I go to Sarotti and decide to have a baked potato. Which comes, this being Berlin, in foil moulded in the shape of a swan.
The waiter comes, asks if he can remove the remains. I assent. He asks if it was good (Hat es geschmeckt?). I say it was great. I say: Wann kommt der nächste Schwann?
[Wagnerians will understand. 2C2E.]
The waiter heads outside bearing a baked potato on a plate, remarks in passing that here comes the next swan.