Portraits: Momo

I'm not sure what about this small Spanish restaurant on Bergmannstrasse caught my eye, but it was enough to make me stop my bike and turn around. Maybe it was the red walls, maybe the way the front of the restaurant was completely open, maybe the beach-like lounge chairs in the front looked inviting.

I was too full from dinner. I didn't even really want a drink, but I ordered a glass of wine anyway and settled in the chair to people watch. The wine wasn't really that good and I was starting to get a headache, so I told the waiter I wanted to pay as soon as took my last sip. He noticed the map I had under my hand and asked where I was from.

"Ich bin Kalifornian," I responded, bracing for the usual scoff.

Instead, his eyes lit up. His demeanor transformed from the formality of a server to the friendliness of an acquaintance. "Really? California? I love Californians. I love Americans."

I was a little taken aback. It's no secret we aren't really so popular over here. The Germans are a little shy of war after participating in two that ended up with the word "World" in them. I don't blame them. The Marshall Plan is a distant memory, replaced with a strong distaste for Bush.

But Momo isn't German. I assumed he was Spanish, both because of his dark hair and an accent that flavored his German words Plus, he mentioned he owned the restaurant with his cousin. No, he told me, he's from Iran. Suddenly I wondered if he was being sarcastic about loving Americans.

But there was nothing sarcastic about Momo. He dropped my coins in his cash pouch without counting them. "Just because you are from California, I will bring you a free drink." His smile was so big, it was almost out of a cartoon, so I didn't have the heart to tell him I just wanted to go home.

First the drink. Then came the olives, then Spanish cheese. My protests seemed to spur him on. He alternated moments of feverish attention to his other customers with questions about what I was doing in Berlin and how I spelled my name.

His disappointment when I told him I needed to go home was like that of a child whose mom just told him it was bedtime. I promised him I would come back to eat. And I will, with other Americans.