The Stube
The Stube
1959. Friday, April 10th. Wiesbaden, Germany
Gosh. We had waited since April 5th. Finally, I had turned 13 years old, the last of our group to do so. We had promised ourselves, made a solemn pact, that when the last of us turned 13, we would go to some beer stube in town and get drunk on local beer. Of course, we had heard many G.I.s laud the quality of German beer; we had seen the alluring ads on signs and on German television; so it just seemed that we should not be satisfied with the likes of common American beers like the Schlitz or Carlings or Falstaff that they sold at the Base Exchange.
We gathered at the American Youth Association (AYA) where most teens went for entertainment like pinball machines, ping pong, pool, cards, badminton, inside games, etc. They also had a nice soda fountain where we could buy sundaes and malts and cones and soft drinks…even dogs and burgers. We pondered where we should go for this outing into manhood, the “growing up” event.
Dick Ashton sauntered by with a cute little brunette on his arm. They had been dancing to the music from the jukebox and sharing a malted. He was a neighbor of mine, a nice guy, made exceptional grades, and seemed quite worldly for his age. Being a service brat will do that to a person. He was a Helluva basketball player – a point guard, I believe. He was a senior and I heard he received a “full ride” basketball scholarship to the University of Indiana, but have not verified such. Anyway, I was sure he would know a good place for us to go; so I stopped him, took him aside and popped the question. He recommended a place he called “the Stube”. He said the owner was very nice and very understanding. You see, in Germany teens could drink beer and wine, but were always ‘monitored’ by bartenders to avoid the liabilities of their excess. So, Dick taught me a German phrase: “Esst du mein unterhosen, bitte.” He said to get the others seated, then go straight to the bar, put a smile on my face and say, “Est du mein unterhosen, bitte.” He assured me that we would receive premier service with a smile.
So, later that afternoon, we all headed for “the Stube”. It wasn’t far into town, really very convenient, since it was right on the bus route. I had reviewed the plan with the others, so we seated ourselves promptly. I gathered my courage, dried my palms on my jeans, and put a smile on my face. I walked up to the counter like I owned the place and said, “Est du mein unterhosen, bitte.”
The owner, a chubby guy about 45 or so, smiled big and laughed a little laugh. “Bier?” he asked. Wow! I had successfully communicated and he was smiling. “Jah.” I uttered nervously, “bier.” He smiled and said, “Sitzen.” I returned to the table beaming with joy and a great sense of accomplishment. My buddies were all impressed as well. Just then, a waitress brought our biers. They were gigantic steins, each holding at least two liters. We were all agog, staring at the size of the steins in disbelief. I reached in my pocket for some money while asking the waitress, “Wie viel?” (how much).
The owner laughed and called across the room, “Is on the house!” I looked at him incredulously and asked, “You speak English?” “Some” he responded. “Do you speak Deutch (German)?” I said, “No, only a few words.” He asked, “Do you know what you say to me?” I said, “No.” He laughed big and said, “You say, “Eat my undershorts, please.”’ There was a pregnant pause, then we all laughed with him.
He knew what he was doing however. He knew he would get five young boys very drunk. He succeeded….for how does a young man admit he’s had too much? His daughter, the cute waitress, was kind enough to get us on the right bus and ride with us until time to get off. She gave each of us a kiss and told us not to let our parents catch us.
I slept like a rock. When I got up, the first thing I did was brush and gargle. I think I got away with it.
I went to "the Stube" several times before we left Wiesbaden. The owner always laughed and gave me a small beer...on the house. He said it was a good story he could tell his patrons.
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