On my last day in Berlin I went to the DIY superstore out in the industrial desolation of Storkower Strasse to buy a toilet seat. It's not the kind of area you want to stay any longer than is absolutely necessary, but it was early and I was very hungry. Not wanting to make any important bathroom decisions on an empty stomach, I stood there torn between the charms of an overpriced Chinese takeaway and a tiny bakery. Economy finally won out over my MSG addiction and I chose bread instead of noodles.
The first thing I saw as I walked through the glass door was Santa Claus hunched over a plate of 'boulette'. He had an impressive, very real white beard, a red fur-lined coat and hat. A hospital drip attached to his nostrils led all the way down over his huge beer gut into a sports bag on the floor. His unorthodox costume was completed by blue nylon tracksuit trousers and a pair of brown sandals.
Santa was grimacing good-naturedly at his food and exchanging muttered words in a thick Berlin dialect with the owner, a genial fellow who seemed far too old to be running a bakery. A normal-looking guy sitting in the corner waiting for somebody was chatting away with them too. At some point the old man's wife emerged from the back of the shop and joined in the fun. It was the most sociable bakery I've ever seen.
This festive scene was completed by two middle-aged ladies eating sausages. Only 5 days have passed since the event but they were so unremarkable that when I recreate the bakery in my mind they are only ghostly outlines. I don't remember a word they said, although they must have been talking. Not very fair to them really, and probably more an indictment of my limited powers of observation than their own unremarkable existence. But for now they will have to remain silhouettes in the centre of the room.
Being a bit of a nervous vegetarian and knowing how Germans love to throw diced bacon into everything, I checked with the owner that the scrambled eggs were meat-free. He assured me that they were so I ordered that and a coffee and took my seat. I had a good book and seven hours until I had to go to the airport so was looking forward to dragging this breakfast out a bit.
The plate landed in front of me and, as I thanked the old man, I noticed there was a chunk of bacon sticking out of my breakfast. I could have complained, but was it really my place to upset everything, to bring disruption and dissent into this cheerful little world? No thank you, I'm British. So I carefully removed it and started cutting into the bread, at which point I discovered more and more little specks of bacon.
It was time for Plan B. Carefully wading through the scrambled eggs, macheteing away layers of egg with my knife and then surgically removing the offending bacon with my fingers, I began to make a small mountain on the side of my plate. The whole business took around 15 minutes, and I realised I was beginning to draw rather a lot of attention to myself. The waiting man in the corner was watching me with a mixture of curiosity and disgust. Santa snorted into his drip and the owners pretended not to see. Even they, however, could not help sneaking the occasional glance at the strange fingertip bacon harvest unfolding in their establishment.
Suddenly it was me. I was the nutter. Santa Claus had lost his crown and now it was Bacon Boy who ruled the roost. The weird collision between vegetarianism, British politeness and social awkwardness would take hours, if not days to explain to my hosts. But none of us had time for that. I had a toilet seat to buy and a plane to catch. They had a bakery to run, wives to meet and presents to deliver to all of the world's children.
It would have to remain just one more of life's misunderstandings, then. The owner tidied away my plate, which I had covered with a serviette in an attempt to conceal the evidence of my crime, and left me to brood over my coffee.
Santa finally took his leave, slinging the drip-bag over his shoulder and shuffling out of the door into the freezing Berlin air. He unlocked a nice-looking Range Rover and sat in the drivers' seat for some time without moving. Snow began to fall as I watched him, then he drove off and the snow stopped again.
The waiting man's wife arrived. She knew the owners and they all exchanged noisy Christmas greetings and friendly words before they, too, went on their way.
Several minutes later the strange foreign guy who made the bacon-mountain paid up and left too. He never once got around to opening his book.
