German Cuisine

Germans don’t give you simple answers, nor do they give you simple desserts. Directions to historical sites are adorned with detailed buts; ice cream makes a fashion statement, strutting an umbrella, a coat of whip cream, or a veil of chocolate dust. For my plain-food-loving granddaughter this is quite an experience. The first word I teach her before leaving for our trip is “ohne” (without.)

When we arrive at our first stop in Urbar, a tiny town above the Rhine River, we start our “Foods we tasted” list. Partly this is an excuse to educate her taste buds and give our journals a sense of accomplishment. And partly, I have to admit, it has to do with my desire to pass on some of my childhood food memories.

Take gooseberries for instance. I eat almost the whole pound of my favorite fruit, while Stephanie only sucks the sweet flesh from the tart skin of three berries. Or consider my mother’s old standby späzle (hand made noodles.) Since they don’t come ohne cheese at our hotel, Stephanie sticks her fork into the last survivor on my plate with obvious apprehension. But at least both of these delicacies are tried and listed.

We eat our way through whipped, flaked, fruit jelled, chocolate creamed, and cherry liqueur infused layers of variations on Black Forest cake on two Rhine River cruises. Delicious. Our lunches in Boppard and Rüdesheim bring potato pancakes with applesauce and German sausage for Stephanie. She even dips her spoon into my goulash soup. During dinner at the farmhouse inn in Urbar, she stays with familiar rice and chicken but stabs at a slice of my sauerbraten (marinated beef roast.) A crumb size piece of potato dumpling and a shred of pickled red cabbage crown the taste test for the day. I am proud to be the grandmother of such an adventurous traveler.

All through our trip I say “Hurray for Nutella™.” It is a hazelnut/chocolate spread, which I have banned from my life in California. But during our travels we carry a jar of this high calorie delight from place to place, along with crackers, because German store hours are capricious, especially in small towns. “Closed between twelve and two” or “we will be right back” or even “Ruhetag,” (day of rest) are common signs plaguing our “open 24 hours” mentality.

In Schönau, when we lay out our assortment of fresh fruit in front of the cashier, she gives us a nasty look, takes in a short distasteful breath, and marches over to a scale. Then she informs us that next time we have to weigh the fruit and attach the price tag. We remember. Number four – apples. Number sixteen – peaches. Another customer explains the numbers on the fruit bins and the correlated buttons on the scale. Next time I expect a smile from the clerk because I have placed the properly marked bag in front of her. But after she drops the money in her cash register, she impatiently pushes our groceries out of the way to help the next customer. While we fill our shopping bag – yes, we remember to bring our own shopping bag – I decide that older German women don’t like their jobs. By forgetting to speak German, I learn that explanations are given freely and with a smile to foreigners. I understand that using my mother tongue results in reprimands.
“Das müssten Sie doch wissen.” (This is something you should know.)

Sometimes I want to scream, “Hey, loosen up. Get a grip. Gimme a break.” But the only time I respond is when they criticize Stephanie for a harmless culture gap mistake. In my own typically German stance with both fists dug into my side, elbows in chicken wing position and chest pumped up with an indignant deep breath, I counter, “Lassen Sie die Kleine bitte in Ruhe. Sie ist doch ein Kind.” (Leave the little one alone, please. She is a child.)

After such small town displeasures the city brings relief. Heidelberg with its international flavor is just right for touching bases with the familiar. Stephanie buys our lunch and we stuff ourselves with pizza Margherita at the Ristorante Milano on Main Street. Bills now come in German marks and Euros. Our two individual pizzas, a black currant juice and a Sprite cost DM28.50 or €14.57, roughly $14.00. We leave a tip, though none is expected beyond the rounding up to the next full mark. The waiter is charming and remembers us with a smiling hello when we pass by again.

Our next big, and I mean big, purchase is a bratwurst with pommes, a giant smoked sausage with fries. The name of the place is simply “Pommes.” (Potatoes) but means “French Fries.” You ask for your condiments, anything from ketchup to cheese, to peppers, to mustard. The sausage way exceeds the measurements of the bun. We are in heaven. Actually though, we sit on the steps of the next-door store, because the food stand has no seating. We watch what we both call “ugly shoes” walk by. Lots of ugly health shoes, sandals on men, platforms on women, bright reds and deep purples.

During our two days in Heidelberg we take many snack breaks. “Zwetchgenkuchen,” (plum cake) calls us from every bakery until we finally sit down at an outdoor café and taste it. Stephanie thinks that her mother’s is better. I know why. Her mother uses baking soda and sweetens the dough. The base of this one is yeast and the plums are tart. I recognize the flavor of this childhood Sunday morning luxury. Absolutely delicious.

To Stephanie’s slight embarrassment, I pull my frog Samy out of the bag and take a picture of him surrounded by cake. Samy is a good conversation starter. The girl at the table next to us tells us her life story. Listening to her I look up to the world famous Castle and remember my high school years spent in other outdoor cafés nearby. I remember the ice cream place behind Holy Ghost Church. We must go there later.

For now we take another walk up Main Street and spend some time and money at the Galeria shopping complex. Everybody back home loves Ritter chocolate and though we can buy it at Cost Plus, it seems so much better coming directly from Germany. I buy a loaf of marzipan for myself. We find small gifts like pens, glassware, books, notepaper.

One more stop, a juice bar. My Jamba Juice™ imagination is terribly disappointed with the taste of my mango yogurt drink. I think this is what lukewarm spoiled yak butter tea with lemon juice must be like. When I look into Stephanie’s wide eyes I toss my full container into the trash bin right outside the store. She follows suite, but more discreetly than I, not wanting to hurt the shopkeepers feelings. She says hers is disgusting too. My sweet granddaughter feels bad about wasting my money. I tell her I feel nothing but relief and we walk quickly to the nearest pretzel stand.

Of course there are places we don’t get around to visit. The “North Sea” for instance where I used to buy herring sandwiches after school. Sole D’Oro, where I spent Christmas Eve one year, with plates full of spaghetti and lonely students who had no place else to go for the holiday. We have no time to check out the ice-cream parlor around the corner from “Cave 54” and I don’t tell Stephanie about the political discussions my friends and I had there over tomato salad and Italian Zitroneneis. But I am comforted by the fact that these old hangouts have survived. Maybe next time. And maybe next time Stephanie will try blood sausage, her only absolute, predetermined reject on our food list.