Enter the café with the son, the tiny bakers shop. The corner tables at the window are all occupied, by bavarians, talking about cars and property and purchases. Frequent general topics like thaTt. Perhaps it is all they ever talk about.
The woman behind the counter asks what it will be. The son waits a second, making his mind up and orders a farmers cake and a cup of milky coffee. She looks over, and the father orders a cup of coffee and a plain croissant.
Then she asks whether it will be a cup or a large mug.
A cup.
Then she looks at the son and puts his cake on a plate.
Then she asks whether it will be anything else.
He says yes please, a cup of milk coffee.
She seems to be having trouble with the till.
She asks again whether that coffee will be all.
Yes, but with a croissant please.
Oh, a croissant.
She pronounces it the German way, complete with a dirty look.
Then she seems to be having trouble with the till, trying to find the correct button to press for croissant.
Just a cup?
Yes please, just a cup.
Then the other woman comes over to help with the till.
The two of them study the available options.
The final amount is very much less than it usually is.
Pay, do not say.
This whole business is disastrous.
Then the two of them go over to the coffee machine.
There are more options there, more buttons to be pressed, more orders to be confirmed.
Finally, coffee and croissant, café au lait and Bauernkücherl.
Sit down, delighted that the negotiations have led to a successful completion of the operation.
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