This Is War - Chapter 13 - The Sausage King
I told my Uber driver to hurry, but we pretty much hit every red light possible. And it didn’t help that construction took traffic down to one lane for a few blocks. As usual, no actual construction was being done. Thanks for making me late for the most important meeting of my career. Assholes.
Actually, that wasn’t entirely fair. While the construction workers were definitely assholes for putting up those cones when they clearly weren’t working, the real asshole was Mr. Frost. There were literally thousands of restaurants in NYC.
But I was pretty sure Mr. Frost had intentionally picked the one that was farthest away just to mess with me.
I was out of the Uber before the driver could even put the car in park.
“Wait here!” I called back to him as I ran up to the front door of The Sausage King. As long as they had the food ready, I would be able to make it back in time for my meeting. Hell, I might even have a few minutes to spare.
I let out a deep breath and pulled the door open. But it didn’t budge. I pulled again. Then I tried pushing just for good measure. Still no luck.
Shit!
Was this the wrong door? Some restaurants were weird and had different doors for takeout. There was writing on the door, but most of it was in German. The only thing I recognized were the store hours: Monday - Friday: Noon to 2 a.m.
Noon? Noon!?!? You’ve got to be kidding me.
I put my face to the glass and peered in. There was a nasty glare so it was hard to tell exactly what I was looking at, but I definitely didn’t see any movement. The place was deserted. Part of me wondered if it was even still in business.
Mr. Frost was probably sitting at his desk laughing his ass off.
His plan was suddenly so clear. He wanted me to miss the meeting so that he could take credit for landing Masquerade Records.
What better way to show that he was the right choice for the job than to make his competition look completely inept?
Shame on me for falling for it.
I got out my phone to call Mr. Frost. It was time to give him a piece of my mind. Except…I didn’t have his number. So I called Chastity instead.
“Do you have the food?” she asked.
“Put him on the phone right now.” I was practically yelling.
“Who?”
“Mr. Frost.”
“Um…okay. Why?”
“That asshole sent me on a wild goose chase. This freaking place isn’t even open yet. I bet he didn’t even place an order. He just sent me here so he could poach Masquerade Records.”
“Let me ask him. One sec.” There was silence on the line for a minute. “He just showed me the order confirmation. It clearly says pickup for 11:15.”
“Then why the hell is this place empty? What happened to Germans being punctual? And who the hell orders German food? German cuisine isn’t a thing that people like.
No one wants beer and pretzels and sausage.
Actually, no one wants anything from Germany.
What have they ever done for the world? They just run around yodeling in their stupid lederhosen and Hitler-staches.
As far as I’m concerned, the sausage king can take his sausage and stick it up Mr. Frost’s ass.
” As I finished my tirade, I couldn’t help but notice the delicious aroma of gingerbread wafting into my nose.
“Miss Cooper?” asked a deep voice behind me.
I spun around and came face to face with the source of the aroma - the sausage king himself.
He looked like he was straight out of some weird crossover between Top Chef and an NFL broadcast. Chiseled beef tower was, for some inexplicable reason, the first phrase that popped into my head.
The second phrase was shit, because he had definitely just heard my entire speech about how much German people sucked.
And based on his blue eyes, blonde stubble, and the swastika on his sleeve…
Just kidding. There was no swastika. The Nazis probably hadn’t even made arm bands big enough to fit his massive biceps.
What were the odds that he identified enough with German culture to be offended by what I had said?
I mean…sure, he had apparently devoted his life to bringing German cuisine to the streets of New York, but that didn’t mean anything.
I’d seen plenty of white dudes slinging Thai food. It didn’t mean they were from Thailand.
“Miss Cooper?” he said again. “I believe this is your order, ya?” He held up a big bag of takeout, but I was more focused on his very-German accent.
So much for him not really being German. “Uh, yup. That’s me.”
“I am so sorry to make you wait. May I offer you some complimentary wienerschnitzel?”
