His Jewess Part 2

A World Where Only The Blind Can See Chapter 37

It had been a treachpus several days, and I had to get out the Embassy. Not even Schindler cpuld rouse me, for he too was in a torrid mental state, though his friendly facade was rather convincing, and he continued like our lives werent almost.over. So I i decided to take myself out for the afternoon because I couldn't bear the burden I was placing on him any longer. He could be a stubborn bastard sometimes with his cheery disposition and kind eyes and words of encouragement and positivity. I could be stubborn, but if he told.me.one more time that when a door closes, another opens I was.going to throw him through said hyperthetical door. 

I asked the driver to take me to the nearest town where only the finest ale was served. Nothing fancy but something homley and traditional. I was sick of Champagne and the so-called world classic wine lists from Europe. They wenrt even being served correctly. If Helen was there, each glass would be crystal clear and of the right standard to let the alcohol breathe. Even the evening entress where abismol and it all came to an end when the Maids began serving red samon and cucumber nibbles wrapped in a dry leafy lettuce without any dressing. Helen made her own dressings. But if that wasn't the last nail in the Lords hand, it was cheerily accompanied  with a red crandberry wine for enhanced fruitness to tantilsie the palate.  I ask you! What fucking chef theough that shit together?! My God they where lucky I didnt have my gun at hand. My Helen would serve her samon and cucumber as small startes on freshly fried crutons with a light white zesty wine followed by an onion or garlic based soup WITH new glasses for the next compatibble wine course that follwed her meal plan. It was all so structred and well put.together.  But in the Embassy it was clear they had to make some cut backs to afford the plushly designed out lay because it certainly wasnt being spent on my evening buffets or sit down dinners. 

Maybe I was spoiled by her Silver Service Hostess skills or perhaps it was because I was too critical in general and was so pissed off about being away from her that I found fault with everything and anything.  EIither way  if I saw another olive  Martini mixer to go with our after dinner chocolate mints I was going to kill myself. I wanted a nice thick and rich heavy beer. A stout perhaps or a good old fashioned mead top at room temperature that filled me up after half a glass served with sliced fried potatoes and lots of salt. 

It took us an hour a to arrive at a small ale House adjoined to a scattering of patch worked cottage and home run store fronts. It was quite the working class enviroment and like nothing I has seen since my Grandfather took me on my sixth birthday to Ouffsersteoff Village where he grew up. He walked me round a vastness of farm land and make shift barns and rubble abodes where he told me before he became a Solider he grew up on  nothing but bread, rabbit strews and home brewed ales in the one and only tavern the Village had. A  tavern thay stood to this day still. It was musty and dark and the floor boards where grey and worn and full of mud and straw from the local farmers boots and the husband and wife who ran the bar where as old as time itself. They had no scruples about handing over a three foot child a mug of brown ale and smiled when I first tasted it. It was my first ever sip of adult juice. 

'Drink up my boy, you will never tatse anything as good as this until you have your first woman.' 

 And he was right. We sat all afternoon eating fried salted potatoe skins and drinking this wonderful ale. I was glad he had shown me how to drink  such a heavy refreshemnt at a ypung age  becuase anything after a garden brewed burgondy or pear and apple cider or even a stwed and malted brown ale  was like drinking water. Hence my remarkable stamina at everything I did. 

 I smiled as I tipped the driver and told him I wpuld.make my.own way back and walked into the dimly lit bar and saw only locals all ruddy and scruffy and huddled together at tiny tables with pitchers of Brown Ale talking no louder than a hushed library allows.