– ‘Poznań’s town’ – or it might be a corruption of the Polish verb pozna ć – ‘to recognise’ or ‘to get to know.’ He knew it had had a lot of odd names down the years. He knew the Line ran past the city. He had never really given the place a second thought.
Fabio parked the Simca in an office carpark just outside the city centre, and they walked to a little hotel not far from the Market Square. Adjoining rooms had been reserved for them. Rudi spent roughly thirty seconds looking around his, and then collapsed full-length on the bed.
3.
A T SEVEN O’CLOCK that evening, Fabio knocked on his door to summon him to dinner in the hotel’s little restaurant. A long time ago, it had been customary for the restaurant’s category to be listed at the top of the menu. Kat 1 or kat 2 were the most luxurious, with kat 4 the cheapest – usually somewhere a tourist would be advised to avoid unless they were feeling lucky.
Two generations of Western food writers had wrought something of a change, though. Poland these days was scattered with Michelin stars and recommendations from Les Routiers and the AA. So it was with a rather sinking heart that Rudi saw the words kat 3 printed on the top of the menu. He ordered kotlet schabowy with placki ziemniaczane , in a spirit of experiment, and found to his pleasant surprise that the food was competently cooked and attractively presented. Maybe the kat 3 was a gimmick.
“Why don’t you cook stuff like this?” Fabio asked, tucking enthusiastically into his go ł ą bki .
“If I knew you liked stuffed cabbage leaves, I would,” Rudi told him.
Fabio gestured with his fork. “What’s that?”
Rudi looked down at his plate. “Pork cutlet and a potato pancake.”
“Any good?”
“Bit too much paprika in the sauce.”
“I hate chefs,” said Fabio, stuffing himself with go ł ą bki .
“I know.”
“Twitchy little prima-donnas.” Fabio tapped the table with the handle of his knife. “Any half-intelligent person can follow the directions in a cookbook and produce food at least as good as this.”
“But could they do it night after night for a restaurant with seventy tables?”
Fabio sipped his wine. “It’s all in the planning, right? Any fool can do it.”
Rudi poked his fork into his side-salad. “Am I allowed to know what this exercise is all about?” he asked.
“We’ll be jumping a Package out of the Line Consulate,” Fabio said without pausing in his love affair with the restaurant’s food. “How would you go about that?”
“I have no idea.”
“Well, fortunately this is one of those exercises where all the student is required to do is watch and learn. This wine is really good. What is it?”
Rudi consulted the menu. “House red.”
“Really? You should talk to the staff, you know, one catering worker to another. Maybe you can score us a couple of bottles to take back with us. It’s better than that piss you serve me.”
T HE T RANS E UROPE R AIL Route was the last great civil engineering project of the European era, an unbroken rail link running from Lisbon to Chukotka in the far east of Siberia, with branches connecting all the capitals of Europe.
At least, that had been the plan. When it actually came to building the link the various national authorities involved fell to years of squabbling about finance, rolling stock, track gauges, staff uniforms. The TransEurope Rail Company became a microcosm of the increasingly fractious European Parliament, complete with votes, vetoes, lobbying, corruption and all the other things so beloved of democracies. The Company tottered on the brink of bankruptcy four times before a metre of track had been laid or a locomotive had been commissioned, and each time it came back. There were rumours of Mafia involvement, Facist involvement, Communist involvement, investigations, Commissions, inquiries, sackings, suicides, murders, kidnappings.
Eventually, and somewhat to the
Fabio parked the Simca in an office carpark just outside the city centre, and they walked to a little hotel not far from the Market Square. Adjoining rooms had been reserved for them. Rudi spent roughly thirty seconds looking around his, and then collapsed full-length on the bed.
3.
A T SEVEN O’CLOCK that evening, Fabio knocked on his door to summon him to dinner in the hotel’s little restaurant. A long time ago, it had been customary for the restaurant’s category to be listed at the top of the menu. Kat 1 or kat 2 were the most luxurious, with kat 4 the cheapest – usually somewhere a tourist would be advised to avoid unless they were feeling lucky.
Two generations of Western food writers had wrought something of a change, though. Poland these days was scattered with Michelin stars and recommendations from Les Routiers and the AA. So it was with a rather sinking heart that Rudi saw the words kat 3 printed on the top of the menu. He ordered kotlet schabowy with placki ziemniaczane , in a spirit of experiment, and found to his pleasant surprise that the food was competently cooked and attractively presented. Maybe the kat 3 was a gimmick.
“Why don’t you cook stuff like this?” Fabio asked, tucking enthusiastically into his go ł ą bki .
“If I knew you liked stuffed cabbage leaves, I would,” Rudi told him.
Fabio gestured with his fork. “What’s that?”
Rudi looked down at his plate. “Pork cutlet and a potato pancake.”
“Any good?”
“Bit too much paprika in the sauce.”
“I hate chefs,” said Fabio, stuffing himself with go ł ą bki .
“I know.”
“Twitchy little prima-donnas.” Fabio tapped the table with the handle of his knife. “Any half-intelligent person can follow the directions in a cookbook and produce food at least as good as this.”
“But could they do it night after night for a restaurant with seventy tables?”
Fabio sipped his wine. “It’s all in the planning, right? Any fool can do it.”
Rudi poked his fork into his side-salad. “Am I allowed to know what this exercise is all about?” he asked.
“We’ll be jumping a Package out of the Line Consulate,” Fabio said without pausing in his love affair with the restaurant’s food. “How would you go about that?”
“I have no idea.”
“Well, fortunately this is one of those exercises where all the student is required to do is watch and learn. This wine is really good. What is it?”
Rudi consulted the menu. “House red.”
“Really? You should talk to the staff, you know, one catering worker to another. Maybe you can score us a couple of bottles to take back with us. It’s better than that piss you serve me.”
T HE T RANS E UROPE R AIL Route was the last great civil engineering project of the European era, an unbroken rail link running from Lisbon to Chukotka in the far east of Siberia, with branches connecting all the capitals of Europe.
At least, that had been the plan. When it actually came to building the link the various national authorities involved fell to years of squabbling about finance, rolling stock, track gauges, staff uniforms. The TransEurope Rail Company became a microcosm of the increasingly fractious European Parliament, complete with votes, vetoes, lobbying, corruption and all the other things so beloved of democracies. The Company tottered on the brink of bankruptcy four times before a metre of track had been laid or a locomotive had been commissioned, and each time it came back. There were rumours of Mafia involvement, Facist involvement, Communist involvement, investigations, Commissions, inquiries, sackings, suicides, murders, kidnappings.
Eventually, and somewhat to the
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