Weiner what? “No!”
He looked at me like I was crazy. “You do not like the wienerschnitzel? Perhaps you prefer lebkuchen? Or stollen?”
“Stalin? What does he have to do with this?”
The sausage king laughed. “Not the Russian dictator. Stollen is a traditional German fruit bread.”
“Well I don’t have time for any of that. I have to be back at my office in Midtown by noon.”
“Midtown? By noon?” He checked his expensive-looking watch. “How will you make it in time?”
“My Uber driver is…” I turned around to gesture to his car, but it was gone. Shit! “Where’d he go? I told him to wait.”
“That is not how the Uber works.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“So what will you do?”
“I guess I’ll be late.” I got all sweaty as the harsh reality sunk in. One of my greatest fears was officially happening. I was going to be late. And then I was going to get fired. And then I was going to be homeless and die. My life was over.
“That is not acceptable.”
“Yeah, tell me about it. This is the most important meeting of my career, and I’m going to miss it.”
“No. You can still make it.”
“How? This is NYC, man. You can’t just hop on the autobahn and drive a million miles per hour.”
“Follow me.” He grabbed my hand and pulled me into his restaurant.
“Cooking me some complimentary wienerschnitzel isn’t going to help much when I get fired.”
He didn’t respond. He just laughed and kept pulling me through the back halls of his restaurant. And then he pulled me onto an elevator.
Great. I had survived getting roofied at the Shifting Sands Spa only to get raped and murdered by some weird German chef. If I could just wiggle out of his grasp I might be able to grab the knife in his pocket…
I had my plan of attack all ready when the elevator doors opened. Wind whipped at my hair. Wind? What the hell? I took my eyes off the knife and stared out the doors in disbelief. We were on the roof of his building. And there was a helicopter in the center of it.
“Does your building have a helipad?” he asked.
“Uh…”
“We will make it work. Come.” He pulled me over to the helicopter and strapped me into the back seat. Then he hopped into the cockpit and started playing with controls. Despite the earmuffs he had given me, I could still hear the engine roar to life.
“Do you know how to fly this thing?” I shouted, but it was too late. He had already taken off. There was no going back now.
Once we were comfortably above the skyscrapers, he turned and looked at me with his blue eyes. Unlike Mr. Frost’s, they weren’t icy at all. They were filled with life and warmth. Looking into his eyes was like looking into the crisp, clear water of the Caribbean.
“The city is beautiful from up here, ya?” he asked.
I leaned over to get a better look. It really was breathtaking. But I had so many other questions. “Why are you doing this for me?”
“In Germany we have a phrase. Wer zu sp?t kommt, den bestraft das leben . Life punishes those who come too late.”
Did that saying extend to sex as well? Were all Germans premature ejaculators?
Gross. But I was more into the actual meaning of what he’d just said.
“Germans hate lateness so much that you would fly me back to work? That’s the coolest thing anyone has ever done for me.
” In that moment, I was pretty sure I had found my soulmate.
No one had ever shared my passion for punctuality the way he clearly did.
“Yes. See? We are not all lederhosen and Hitler-staches.”
“Oh God. How much of that did you hear?”
“Enough to know that you have never eaten at The Sausage King before. Because if you had, you would know that German food is the best. You have not lived until you have tasted my sausage.”
I stifled a laugh. Was he aware of the innuendo there? Based on how serious he sounded, I assumed he wasn’t.
I couldn’t decide what to ask him next. I had a million questions. What was his name? Did he grow up in Germany? When did he open his restaurant? Most importantly…how did he get his own freaking helicopter?!
But I didn’t get to ask any of my questions.
“Which building is yours?” he asked.
I gave him the address. A minute later, we touched down on the roof of BIMG. By some miracle, the building actually did have a helipad.
“Thank you so much,” I said as I unstrapped myself.
“There is no time for thanks. You will be late.”
“But I didn’t even get your name.”
“Otto von Wurst. Now go!”