Seehaus Day- Fueling a Biergarten

The working day begins at 9 A.M. when I walk the incline in through the back gate of the staff yard- the hidden engine room that powers Seehaus. Entering, I’m welcomed by the large, filthy mouth of the refuse compressor fixed into the grotty yellow wall face. Rows of equally filthy wheelie bins, sludge coloured, line up three deep alongside like rotten molars. To their left towers of latticed plastic crates, various sizes and bold colours, are stacked stacked together, climbing above head height. Further along, the metallic door to the bar is open but its dark inside, shutters still closed. The taps are dry and the tanks are dormant at this yawning hour. By the door a stairwell runs into an enormous bunker, where the supplies that fuel the whole operation are stored. This place is a haven on the morning shift, offering the sanctuary of a prolonged hideout in the jacks or a cheeky gobfull of Nutella in the pantry.

Beyond the bunkers passageway, still on ground level, there are two doorways, one leading to the grill, the other to the kitchen. Outside sits a decent sized table, green in colour, and surrounded with matching benches. A sizeable parasol is fixed through a hole in its centre point. Some of the early morning crew, half snoozing and tenderly clasping the day’s virginal cigarette between their mumbling lips, sit around the table propping themselves up on their elbows. Clearing my throat I muster a morgen (‘morning’) which is met with a tired, croaked chorus of morgen from my colleagues. A copy of Bild-Zeitung, gaudy sheets already scattered and wrinkled, provides something to stare blankly at while the trauma eases up. After throwing my book, tobacco pouch and company rain jacket into my locker and downing a glass of cold water, I head back round the side of the bins, grabbing a rake from the tiny tool shack on my way.

Tramping out into the beer garden by the playground side, I never once fail to be sedated by its early-morning beauty- hues of gold, yellow and bronze brushing softly onto the lakefront, forever like a watercolour cheating reality. Hundreds of rows of wooden tables and benches, the kind the teddy bears would picnic on, are spread out tidily around the pebble decked ground. The first hour passes spaced out floating through ripples of thought, as I rake rows and rows of gravel on autopilot. Reflection upon reflection and nothing really shifts, except minutes and cents in a plodding exchange, as all the littered receipts, napkins and cigarette butts are dragged into tidy, archaeological piles. These artefacts of the previous night’s revelry are promptly scooped onto a hefty shovel and dumped into the gaping black hole of a bin bag.