Thanks for nothing

Columns | Kaleb Warnock | February 2013

We stepped out of the Blumenball and my companions and I decided it was time for our routine 5:00 kebab. Our early morning stroll eventually led us to a stand outside the north entrance to the Karlsplatz U-bahn station.

"Keine Zwiebel, bitte," I asked as I ordered my kebab. The cashier responded, in kind, capitalising on the opportunity to deride my German. He requested that I direct my inquiries regarding the specifics of my kebap to his colleague, who intentionally took no notice of me. I figured he had probably heard me.

I handed the cashier a €5 note, but didn’t get any change. After pointing this out, I did get my change back, and decided to leave them a 50-cent tip, as it looked like it had been a long night for both of them.

Stepping into the warmth of the Karlsplatz station, I looked down eagerly at my surprisingly cold and soggy kebab. And after all the financial back and forth, it was overflowing with onions.

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