German

  The Germans are particularly economical in food and do not tolerate any waste. This character is very famous, and there have been short stories on the Internet saying that someone in Germany did not finish the food on the plate, and was arrested by the police. This is nonsense, no police will catch this. Anyway, I always thought that saving food was a huge advantage-until I was on a business trip to Germany and I met Thomas.
  Thomas is a bad name in Germany, a bit like “Xiao Ming” in Chinese textbooks. Xiao Ming is responsible for receiving us. He not only eats everything on the plate, but also wipes the plate with slices of bread. This is of course a good thing, but then it will be more terrible. He will stare at you, piercing every piece of meat and every potato into your throat, his eyes are quite approving. If you dare to leave anything on the plate, an incredible expression flashes on his face.
  When chatting later, he pretended to casually talk about the war years in Germany. His parents were completely hungry and cold, and they would understand the preciousness of food after such a life. I originally wanted to talk about the difficult times in China, but after thinking about it, I felt that it was not good for me. It would only make it even more unreasonable to leave food, so I avoided this topic.
  In fact, I am willing to eat what is on the compact disc. Really, I am willing to save. But sometimes it is really difficult to do.
  The best time I remember was eating pork knuckle in Munich. A few of us go to Munich on the weekend. Xiao Ming’s family lives in Munich and has been our guide for a day. During lunch, we took us to eat Bavarian pork knuckle near the town hall. It is said that the pork knuckle there is very authentic.
  When ordering the appetizers, I hesitated. The waiter quickly introduced the specialties in a weird accent. Xiao Ming quickly recommended them, but the order was finished before I figured it out. Then I became a little uneasy, Xiao Ming’s appetizer seemed to be Caesar salad, I understood. But what will my appetizer be? From mashed cabbage potatoes to deep-fried watermelon, who knows what these weird Germans will serve?
  The appetizer turned out to be good, but the problem was on the elbow. Looking at the plate, my heart sank suddenly. There was a huge piece of pork lying on the plate, which might weigh two catties on the scale. On the opposite side sat the saving angel Xiao Ming with torch-like eyes. We can’t play in Munich with our packed elbow, which means I have to eat it up. I feel sick when I think of the way such a large piece is in my stomach.
  Xiao Ming calmly ate up his elbows, wiped the plate with the slice of bread, and then began to look at us. When I tried to eat two-thirds of it, I felt depressed, my mind started to think, and I remembered that Germany had many bad guys such as Hitler, Goebbels, Himmler and so on. I can’t remember what happened later. I can’t remember what I’ve talked about or what I’ve drunk. I just remember that in the end, I looked away from the remaining half of the pig’s leg and stared at Xiao Ming and said: “I I’m full.” Putting down the knife and fork in the respectful eyes of my companions, I felt a little heroic at that moment.
  Later, when we went back, we went to the train station by ourselves. Xiao Ming didn’t send us off. According to him, something happened at home.
  It turned out that the trip was in trouble. We don’t understand German, and the male announcer on the German train radio doesn’t know why he drags his voice, circumscribes and frustrates, and looks complacent and satisfied. As a result, we listened attentively and we sat at the wrong station. When we found out, the train had taken us to an unfamiliar town. If we wanted to return to Ulm, we had to wait until the middle of the night before there was a train.
  At night, we started to be hungry, searching for food, and entering a restaurant in a panic, only to notice that all the guests around were old men and women. The waiters were two old ladies in their sixties and seventies, with white hair. My friend drank a bowl of dumpling skin soup cooked like Master Kong’s seasoning, according to him, and I ate a dish of stew that was so puffy and unknown.
  They sat there quietly, occasionally talking in a low voice. They all looked at us kindly. With candlelight swaying around, a strange town lay outside. There is no one on the dark street, which is much like a shot in a Hitchcock movie. With an inexplicable sense of fear, we ate the food on the plate bite by bite without daring to leave a bit.

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