Stronger and harder than a bad girl's dream. (lost_angel) wrote,
Stronger and harder than a bad girl's dream.
lost_angel

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Trapper Keepers and German Chocolate Cake

So tonight I went to a little restaurant called Bavarian Gardens with John and Liz and zordac.

Man, this place had great personality, but more like the personality of your weird Uncle Vernon, a hodge podge of quirky, unrelated characteristics.

First of all, it's a casual place with amazing, authentic German food (well Bavarian, but I'm not well versed on the subtleties, or even outright obvious distinctions of different types of German cuisine).

It's affixed to the side of a Highway 6 gas station, the kind with a separate rotary-number pump for each grade of gasoline and eight kinds of fried pork rinds. But it's not just any old country gas station. It's the nearest one to the Panola-Lafayette county line and the last place to buy cold beer before you hit Oxford, so 20 square feet of parking overflows with a steady stream of weekend Rebel fans and Oxford-landlocked students.

The entrance is to the back, which can be reached by taking a thinly-graveled trail that passes by a parched yet weedy concrete fountain and a four-foot-domed football helmet that hangs on the side of the building.

The door graciously offers an eclectic assortment of advertisement stickers and important information, like "Caution: Microwave Oven in Use", in case you forgot your foil helmet in the car, or, you know, have a pacemaker since this place attracts local retirees like the Country Kitchen Buffet.

Faux blonde wicker tiki lounge chairs parked against a gravy-specked, blue gingham, plastic picnic tablecloth offer modest and modestly comfortable seating. The homemade menus are page protector inserts in a metallic, kaleidescope, circa 1984 three-holed Trapper Keeper folder: cordon blue, weiner schnitzel, rouladen, weisswurst, Schweine Braten, saurbraten, red cabbage and black forest cherry cake.

Switching to past tense: I couldn't stop giggling by the time the owner arrived to take our order. He looked like he'd rather be elsewhere, older, gruff and impatient. He probably brought his wife, the Bavarian cook, back from the war.

But the entrees were fantastic, the German chocolate cake made from scratch with just the right amount of lopsided, overly-rich goodness to be perfect, and staggering selection of German import beer sold right next door in the last-chance-for-beer-Alamo.
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