Germany: Of beer, bread & brotherhood

You know how to recognise a German?” Barbara Engels, a hearty woman from Munich, asks me over a traditionally wholesome German meal of meat, cabbage, bread and potato. Without waiting for me to respond, she wags a sausage and says, “You see them hurrying down the street, going to their next meeting with something in their hand to eat. Long meals are usually reserved for business lunches or celebrations!” “What do these folk do with the time they save?” I ask. She laughs heartily, “Time saved is best utilised in a beer garden at night! Over beer, you make the new rules for the world. Plan world politics. Complain about the newspapers. Relax. Unwind. What catharsis!”

In Munich that night I visit a beer garden, which feels like community room and covered village square rolled into one. It’s also a good place for people to dress in traditional costume, musicians to perform and strangers to find acceptance. I sit next to a football team just to test this theory, and sure as currywurst is currywurst, I am soon embroiled in a discussion centering around Dostoevsky, who lost many a small fortune gambling at the Wiesbaden casino. One-litre mugs of beer are placed in front of us. “Don’t say anything at the time of refill, unless you’ve truly had enough,” a footballer says, with a gentle pat on my back. When I say, “Stop!” the waiter says with an admonishing glare, “What! Are you here only for the warm-up round?”

Suitably chastised, I go the whole hog, knocking back beers. I try every sausage on the cards. “Eat up,” says Peter Beethoven, an ancient gentleman from Munich, who happens to be sitting at the table alongside. He gives a disapproving frown when he finds me struggling through what he considers a small plate of sausages and mash. When he catches my quizzical gaze, he mutters, brushing some dampness of his time-worn cheeks, “Germans have known hunger during the wars. Just as they’ve known food shortages in times past when the crops failed. This is why the older generation of Germans feel closer to bread and potatoes, than the new generation who are often wary of carbohydrates.”

The man’s awe and veneration for humble food makes me more grateful for the food on the table. I take it less for granted. I begin to notice what’s placed before me at mealtimes with greater care and appreciation. For instance, German bread has resisted the tastelessness of white sliced bread. It is as difficult to exaggerate the varieties, as it to enumerate the range of sausages that may be found here. But the commonest bread by far is the greyish, aromatic landbrot, usually made from rye and wholemeal flour.

The following evening in Wurzburg I dine at a ratskeller which, is a vaulted atmospheric cellar beneath the town hall, where the mayor would be proud to entertain his guests. There’s no music as we enter, but the scent of the place and the sound of people going ‘mmmmm’ makes up for this omission. The waiter tells me with a playful grin that it’s illegal to be in Germany and not love sausage, often the meal’s centerpiece. With 1,500 varieties, what do you expect? He talks, “proud” written all over his handsome, youthful face, of his personal favourites: Thuringer — long, thin and spiced; Weiner, or what hot dog fiends call a frankfurter; Bratwurst — made from minced pork, veal and spices; and Currywurst — slices of sausage topped with curry powder and ketchup, most coveted in Berlin.

Other welcome mats of any German meal include potato salad, an accompaniment to sausages and grated potatoes mixed with onion pressed into thin cakes and crisply fried which is a meal in its own right. Then there’s spargel or asparagus, often eaten drenched in butter. To top it all, there’s a culture of drinking coffee.

In Wiesbaden, we stop at a cafe for the equivalent of English tea — a pot of coffee with cakes, tarts and flans. Contrary to our belief in the heaviness of German cuisine, these delicacies are surprisingly light and succulent. We gorge ourselves silly on discs of glazed gingerbread, pineapple slices covered with marzipan, a compote of redcurrants, strawberries and cherries mixed with tapioca, served with ice-cream and vanilla sauce.

“Are these the real German deserts?” “Nearly,” the chef says with a big toothy grin. “This is as good as it gets, away from the wife’s kitchen.” But although I’ve come away with fond memories of the long spears of asparagus and appetising fruitcakes, I will never forget the old man’s story about times of food scarcity and have learnt to always be grateful for my daily bread.