“The Best Cutlets Ever” - Lommerzheim

There it is - pork cutlets with onions and potato salad!

 

When you’ve been teaching for years, it can get pretty stale if you just take the textbook, teach the students the words in the book like “good, better, the best” and then have them go through the exercises at the end of the unit.  I was looking for a creative way to teach a lesson on comparisons to my students so I wouldn’t end up like a desperately bored zombie about to pull out my hair, just to find a little excitement.    I needed a context to put these words into, something fresh, or it would first get stale, and then really old and moldy, like a loaf of bread stuffed into the back of the breadbox and forgotten.   Bread when fresh, is delicious.  Teaching, when it’s fresh, is exciting.

While pondering this, I remembered a tool that helps me find the best restaurants in whatever city I’m currently in – the computer.  Even though I live in Cologne, I hadn’t used the computer much to search out good restaurants, instead relying on recommendations from friends or the same books all the German bookstores have.  It never occurred to me to treat Cologne as though I were a non-German speaking tourist.  This time I went to the web and hit pay dirt – I found a short, to-the-point article in English about the six best restaurants in Cologne.  Perfect.  I made photocopies and brought them to class. 

My students peered at the page and began talking about the restaurants listed even before anyone had started reading.  Number one on the list was a place called “Lommerzheim,” a name I didn’t recognize, but my students certainly did.   “This is a fantastic restaurant,” Günter enthused.  “You used to have to sit on telephone books on top of empty beer kegs if you wanted to sit down.”  He added, “Now you get to sit on chairs at the tables.”  He looked disappointed. 

Sylvia added, “And the walls are a graying yellow, with a one-centimeter coat of old tobacco smoke.”  Thank God restaurants in Germany are now smoke-free. 

Steffie piped in, “You can get the longest bratwurst in the world there - two-meters long.”

“Do you know the story about Bill Clinton?” asked Günter.  “When he was in Cologne a few years ago, he wanted to eat at a Cologne brewery.  His aide called the restaurant and said, ‘I’m calling for President Clinton, who is with me.’  ‘If that’s President Clinton, then I’m the Emperor of China,’ answered Lommi.” 

“Did the President get to eat there?” I asked.

“No, Lommi wouldn’t let him come.  If Clinton came, his normal clientele wouldn’t have been able to eat there.  He chose to be loyal to his customers, so Clinton had to eat at another brewery.”

“Do you know Herr Lommerzheim?” I asked.

“Not anymore.  He’s dead.  Since he’s gone, the restaurant just isn’t the same.  It’s gotten more gentrified.  Nowadays, there are chairs for the people to sit on.”  His nose curled in disapproval.

This didn’t sound bad to me.

“Is the food still good?”

“Ah, the food!”  Peter smiled, his eyes glinting as he looked toward the ceiling, his head shaking slowly as he labored to find adequate words in English to express his feelings for this restaurant.  “They have the thickest pork chops in the world - four-centimeters thick.”  That would be two inches.  Very thick.  “And the cheapest price anywhere – only a few euros.”  He was doing very well with his superlatives.

My son was leaving for Korea the following day to study business, for who knows how long.  Maybe a night out for dinner would be a good idea. 

“What about the beer?”

“They serve Päffgen.”

In Cologne, that statement needs no further comment.  Most Kölner consider Päffgen the best beer going.  It is also my son’s favorite brand of Kölsch.  Other brands of Kölsch are served all over the city in various restaurants, but not Päffgen.  You can only buy Päffgen in the brewery itself on the Ring in Cologne – and at Lommerzheim.

“Can I reserve a table?”

“Ah, that will be difficult.  I don’t think so.  People start lining up outside the restaurant at 4:30 pm, when they open for dinner, and within an hour all the tables are taken.”

I taught the same lesson to the next class.  After only one lesson, the topic was still fresh, and I was curious to see if these students felt the same about this restaurant.

“I go there once or twice a week in the summer,” said one of the students.  Then the students started debating whether “Lommi’s” or Früh, a famous brewery near the cathedral, was better.

