A short story:
“I’ve often considered that a place belongs forever to whoever claims it hardest, remembers it most obsessively, wrenches it from itself, shapes it, renders it, loves it so radically, that it’s remade in his image. Which is a fine idea. I’m pretty sure it’s even actually my idea rather than a pickup.” Except I currently have no real memory of anything; and yet, and yet? This place. An obscure ocakbasi in a depressing (& depressed) part of Berlin, just south of Kottbusser Tor?
I know I’m German; no, let me re-phrase that: I can speak German. Fluently, even slipping effortlessly into Berliner Schnauze when needed. And how do I even know that is a thing? At the moment? No idea. Brusquely pushing past people in the street or U-Bahn, no one jumps at my word choices, looks askew at my sentences.
But the adana they served me here? The first bite, through the slightly crispy exterior into the burning-charcoal infused grilled lamb inner, juices dripping, seasoning singing on the tongue. Synapses sparking, the music of the spheres ringing in my ears, old pathways re-opening, a filing-cabinet drawer springing forward, files spewing onto the floor. At the moment, I can remember words, but not names, tastes but not faces, buildings but not people, flavours yet not birthdays. So call this skewer of meat, the first key for the first padlocked chain.
Grey Kotti, I hear them say; and yet, I think I’ll stay. At least for a day.