Lately it seems like every week another local institution goes under, and with each, something intangible is lost: an era ends, a dream dies. Zum Deutschen Eck went in January.
I lived directly across the street before I worked at the Zum. My neighbors didn’t like the place. Those damn songs played late into the night, and you wouldn’t want to make the mistake of leaving your car in their lot–they’d tow you, even after hours. And there were rumors that a second parking lot it shared with the neighboring church was illegal, that police and politicians gave the restaurant a pass on violations. When I started working there I heard other rumors from the employees, like that the liver dumplings were made with table scraps. I never saw evidence that any of the rumors were true. But I didn’t try the dumplings either.
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
“They gave a birthday party for Hitler in the Bavarian Room the other night.”
“Oh, ja,” she said, nodding, adding that it had been a very distasteful event. Hitler’s birthday was no occasion for celebration, she said, reminding me that among his many evil acts, the fuhrer had wrecked Austria, her homeland. “I don’t understand why Americans would celebrate this man,” she said. “They must be crazy.”
That was the question. He didn’t like me, and I didn’t like him. He would have loved to see me walk out. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “I’m setting up, OK? Give me the key to the liquor room.”
As usual, Wirth had informed the guests that all tips were included in the price of the party, and it was one of my jobs to disabuse them of this notion. I was paid only $35 cash for the shift–standard for shifts that run from 5:30 to 3 or 4 AM–and any tip noted on the final bill went to the restaurant.