“Lommi’s has a beer garden,” said Torsten.  “Früh doesn’t.”

“It does too,” protested Sebastian.  “You can sit outside.”

“Ah, but it’s not a beer garden.”

I was beginning to feel a conviction in my tummy that this might be a good place to spend our last evening before Jon’s departure – if we could get a table.

I went home and phoned the restaurant, but only got an answering machine, instructing me to leave my name and number, and someone would call me back.  I left my name and number, telling the machine that I wanted a table for three at 7:30 pm.  We waited for a call-back.  And waited.  By 7:00 there still was no returned call, so we decided to simply go there and try our luck.

“Hey – this restaurant is on our side of the Rhine!” I announced to Jon as I checked the address.  It is very difficult to find anything interesting on the right side, so we usually have to endure long tram rides onto the other side of the Rhine when we go out to eat.

 

Lommerzheim Brew Restauratn - with the tiniest sign in red, on the left

After a short tram ride, we got off near the Deutz train station and started walking, Jon using his cell phone as a navigation device.  Lommerzheim was on no main thoroughfare, but we eventually found it, in the middle of a short, narrow street.  It was about as old as Deutz itself and looked ready for demolition.  It was certainly hard to find.  You needed to know the house number to find it.  It didn’t even have a sign saying “Lommerzheim” anywhere on the outside.  There was a tiny little area to the side where a few intrepid diners (it was rainy and about 60° - typical June weather in Cologne) were eating.  Ah-ha.  The famous beer garden, tables now sodden after hours of constant rain.  I didn’t want a table that badly.  There was a crowd of people standing out in front, though.  This didn’t look good.  When we looked closer, though, we saw that they all had beer glasses in one hand and a cigarette in the other.  Ah, so this was where all the cigarette smoke was landing these days.  Maybe our chances weren’t so bad after all.

After one glance around the restaurant, we could see that all the tables were occupied, but we asked a waiter anyway.  “You can try your luck downstairs,” he said. 

Downstairs, it was cozy and even sort of attractive, with a stained glass piece lighted up from behind.  We found one sole empty table, and bolted for it.  A friendly Köbes, the word for waiter in a Cologne brewery, came and took our order.  I told him I had tried to reserve a table on the phone.  “What time did you call?” he asked.

“Around five.”

“Oh, that’s when we get really busy.  It was certainly too loud to hear any messages.”

I didn’t know how to order.  Could I eat a four-centimeter pork chop?  Some friendly-looking people at a table nearby were also eating pork chops.  “Can we split an order?” I asked them.

“Of course.  What do you think we did?  I could never eat one of these alone,” the woman answered.  “Is this your first time here?” she asked.

After my affirmative answer, she said, “You’re in for a treat.”

The beer was ice cold and delicious.  My students were right about the beer.  We could order the pork cutlets either “juicy” or “well done”.  We went for juicy chops with onions.  Two plates arrived for the three of us, thickly laden with onions that threatened to spill off the plates.  We bit into the most tender and flavorful pork chops we had ever eaten.  We couldn’t decide between French fries or potato salad, so we ordered both.  The French fries were crisp on the outside.  Inside, they were soft, like comfortable tiny pillows, except you could eat them, and they had that earthy potato flavor.  The potato salad was creamy, with a slight mustard tang, a perfect balance to the pork chops.  With that order, we had practically exhausted the menu.  There wasn’t much left to choose from, but it didn’t matter.  We couldn’t have ordered any better solace for the months of separation to come. 

It’s hard to imagine a restaurant that could be plainer, but also more comforting.  Perhaps that is the charm.  Perhaps what draws people to this restaurant is not only the food and beer, but its unpretentiousness.  My husband Peter shivers each time we pass a restaurant with cold halogen lighting, pale, bare wooden tables, chrome and mirrors.  In this frenetic, insecure age, more and more people seem to need warmth, comfort, and the solidity of honest age, devoid of facelifts.  We crave friendly waiters and fellow customers who aren’t too reserved or uppity to talk to us, just as much as we crave the security of comfort food.  

I asked the Köbes about Lommi.   “Did you know him?”

