems to be a perfectly fine, middle-of-the-road burger. The meat does not appear overly juicy, though that could be accounted for by the lining of soggy tortilla chips on the inside of the bun, which some Mexican maniac clearly thought would be an authentic tribute to his culture by way of…” He trailed off as he noticed the expression on Hector’s face, a gaze which had been known to set dogs howling and cause babies to spontaneously burst into tears.

“My dear Hector, are you quite alright?” enquired Alan, concernedly. The last time he had seen Hector in quite such a catatonic state was when the rabbit they had been busily preparing for dinner had leaped up from the kitchen counter, ran across the room and taken refuge in Hector’s priceless collection of Archie comics, shitting itself quite animatedly as it did so.

Taking some time to properly come round, Hector finally met Alan’s concerned eyes.

“The horror! The horror!” Hector cried out twice, a cry that was no more than a breath.