Even she didn't understand Kölsch, the strange language which isn't even Platt Deutsch, perhaps because some people called her Ossie. But the three generations of Sunday gatherings who populated every table did. Then came the "why is he molesting his granddaughter" stares.

the waiter continued to refill the thin glasses regularly if not immediately. Soon we recognized the stellar effects of this family brewed Kölsch, second to none, but were never once asked to leave. It was the writer's impression that the waiter was intrigued by our table and its history. the three generations tables, not so.

I called my helicopter pilot to take us home, as we were in no condition to ride our horses tied up at the 700 year old posts of the 150 year old brewery, but he just complained about me not having a helicopter for him to do his work.

Punch line later, must go now.

"Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage." - Anaïs Nin