“Oh, yes.  I worked for years with him.”

“How did he manage to get permission to be the only restaurant outside of Päffgen itself to sell this beer?”

“He was a Köbes there for years, and he won the trust of the owners.” 

There it was.  Lommi was trustworthy, and he created a restaurant with the same honest, straightforward core from which he lived an entire life.  He built a legacy which lives on.  After his death, and after his widow retired from serving Kölsch to what must have been hundreds of thousands of visitors, she sold the restaurant to Päffgen, who promised to maintain the restaurant in the décor in which they received it.  The owners of Päffgen, also following in the tradition of their founder, also proved trustworthy.  The only thing that has changed is that Lommerzheim has been brought up to hygienic and construction standards.  For instance, the kitchen and restrooms are clean.

“This is one place I’m going to bring my Korean friends when they come to Cologne,” Jon said as we walked back to the tram.  “I can’t wait to tell my students about it,” I said.  I love it when my students teach me things.

Me eating there again - I forgot the onions!  They came later.

Lommerzheim

Siegesstrasse 18

Köln-Deutz (tram stop on 1, 3, 4, 7 and 9 - Bahnhof Deutz)

Telephone:  0221/ 81 43 92

Opening hours:  11-2:30 pm, 4:30 pm – 1 am; closed Tuesdays

Credit cards not accepted. 

Istanbul Again - Part Four

A cheap ticket to over 900 square kilometers

Unlike Peter and me, our son Jon has never been to Istanbul before this trip, yet it is he who introduces us to one of the latest phenomena in modern technology - the Istanbul card.  For about $3, or €2.50 you can buy this card and then fill it up, like the tank in your car.  If it approaches "empty", you can simply top it up with more money on your card.  With this ticket, you can ride anywhere in metropolitan Istanbul, which can be more than 30 kilometers from where you are, for about $.90, or €.75.  Until the day he announced he needed to buy this card at a kiosk, he had been watching his parents struggle with buying 3 lira tokens in machines, scrambling to get enough change to put into the slot.  A 3 lira token is worth about $1.50, or €1.20, costing almost twice the cost of a ride on the Istanbul card.  Germany continues to be behind the times when it comes to savvy technological innovation.  We only have a plastic card you can buy on a subscription basis after mailing in an application, or a cardboard ticket you can buy in a vending machine.  The vending machine has complicated instructions, and this cardboard ticket only  lets you ride for one day, in a group, or for four rides, at astronomically high prices.  Not being on the lookout for such things, we don't notice this fabulous opportunity to get around much more cheaply and conveniently.  But Jon, who has traveled even more widely than we have, has used such cards in places like Hong Kong, Seoul, Beijing, and Singapore.  He reads about the card on one of the vending machines at a tram stop, while his parents struggle to buy tokens.  He intuits the advantages of the "Instanbulkart" and even knows that he can purchase this card at a newspaper kiosk.  He asks us to accompany him to a kiosk.  He obvioulsy has plans to use this card with his girlfriend Dayeong, who will be arriving soon from Seoul.  We head to the nearest kiosk and buy him a card, still not recognizing the advantages possessing this card will bring us.

But I have plans for the day that will involve the use of Jon's card, which we can also ride on.  There is unlimited use for as many people and as long as the card is loaded for.  You can use the card for the tram, metro, and even ferries across the Bosphorus!  What I want to do is use the metro to travel to an Istanbul shopping mall.  I have heard that Istanbul has fabulous shopping malls, and I want to see for myself.  Everyone thinks this is a good idea, so we head for the metro station, just outside our posh hotel.

I am amazed.  We descend from escalator to escalator into the depths of the earth, even deeper than in London's tube.  The walls and floors are lined with gleaming mosaics, and there is not even a scribble of graffiti anywhere.  Why can't Germany do anything about kids scribbling everywhere on walls?  Where I live, they recently built a new bridge over the freeway, and within days, it was covered with graffiti.  Not only is there no graffiti in the metro station - everything sparkles with cleanliness.  There are no mud spots on the floor, there is no film of sand, no grime on the walls.

