Had this been the Munich Hofbrauhaus tent, there would have been ten thousand inebriants drowning in a sea of suds. True, this wasn't Bavaria, but the local brewmaster was capitalizing on Oktoberfest all the same. In the far corner played an oompah band, leading the drinkers in a rousing version of "Beer Barrel Polka." The Ratskeller trapped the aromas of bratwurst, spdtzle, and sauerkraut. Brewmeisters in lederhosen tapped huge wooden kegs while strong Brunnhildes in dirndls hoisted trays of glass mugs. Their server was too buxom for the low-cut, tight confines of her lacy blouse and cross-stitched bodice, so when she bent over the table, she almost put out Lenny's eye. Sweaty sighed. "If only I were younger." "I've heard stories about you and the WAAFs in the mess," teased Liz. "Unfounded rumors." "Not according to them." "She likes you, Lenny," Sweaty said, nodding his head toward the retreating waitress. "Lenny Jones!" Liz ragged.
