Just as we sat at our picnic table, ready to chow down, the waitstaff jumped on the tabletops and started to do a dance that was more Chippendales than Oktoberfest. It was entertaining, for sure… but also confusing.
Then a band assembled at the front of the tent (does it feel like I’m recounting the weird dream I had last night?) and before we knew what was happening, we were smack in the middle of a head-banging, moshpit-like dancing metal show. What was happening? Where was the lighthearted yodeling? Were we at a Rammstein concert? I swore I’d never return to an Oktoberfest on American soil again.
But maybe I was being too harsh on this Californian version. Now that the season has rolled around again, I can’t help but feel a longing for a cool stein of beer and some cheesy noodles with a side of freshly roasted pig. I hear it’s getting better. They’re serving up roast chicken this year. And I’m starting to think, scary theme or no, I’d show up in a Corpse Bride costume and party with the ghouls and goblins if I could get my hands on some homemade bratwurst and a frothy glass of Hofbrauhaus.