An Istanbul metro station

     
The trains are similar - new, shiny, clean - and fast.  The only trouble is, it seems we have to take one line only one stop - to Taksim Square, and change there to get a metro to the stop we want for the Cevahir shopping mall.  A nice young man helps us to read and understand the metro map, explaining that he will be getting off at the same stop, so he will accompany us the whole way.  "We are so grateful for this metro," he says.  "We can travel so much more easily now.  Imagine - for only three lira, you can travel way across Istanbul to the other side - you can ride for more than thirty kilometers!"

Soon the two sides of Istanbul, European and Asian, will be connected by metro.  At present they are separated by the Bosphorus.  (By the way, these words in different colors are links - if you click on the words, you can read something about what the link refers to - in this case, an article about the new metro tunnel.)  When the two sides of Istanbul are connected, you will be able to travel more than seventy kilometers by metro!

We ride for about five kilometers, getting off at the second stop after boarding the train at Taksim.  The shopping mall runs right into the metro station, so there is no getting lost.

Like the metro station, the Cevahir mall is also gleaming and ultra-modern.  This is considered an ordinary Istanbul shopping mall.  Apparently, if you want to see real luxury, you need to go to Istinye Park or Kanyon mall.  

Cevahir shopping mall

What is this place Turkey all about, anyway?  Is this an El Dorado?  Istanbul is not only modern, it is ultra-modern!  How modern, or how primitive, is the rest of Turkey?  Istanbul  is very different from the view of Turkey I have when walking down Keupstrasse, the main thoroughfare in one of the Turkish neighborhoods of Cologne.  But what I read about in the women's gift shop indicates that conditions are difficult in rural Turkey.  This disparity must explain why so many people pour in each day from rural areas to Istanbul, and farther on to Germany. 

We buy a beautiful wooden salad bowl in an attractive kitchen shop.  Outside the shop, we explore more of the mall.  The ground floor is full of kitchen, furniture stores and all sorts of shops related to home, including a big supermarket.  It seems the Turks love English home decor - we find several shops with English prints on towels, quilts, sheets and kitchenware.  There are several levels with department stores, including the German chain C&A and British Marks and Spencer.  The top two levels are both food courts and restaurants.  The people shopping in the mall look as ordinary as those in Germany or the US.     

I read that the Turkish economy was growning at about an amazing 8% annually, until 2012.  Now it has slowed down to about 2%.  Greece's youth unemployment rate (for the -24 age bracket) is a whopping 60%.  Still, the level of Turkish youth unemployment is also unsettling - nearly 17%.  I hear many Germans are choosing to retire in Turkey, either in Istanbul or on the coast.  I'm not surprised.  But I'm reading that Turkey is also living in a bubble.  Will this bubble burst?  There are no signs of it at the shopping mall. 

   

Istanbul Again - Part Two

Nahil - a gift shop that supports women and children

As an American woman living abroad, I need a touch of home now and then, a support system of people who understand my situation.  I have found support again and again from the American International Women's Club of Cologne.  There is always someone there to offer kind, concrete help to me when I've been in need.  But the Club doesn't stop here.  One of the amazing things about this women's club is that the Club exists, not only to be a place where Americans and others interested in the United States can gather, socialize and make contacts.  It's all about serving.  I have a writing friend there who's a singer/songwriter.  Each year she does a benefit concert, donating all the profits to causes she carefuly chooses in Cologne and abroad.  The Club uses countless events, whether it be a sponsored cancer walk, a gala ball or a class in Japanese cookery, to collect money and sometimes clothes or blood, for someone in need.  The Club has sponsored everything from water projects in the third world to aid for victims of the Fukushima nuclear reactor disaster.

This attitude, as a raison d'etre, inspires me and sensitizes me to other projects dedicated to the cause of women.  The last time I was in New York City, I was browsing through shops in Williamsburg and came upon a cute vintage clothing shop, Lavai Maria.  I couldn't wear these clothes unless I were about thirty years younger 

Lavai Maria - a vintage clothing shop in Williamsburg, Brooklyn

and at least thirty pounds lighter, but I found a nice shopping bag there, and asked about it.  "Oh, the owner buys these bags from a women's cooperative in India to support their work.  Every penny you spend on this bag will go to this group in India," said the sales clerk.  I bought the bag, even though I had to pay $25 for a thin printed cotton bag.  I could get a sturdier one in Germany for $2, but it wouldn't have supported women's work.

