WC2006: The Best For Last

S7 TRAIN TO FRANKFURT (11:42pm local time) -- My Berlin host - who shall be henceforth be known as Dave, seeing as how that's his name and I don't think I get him in any trouble throughout these diaries - explicitly said in his e-mail that "a visit to Frankfurt is not complete without a visit to Balalaika." Last night I figured out where it was, but was too fried for the experience. Today, I pretty much planned my day around it.

The constrain here is that I have a flight at 8:30 in the morning and a wakeup call at 5:30. Plus, there's the small matter of catching the train back to Walldorf. The bar doesn't actually open until 8pm, and when I swing by shortly after, I don't even see a bartender.

So I fight through a new blister that has taken up residence on top of the old blister and walk a couple of blocks looking for dinner. I stumble onto a place called Frankfurt's South Lagerhaus that looks nice enough - there are a couple of citations and clippings on the door, and they've got the ubiquitous flat-screen on the wall - so I take a seat.

I sort of expected to be snacking my way through the night, so I found what looked like your basic tomato and mozzarela salad. You know, something light.

This is where not reading German comes into play. The actual menu item was "Tomaten-Mozzarela Salat mit Sesam Hühnchen und lauwarmen Gemüse," which I think translates to "Tomato-Mozzarela Salad with Sesame Chicken and lukewarm Vegetables." Which was a lot better than it sounds. In fact, it was probably the best meal I had the whole trip. Seriously, this was just fantastic.

I almost didn't want to go back to Balalaika, in the event it was still deserted. This time, there was at least a bartender - Douglas, originally from Florida - so I introduced myself. This wasn't the type of place you would go to watch the match, but Douglas indulged me and switched on the second half on the tiny TV behind the bar.

The best way I can describe the place is that it's an ad hoc jazz club. A few more patrons come in, one with a guitar and a story about how his great-grandfather used to play with the owner's late husband back in the day.

We talk music, football and celebrity, and eventually he takes out his guitar, tunes it up, and hands it to me. So here I am, sitting at a bar in Frankfurt, playing Elvis Costello for four people. With some encouragement, I tack on "I Have The Touch" for good measure, then hand the axe back to its owner, who then launches into "Take Five" and then some Brazilian ballad.

Meanwhile, Douglas has called upstairs to Anita, the owner, and asked if she might join us. She obliges, and we chat for a bit. She asks to hear me play, so since the Brazilian gauntlet has been thrown, the closest I can come is "Tropicalia" from Beck. She then takes the guitar and graces us with a couple of wonderful jazz tunes.

Apparently, Anita coming down and singing is a big part of this bar's identity, along with this ad hoc nature of people just sort of showing up and starting to make music. I feel both flattered and honored to have been a part of it, but I have a train and then a plane to catch, so I take my leave.

The only think that might spoil this is if I miss my train stop on the way back to the hotel...