Beethoven and Bust

Cafe am Beethovenplatz, Munich

A man in a black polo neck sweater is playing Strangers in the Night. It’s appropriate; the café is buzzing with them. Having left Stuart upstairs in the adjoining pension babysitting, I am enjoying the pace and rhythms of Munich’s Café am Beethovenplatz. As soon as I saw it in a guide to Munich, I knew it would be the perfect place to start our music themed cycle trip through Europe.

And some weeks later I happily have the key to a family room on a little table next to my large beer. The pianist lightly touches the keys while diners and drinkers talk loudly over him, swapping gossip and news and city views. There is a rosy glow in their cheeks, from the wet and windy weather perhaps, or the wine, or perhaps just their youth. More and more spill in, snapping shut dripping umbrellas and quickly scanning the room for a spare table. The waitresses seem to dance around them, training shoes peeking from long white aprons as they waltz plates of salad to hungry mouths. In the corner of the room, a stone cherub half the size of a human peers down curiously. He holds a basket of rolls in his right hand and looks like he might lob one.

Upstairs my children have their own cherubs watching over them. Our room in the adjoining Pension Mariandl has three in every corner of the ornate blue and orange painted coving, as well as a vast chandelier in the centre of the high ceiling. It also has a stand alone bath in the centre of the room with fancy silver taps. We had a bath at 3pm when we arrived, and all had another one at 7pm. I’m thinking of having one again in a moment, just because I can.

The music quickens and the pianist launches into a happy rendition of As Time Goes By. And it does, but perhaps not for him. He and others like him play twice a day every day here. The Beethoven am Café is in the Turkish quarter of town, near Munich’s Beethoven street. I resolve to ask in the morning about the link. Wierdly, Beethoven is absent, from the customers, the décor and the music. And then I see him, above the bar. A mustard coloured bust with a bouffant. He looks a little cross. Perhaps, like me, he doesn’t like Elton John’s ’Circle of Life.’ Maybe he disapproves of the pools of water gathering on his floor from the discarded umbrellas. He glares forever down as people meet and split, and kiss and eat, and listens endlessly to tunes he didn’t compose.

I finish my beer and the waiter dances over with my bill, and in contrast I fumble with the unfamiliar currency. The chatter goes up a notch as a couple come over to bag my table. I pick up my key as the pianist picks up on the weather. He launches into ‘Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head’ as I walk towards the doorway back into the hotel . I smile. He smiles. The cherub blushes. Beethoven frowns.