Now, six months later in Istanbul, after finishing a delicious, filling breakfast at the hotel where we have to walk up a steep hill for our meal, we stroll along one of the side streets between the hotel and the Istiklal.  I spot a shop window with cute items like lacy doilies, and everything looks handmade.  "I've got to go in," I tell my family.  "I'll just be a few minutes."  But I am entranced by practically everything I see in this shop - attractive lace-packaged soaps, hand-made dolls, clothes, Turkish food items, bags, lace Christmas ornaments.  I pick two lace angel Christmas tree ornaments to bring back as gifts to Germany, and a glasses case in the shape of a cat for Peter.  He will like that, I think.

I am in the shop so long, the rest of the family comes into the shop and joins me.  They are also enamored.  By now, I have paid for my purchases and learned about the shop.  As I suspected, it is run and operated by women, and supports Turkish women in poor parts of Turkey.  It is these women who make all the products.  We gaze at the photos on the wall showing women in rural areas making the items being sold. 

I tell the shopkeeper that I'm interested in women's work, and she hands me a brochure in English.  This shop, Nahil, at Bekar Sok. 17 (near Taksim Square), was started by the Foundation for the Support Women's Work (FSWW) in 1986.  As the brochure says, it is a non-profit, non-governmental organization, whose aim is to support low-income women's groups to improve the quality of their lives, their communities and to strengthen their leadership.  The FSWW helps to establish and run women's and children's centers all over rural Turkey.

Women making gifts to sell

        

I hope many people will support these women.  I have heard that women in these rural areas, where traditional, conservative values tend to dominate, have it especially hard.  Some conservative ideas are, of course, helpful, but others are deeply oppressive and damaging for men as well as women.  It is a good thing when these women are able to gather together to work and talk, all the while helping to support their families.  As they meet and talk, they grow in self-confidence as well as add to their income.

I am reminded of something I read about women in Elik Shafak's novel, The Forty Rules of Love.   Elik Shafak is a Turkish novelist I have discovered on this trip to Istanbul.  This novel is partly about Rumi and his mentor Shams, and partly about a modern American woman.  Shams has finally found his spiritual companion, Rumi, in Konya, a conservative rural part of Turkey.  One of Rumi's disciples, a young woman, is having a discussion with Shams about the role of women in the Koran.  She is greatly disturbed by this passage, which she well knows, and therefore asks Shams to explain.  He quotes:  Men are the maintainers of women because Allah has made some of them to excel others and because they spend out of their property; the good women are therefore obedient, guarding the unseen as Allah has guarded; and (as to) those on whose part you fear desertion, admonish them, and leave them alone in the sleeping-places and beat them; then if they obey you, do not seek a way against them; surely Allah is High, Great." 

As I read this passage, I am both shocked and also not surprised in the least.  This passage verifies the worst of what I have heard about Islam.  I am intrigued, and can also imagine the disappointment this disciple must feel, having the most troubling passage of all in the Koran being quoted back to her.  How often I have been dismayed when Christians have quoted the verses in the Bible by St. Paul in Ephesians 5:22, "Wives, submit yourselves to your own husbands as you do to the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife as Christ is the head of the church,."  And the passage in 1 Corinthians 14:33 forbidding women from having speaking functions, including pastoring a church,  "Women should remain silent in the churches."   These ring very harsh, and it has taken a lot of searching before I have been able to find people enlightened enough to explain the real meaning of these passages.  In the first, I have been told that it means that women should honor their husbands.  It is, in fact, about developing a culture of honoring one another.  This passage, in fact, begins by telling both husbands and wives to submit to one another.  How very different from the first reading.

