“Two gin and tonics please,” I say loudly to make myself heard over the pounding music coming from the dancefloor right behind me. “Noch mal?” the bartender asks, looking slightly confused.
“Gin and tonic. Two. Please.” I am almost shouting the words, and for good measure am leaning halfway across the counter so my mouth is only inches from the bartender’s right ear.
He disappears to the far end of the bar, then returns and slides two brimming glasses across the sticky wooden counter.
“Zwei euro bitte,” he says brightly.
I hand him the cash and take the two tiny cylindrical glasses of Kölsch, barely bigger than test tubes, readying myself for the crowd filling the exit leading onto the street where the rest of my posse is waiting. It seems regardless what you order in Germany, you always end up drinking the local brew. When in Rome... Or Cologne for that matter.
