The password is Fidelio.

We are still a little unsure what exactly we witnessed last night, but I can say without reservation that it was a highlight that will be difficult to top.

Brady and Melissa have been visiting us from New York for the past week. It has been nice having an excuse to throw aside work and just be a tourist again. Hosting someone in an unfamiliar city is a little daunting, especially when no one speaks the language beyond “I work at the bank” (me) and “I have no cheese” (Brady) but armed with Timeout and Roughguide and Fodor’s we’ve muddled through pretty well so far. One site that we had targeted for a look-see was the Clarchen’s Ballhaus.

Clarchen’s Ballhaus is a pizza parlor/dance club, recommended to Brady by a friend who had passed through Berlin during the last International Film Festival. You can go here to check it out for yourself:

http://www.ballhaus.de

If you don’t understand the German, the place’s history is this:

It started as a private dance club in 1913, though likely the building is even older. One large ballroom sat downstairs, with another, more exclusive one upstairs, walled with mirrors. The front building had to be torn down when it was damaged during World War II, leaving a large courtyard in its place & the entry to the downstairs ballroom visible from the street. It remained open during the war, closing only in 1944 when the Nazis tamped down on the city’s entertainment businesses. The same sign has been used since it was painted in the 30s:



When Berlin was divided (with the neighborhood of Mitte located in the Eastern section) the club became a favorite hangout for GDR officers. After unification and the gentrification of Mitte, rising rents were inevitable and the whole establishment had to be sold. The new owners spiffed it up, keeping much of the old charm, and reopened to the public in 2005.

After a long hard day of sunbathing, sausages and beer at Badeschiff



we donned some sharp outfits (by sharp I mean sharper than bathing suits and flip-flops) and trekked back out to Mitte for something a little more refined. If you clicked on the link above and looked at some of the pictures you probably have a sense of Clarchen’s typical clientele. We settled on a table in a prime location in the courtyard, noting the remnants of where the front building must have abutted its neighbors before being torn down. Our dinners of authentic Italian pizzas arrived just moments before the rain. Our tuxedoed waiter kindly agreed when we asked if we could move inside.

Just past the ticket counter & coat check lay the main dining hall and what we assumed was to become the main ballroom as well. Remember those eighth-grade dances that were special enough to be relocated to the local VFW building? It looked strikingly similar to that, right down to the floor-to-ceiling tinsel draping along the wall. Of course, your VFW building probably didn’t have two full bars and a tiny back room where everyone huddled around a 13-inch television watching the Italy v Spain soccer match, but you get the idea. After dinner we lingered over our crusts, trying to catch the waiter’s attention and wondering when the dancing would begin. I could have sworn I heard the throb of techno music when we walked in, and I was pretty sure that the crowd shoehorned into the back room, though tightly packed, was not the full extent of people we had seen dining al fresco and hanging about in the courtyard. So where was the party, if not this?

A little investigating turned up only the bathrooms in the back, and the kitchen across from the coat check room turned out to be the source of the music. The pizzas were excellent, the waitstaff smartly dressed (if not overly attentive) and the past-its-prime Magnificent Ambersonish atmosphere of the ballroom was charming, but surely there was something more that justified the rave review from Brady’s friend.

Maybe it was the rain that made us delay, or maybe it was the fact that Italy and Spain had just gone to penalty kicks. Just before we were about to make a dash for the curb and hopefully a cab for the ride home, Melissa did a little more exploring and came back with the news that everyone was watching the soccer “upstairs”. Out the front entrance and to the left was an anonymous little door that led to a grand staircase, lit by a few nearly spent candelabras. At the top of the stairs was a grand ballroom, full of people dining by candlelight and cheering as Fabregas knocked home the winning goal for Spain on a giant projector screen. If downstairs was the VFW, upstairs was the Governor’s Mansion. Giant mirrors lined the walls, and an ancient chandelier hung from ceiling. The candlelight dimly illuminated water-stained murals and drapery. The musty air smelled of old Barons and Dutchesses and you could almost hear the echoes of aristocratic Europe.

As Spain celebrated, the staff descended on the room, clearing plates, striking chairs and folding up tables. Maybe this was the real dance floor? Our hopes rose as a couple of men wheeled in a grand piano. We nestled into some chairs in a dark corner, trying to look inconspicuous as women in short cocktail dresses stepped past us to powder their noses in the bathrooms across the hall. People milled about the bar. Someone went through a door next to the stage and emerged on a balcony to turn on a rack of red spotlights. Something was definitely afoot. I had half a notion that everyone was going to strip naked, put on gold masks and chant before a disguised Tom Cruise. In fact, what happened next was as unexpected as it was perplexing.

Somewhere in the murmuring of the crowd came the sound of a fork tapping against the side of a wineglass. A hush settled over the room as a man dressed in black pants and a black vest stepped into the spotlight and began to speak. He gestured to another man in a white suit by the stage and a woman seated at the piano. Was this a toast to the newlyweds? The man in the suit stepped forward and made a small speech of his own, gesturing back at the man in black. Then the piano started and he launched into song.

If you’ve heard any Wagner operas you know that German isn’t the most beautiful of languages, spoken or sung. The man’s voice was strong and pure, though. I searched the faces of the room, looking for clues that would tell me if this was supposed to be a funny groom’s ditty, or perhaps the debut of a serious new composer, or maybe an excerpt from the local opera troupe’s current show playing now through the end of the week. When the song ended the room erupted in enthusiastic applause and the two men shared a warm embrace. Maybe they were the newlyweds?

White-suit man made another speech, followed by another song. Our theories on what we were witnessing flew back and forth. Was he the Ballhaus’s Master-of-Ceremonies and were his speeches explanations about what kind of dance lessons on offer that evening? Julie pointed out that no one was settling their bill with waiters. And over there was a professional photographer, snapping away. Whatever was happening, it was definitely a private party. We laughed when the crowd laughed, clapped when they clapped and cheered when they cheered, hoping no one would realize we didn’t belong. A group of groomsmen (or the rest of the troupe?) joined White-suit man in front of the stage. He launched into song again while I studied the men, trying to assess whether these guys all looked like they could be actors. In truth, some of them looked more like part of a softball beer league team, especially as they joined in a raucous chorus. Then I caught the word “cowboy” in English. When the chorus repeated, some other words started to sound familiar: “Elf cowboys spielen gut.” (Eleven cowboys playing well, I think). And then I heard Foosball this and Foosball that. The final puzzle piece was a large trophy cup filled with beer and hoisted aloft.

When the man in black delivered a final-sounding speech and the crowd rose for a standing ovation, we snuck back downstairs and out the door – before we were unmasked as imposters and well before the ritual orgy. Now we are pretty certain we took part in nothing more exotic than the celebration of the end of a local soccer season… unless German softball allows eleven to a side.