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It was a weekend. Outside, the sky hung heavy with gray clouds, a fine drizzle painting the streets in soft, blurred lines. One of those final winter days, where the cold lingers just a little too long.
I sat inside, wrapped in the quiet comfort of a warm drink, idly scrolling through Facebook. Then, a post caught my eye.
Someone in the “Germans in Taiwan” group had shared a newspaper article.
“Wendel’s closes its Taipei locations after 26 years.”
I paused. It wasn’t exactly a surprise. I knew Michael Wendel had left the business years ago. The restaurants had never been his alone – they were a collaboration with Taiwanese investors, his influence found mostly in the menu, in the taste of home baked into the bread, the pastries, the hearty meals.
And yet, the news stirred something in me.
26 years.
I hadn’t been there often. But one evening, one particular evening, had stayed with me.
The evening when everything changed.
It was the summer of 2012. Taipei was hot, the kind of heat that clings to your skin, that rises from the pavement in shimmering waves.
I had met her before, a few times. But this date was different. Maybe because, for the first time, I wanted it to be. No more casual encounters, no more “let’s see what happens.” That night, I wanted something certain.
A few days earlier, I had tried to make a reservation. Wendel’s was popular back then, and walking in without a booking was a gamble. So, I called.
The line rang. Then – hold music.
I expected something generic, maybe classical music, maybe a simple recording. Instead, a song played.
“Bakerman is baking bread…”
I couldn’t help but smile. Of course. A German restaurant, famous for its bread, pastries, and cakes – and this was their waiting music. Almost too perfect.
I listened, amused, waiting for someone to pick up. Eventually, they did. I got my table.
And that evening, we sat there, in the warm glow of candlelight, the air filled with quiet laughter, the soft clinking of glasses, the hum of a place alive with stories. I don’t remember exactly what we ate – maybe schnitzel, maybe a pretzel with cheese – but I remember her smile.
The way she looked at me, as if everything was effortless, as if this moment had already belonged to us long before we realized it.
And that was it.
The moment.
The one where a tentative beginning became something real.
Now, nearly 13 years later, I read about its closing.
How many times had we been there since? Two, maybe three? It had never become our restaurant, but that one night – it would always be ours.
I told my wife about the news.
“I saw it, too,” she said. No sigh of nostalgia, no sentimental pause. She accepted it the way she did so many things that faded with time.
I picked up my phone, opened Spotify, and searched for Bakerman.
Had it really been almost 13 years since I last heard it?
The first notes filled the room. And for a moment, I was back there – waiting on the line, sitting at that table, watching her laugh, feeling the weight of that evening settle into something that would never quite fade.
Places disappear.
But some memories never do.
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