The same applies to the second passage about women remaining silent in church.  There are still many churches that refuse to let women even serve communion, let alone preach or run a church.  What Paul really meant was that women, who sat in another part of the synagogue from men, shouldn't yell across the synagogue during the service to discuss things.  They should wait until they were at home.  I learned that later church "fathers" changed names of people in the Bible such as Junia, who was a female bishop, to Junius, a name which didn't exist, to neutralize the gender so that no one in future generations would read about a female bishop.

These memories shoot through my head like a bullet, as I read this passage from the Koran that Shams quotes.  But then, he goes on, surprising both the disciple and me, the reader, by quoting a different translation of the same passage:

"Men are the support of women as God gives some more means than others, and because they spend of their wealth (to provide for them).  So women who are virtuous are obedient to God and guard the hidden as God has guarded it.  As for women you feel are averse, talk to them suasively; then leave them alone in bed (without molesting them) and go to bed with them (when they are willing).   If they open out to you, do not seek an excuse for blaming them.  Surely God is sublime and great."

What a difference between the two versions!  My heart goes out to women in Turkey, in the US, in Germany, to women everywhere who have suffered and who continue to suffer under ignorant, misguided male domination, unable to fulfill their God-given destinies.  May they come out of that heavy, oppressive place.  Both they and men will be better off for this.  I hope the women in rural Turkey, creating these beautiful gifts, are discovering their own value as they share their beautiful wares with others.  

     

Finding Buried Treasure

Sometimes irony is one of life's highest delights.  Other times it is a dagger, stabbing deadly barbs.  Here's a  story with irony.  It's about finding gifts I didn't expect to find, and finding out that something else I  thought was a gift turns out to be something else. 

It was morning and I was reading in my Bible.  I'm slowly reading through the book of St. Matthew and am just about to the place where Jesus gets killed.  In chapter 26, he's at someone's house for dinner and an unexpected guest crashes the party - a woman.  She walks in to Jesus, bends down over him, kneels, breaks a bottle of expensive perfumed oil and pours it over his head.  You may have heard or read the story.  This woman's deed struck me when I started to think about it.  I realized that if I had been sitting there, it would never have occurred to me to pour a flask of oil over his head.  In fact, nothing at all would have occurred to me.  I'd just be sitting there, maybe involved in a conversation with someone, enjoying the food for sure, and shocked when this woman walks in and does this crazy thing.  I would agree with the disciples, who said it was crazy.  Yes, she was crazy.  She just wasted a fortune on this man when she could have sold the bottle and given the money to the poor.  And why is she so hung up on him anyway?  What's going on between them?

So I asked myself why she did such an outlandish thing.  The answer that came to me was, "Because she experienced something huge from Jesus, she was enormously touched and changed by him, and she wanted to express her love and appreciation in this way.  It had to be something extravagant, because he did something extravagant for her."  It never occurred to me to do anything big for Jesus.  Why not?  Why am I not inclined to give something precious of mine to God?  That answer came right away.  Because I haven't received anything big from Jesus, a.k.a God - at least, not in a very long time.  I asked myself and God why that was so.  Because I'm not open to the gifts Jesus is offering me, was the answer I heard in my mind's ear. 

That stung, but rang true.  I am an idealistic person with definite ideas about how life should be.  I've always seen that as one of my very best traits.  If you're ever in doubt about a moral question, ask me.  I'll probably have thought about it and have an answer.  And I'll try and live accordingly.  In school, idealism was held in high esteem.  It was even an American virtue.  I can hear the principal giving a speech right now, saluting "our wonderful, idealistic group of kids graduating this year, who will go out into the world and do great things."  I fell for that hook, line and sinker.  I wanted to go out there and do great things.  I heard it at least as much in church.  "My Utmost for His Highest" was one of the books lying around our house.  It took me decades to find out that idealism isn't always good.  It can also be a cause of suffering and a hindrance to being open for something else.

I sat there in my bed, where I usually sit when I read and meditate.  I let these thoughts sink into me.  When life doesn't turn out the way I expect it to, I'm disappointed.  I'm not really all that good at accepting life as it comes.  Not that anyone is, really.  It's hard to be disappointed about something and not let it throw you into a funk.

