Glimpse - Your Stories from Abroad

As a vegetarian in Austria, I quickly learned four words that would be vital to my dining survival, even if I butchered their pronunciation: Gemüse, vegetarisch, nein, and ja. Vegetable, vegetarian, no, and yes. I would use them in that order, locating the gemüse section of the menu and then turning to the server, pointing to each dish and asking, “Vegetarisch?” Nein. “Vegetarisch?” Nein. “Vegetarisch?” Ja. “I’ll have that, please.” Then I’d wait to see what the heck I’d ordered.

During one such outing, I discovered a small restaurant in Salzburg called Da Kapo that offered a wider selection of pizza than wiener schnitzel. The server, who also filled the posts of bartender, busboy, and bouncer, skirted out from the bar and attended to our corner booth, sporting a stained dishtowel over his left shoulder. With his lips tense and eyes alert, he introduced himself in halting English as "Inspector Colombo."

Inspector Colombo spoke in a confusing scramble of languages. Unable to understand much of what he said, I smiled, nodded, and laughed when it seemed appropriate, and said danke. Stout and balding, he bore little resemblance to the TV detective, with his trademark trench coat and dark, tousled hair. But this Inspector Colombo nonetheless enjoyed his American pseudonym.

Inspector Colombo performed none of his jobs expertly—brushing crumbs off a mostly-white linen tablecloth as he took orders, and occasionally confusing the mixed green salad with Greek—but his service was good-natured and, over time, he earned a contingent of loyal diners. These included a couple whose two large, white dogs slept under the corner table while they ate, a family who beamed at their toddler’s uncertain steps, and our small group of obvious outsiders—six American exchange students in Salzburg for the summer.

Over the next few weeks, whenever the six of us walked into Da Kapo, Inspector Colombo would switch the restaurant’s radio to an American music station, foiling our best intentions to enjoy a local scene without drawing attention to ourselves. Unlike the smattering of Chinese, Turkish, and Italian restaurants closer to the river Salzach and Old Town on the opposite bank, Da Kapo did not cater to English-speaking tourists. Its menu offered no English translations, and it was usually easier to guess a dish from its German description on the menu than to decipher Inspector Colombo’s multi-lingual explanations.

One night, after many danke schüns (thank you very much), assurances everything was gut (good), and a few mistranslations, Colombo allowed himself to talk about something beyond the pink stucco walls of the restaurant. Perhaps he had realized that by now, he didn’t have to worry about scaring off our business.

First in German, and then in labored but intelligible English, he said, “I don’t understand most of the people who come in here, most of my customers, but they are all my friends.”

Then, with concern in his voice, eyes wide, and wrinkles dancing on his forehead, he said, “The U.S. is a terror on the world."

Uncertain we had understood, he repeated, “A terror on the world.” He extended his elbows slightly, palms facing us, and spread his fingers wide to emphasize “terror.” Then, he shook his head and took a breath to give his second point equal weight. “The U.S. is a terror, but you are my friends.”