The best mistake

The other day, I made the best mistake.

Without really consulting the weather, I decided to sample the "New Berlin" walking tour. Sandemans "New Europe" tours are all the rage in European cities: at present, they serve Amsterdam, Berlin, Edinburgh, Hamburg, London, Jerusalem, Madrid, Munich, Paris, and Tel Aviv, marketing themselves as the FREE city tour. Their logic? Everyone should be entitled to a city tour, and no one should have to pay for it without knowing what it's going to be like. Obviously, they encourage tips, which most patrons are happy to provide.

The "New Berlin" tours also took me out to Sachsenhausen, the concentration camp on the outskirts of the city, and I'm happy to sing their praises. The guides are intelligent, well-spoken, and posses very deep knowledge of the city. They are also its greatest advocates, excitedly pointing out what a "new" city Berlin truly is (18 years, to be exact, since reunification), and how the Berliners have made a commitment to understanding and remembering the past, viewing themselves and the city itself as agents of memory to ensure that history doesn't repeat itself (nations of Latin America, take note).

But I've veered away from the story I want to relate. The best mistake. And no, I'm not referring to the walking tour, which was, unfortunately rained on throughout the entire three and a half hours ("New" tours operate in any and all weather). Our guide, Em, a Scot from Glasgow who had majored in German history (bonus for us tour-goers), made the much appreciated choice of stopping for warm drinks and food two hours in.

I stood in disbelief at the cafe to which she led us. Aroma espresso bar, clearly a chain, with a trademark red, black, and white color scheme, Ikea furniture, and sleek menus. I'm not sure if my disappointment showed (Why a chain?? Why-eeeeee!), but Em made a point of recommending the food with the same enthusiasm she'd devoted minutes before to the Checkpoint Charlie museum.

"Try the hot chocolate - it's really really something else," she intoned, rolling her "rr"s à la Scottish speak. Now, it's not that difficult to persuade me that I need to order a hot chocolate. In fact, it's what I had planned to order regardless. That, and a croissant to stave off my hunger until lunchtime. The croissants were beckoning to me even before I set foot in the cafe. They looked all too perfect, magazine croissants, cook book croissants, a toasted brown color and precisely crisped look to them.

So where did I err? And why did it prove miraculous?

I stepped up to the cashier to order in stilted German.
Me: Ein heiße schokolade und ein croissant, bitte.
Cashier lady: GermangarblegarblegarblegarblegarbleSCHOKOLADEgarblegarble?
Me: Uh... Ja. Schokolade. Bitte

Thinking I had reaffirmed that I wanted a hot chocolate, I mistakenly ordered a chocolate croissant. Along with my hot chocolate.

That's a lot of chocolate. Even for me. Especially considering that I'm not big on chocolate croissants. Never have been, to the mystification of several family members and friends. I'll happily scarf down pretty much any food product that incorporates chocolate, but not the chocolate croissant, and I've never really understood why.

Until now.

I collected my hot chocolate and chocolate croissant (still, gasp, warm from the oven!) and took a seat.

The hot chocolate: a generous mug of steamed milk. Good and steamy. Inside, a bar of milk chocolate, melted upon contact with the milk. A quick stir brought up a spoonful of velvety chocolate that I dunked back in for further melting.

The croissant: never, and I do mean never, have I sampled such a thing. The croissant itself was as perfect as it looked. It flaked where a croissant is supposed to flake. It crisped where a croissant is supposed to crisp. It held where a croissant is supposed to hold. And inside, the chocolate, warm, melted, and milky. That's it. Milk chocolate. The magic ingredient. The element missing from all previous chocolate croissants, which are typically laden with a more bitter chocolate. Not so at Aroma. It was like eating a Milka croissant sandwich.

It had been a while since something chocolate-based had surprised my taste buds. So much for the language barrier proving a handicap in Germany.