Recently someone close to me let me down.  This person doesn't walk the talk - one of the things in life that make my blood boil.  I'm a firm believer in consistency.  Why can't people see when they aren't living what they say they believe in?  I was letting thoughts about that drift through my head that morning as I sat, meditating.  Several examples came to mind of where I don't see the blessing around me because I'm upset about something else.  I didn't mind if my thoughts made me look less than nice.  I already know that I'm not really all that nice.  I'm so glad to have discovered God's grace, mercy and forgiveness for myself.

So I sat there, letting the thoughts drift.  Our upcoming wedding anniversary floated past.  A telephone conversation I'd had with my brother idled by.  He was talking about a barbecued pork dish he'd heard about in a TV show with Steven Raichlen, the barbecue pope.  Turns out the recipe comes from Germany.  We had speculated just where this town might be.  My husband Peter had identified the place, and I had checked it online.  Thoughts continued to drift.  Suddenly they consolidated, and everything joined into one gigantic realization.

The conversation with my brother was a gift, and his interest in food one of his treasures!  I've also expected other things from my brother that he hasn't been able to deliver on.  But I hadn't truly recognized or truly received this special gift.  He has blessed my tummy many, many times.  Now he's off in America and I'm here in Germany, but he has blessed me again with the name of a town where we can get fantastic barbecued meat.  Steven Raichlen even goes so far as to say that the German barbecue cuisine is one of Europe's best-kept secrets.  I certainly never knew that.  In fact, I have been avoiding all the bratwurst and marinated pork chops I see in the supermarket, grilling hamburgers, steaks and teriyaki chicken instead.  Now I hear that one of the best places in the world for barbecued food is Germany!

So, in that instant I KNEW that Peter and I would be driving to Idar-Oberstein, the home of this great recipe, and trying out this famous dish, called Spiessbraten.  And sure enough, he agreed to my idea, even though it involved a two and a half hour drive.  Each way.

Idar-Oberstein, you see, is in the middle of nowhere.  You have to drive an entire hour once you get off the autobahn, just to get there.  It's a sleepy little town, hidden in a river valley.  I'd been to the Idar part of the town, but never to Oberstein.  We went there once with our son when he was little, collecting rocks, and into geodes.  All I saw there in Idar was a bunch of dusty semi-precious stones sitting on shelves in a museum.  Idar-Oberstein is known for its semi-precious stones that used to be mined in the hills above.  Years ago they stopped mining there, but stones are still polished and made into jewelry there.

As we drove, we contempated the fact that this remote town contains so much of value.  This town is not very well-known in Germany.  Not valued.  The country I live in is also not particularly beloved in the English-speaking world.  It's still known as the country that welcomed Hitler into power, the country where some citizens committed unthinkable atrocities less than a hundred years ago.   But a Jewish chef from Florida is praising their barbecue cuisine.  He's even praising their pork.  And I've been missing out on treasures.

"Felsenkirche" - the church on the cliff, and Oberstein Castle

Schlossschenke - our restaurant

When we arrived in Oberstein, we found a really pretty town filled with cute half-timbered houses.  There was a high hill above us with a church built right into the rock.  And high above that, off to the left, a castle, partly in  ruins.  We had no difficulty finding a restaurant serving spiessbraten - there were restaurants all over advertising this dish.  We sat down at a table at the nearest one, Schlossschenke, a hotel with a restaurant and outdoor café.  It looked so inviting, with its wood beams, stones, and flowers in the windows.  Flags were gently waving in the street opposite the restaurant, among them an American one.  The menu was in English and German. 

Turns out this place isn't such a secret after all, at least among the American soldiers stationed in nearby Baumholder.  Our waitress told us that many soldiers find their way to their restaurant, asking for spiessbraten.

