“Für mich ist es absolut als wär ich in Hannover.”
“At least here you shall have an honest meal. Kellner!”
She did not want to eat; only to sit and hear the deep German voices all round her and take in, without observation, kindly German forms.
“Simply you are too tired. We will have at least some strong soup and Lager.”
The familiar smooth savoury broth abolished the years since she had left Germany. Once more she was finding the genuine honest German quality reflected in the completeness of their food; all of it even the bread, savoury and good through and through, satisfying in a way no English food was satisfying, making English food seem poor, ill-combined, either heavy and dull, or too exciting. She saw German kitchens, alles rein und sauber, blank poliert, large bony low-browed angry-voiced German servants in check dresses and blue aprons, everlastingly responsibly at work.
And here was Lager, the Lager of the booming musical German cafés. She was sure she would not like it. He was taking for granted that she was accustomed to beer, and would not know that she was having a tremendous adventure. To him it did not seem either shocking or vulgar. Protected by his unconsciousness she would get perhaps further than ever before into the secret of Germany. She took a small sip and shuddered. The foamy surface was pleasant; but the strange biting bitterness behind it was like some sudden formidable personal attack.
“That is the first time I’ve tasted beer,” she said, “I don’t like it.”
“You have not yet tasted it. You must swallow, not sip.”
“It makes your throat sore. It’s so bitter. I always imagined beer was sweet.”
“There is perhaps something a little acid in this imported Lager; but the bitterness is most good. It is this biting quality that is a most excellent apératif. We will have also honey cakes.”