The grill outside our restaurant

Spiessbraten as it is prepared in Idar-Oberstein can be either pork or beef.  I ordered beef rumpsteak, and Peter pork.  The important thing about it is that the meat is coated in a mixture of sliced onions, salt and pepper which you kind of knead around the meat every once in a while for about twelve hours, then grill on this special kind of grill you can turn around like a wheel as the meat cooks over beech wood.  And you eat it with a white radish salad and some form of potatoes.  We had potato salad, made in this region with oil and vinegar.  It was indeed delicious and perhaps one of the best grilled meals we have ever eaten.  We sat there, like a king and queen in a castle garden, enjoying a gem of a food we learned about from my brother in America.  How I would love to be able to take him there to the place where the food he told me about originates.  But I can't.  He's not here, even though he gave us this gift.  Ironically, he was once in Idar-Oberstein with his ex-wife when they came to Germany for Peter's and my wedding.  But they didn't know about spiessbraten then.   

The waitress patiently explained how we could recreate the experience at home.  We would need wood chips from a beech tree, but we could buy the wood at a nearby store. 

After finishing our meal, we walked through the town a little.  I bought a turquoise necklace and some presents.  We admired the church in the rock and castle in the distance.  We stopped at a store on our way home to buy beech wood, but they were out of it.

As soon as we got home, I phoned my brother to tell him about the experience.  He was pleased to be such an important part of our wedding anniversary.

Later in the week, I found wood chips at a local lumber store.  We bought pork shoulder steak at our butcher's, and on Sunday we ate spiessbraten we made ourselves.  If possible, it was even better than what we'd had in the restaurant.

I am learning to recognize some of the treasures around me, opening myself up to the realization that I am being blessed all the time by my God.  How good to be able to realize that, discovering that treasures are flowing through the floodgates!

On that same weekend I was able to give a bit back to God.  I played Bach's "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring" on the organ at a wedding last weekend.  I played it as a gift to God.  This is what they call worship.
 

          

It All Started with a Dog

It all started with a dog.  My dog, Toffee.  A few of his ancestors many dog generations ago, but within my own lifetime, got smuggled out of Cuba for committing the Communist “sin” of being decadent.  The rest got killed.  Toffee is not decadent.  He is a blessing.

Toffee

How good that we have a new breed of dog now, the Havanese.  My own particular specimen has done a world of good, and he doesn’t even know about it.  This reminds me of something Jesus said about your left hand not being supposed to know the good that your right hand does. 

But before I get too far into this story, let me begin again, this time starting with a popular German vegetable. 

The king of German vegetables - white asparagus

This week I discovered the ideal discussion topic for my English class – asparagus.  It’s asparagus season right now in Germany, the season you find white asparagus in all the restaurants, and white and green asparagus in all the supermarkets, along with Hollandaise sauce , the traditional accompaniment to white asparagus, already prepared and sold in cartons on a shelf next to the asparagus. 

The BBC ran a story on German white asparagus, complete with a podcast, perfect for me to share with my class.  The narrator mentioned in his story that Germany has a less sophisticated cuisine than Britain because Britain’s culture is more eclectic. He was referring to all the people from all over the world who have been pouring into Britain from Britain’s former colonies over the past few decades – Indians, Pakistanis, Jamaicans, Irish, Italians, Nigerians, to name a few.  It must have escaped him that the same is true for Germany, only the immigrants are not from former colonies.  They are economic refugees.

   

Thanks to Toffee, I have made friends with Katie and Sophia, some immigrant children in my neighborhood, which is full of immigrants, including me.  I've written about these girls before, so click here if you want to read more about them.  Katie and Sophia ring my doorbell regularly, asking to take Toffee out.  For them it is an honor, and for me a break from our normal routine of taking the dog out, three times a day, day in, day out, whatever the weather.  A couple weeks ago when they came to the door, I announced to them that Toffee was an uncle – his sister had given birth to four little puppies. 

“Can we see them?” they begged. 

“I’ll ask,” I promised, and then phoned my friend Denise.  One of her dogs is Toffee’s mother, and the other Toffee’s sister.  We had to wait a couple of weeks until the puppies’ eyes and ears were opened, but this week they were ready for company.   The girls arrived punctually at the appointed time and I phoned Denise to see if it was still OK to come.

“Oh, it’s been so busy,” Denise said.  “I haven’t even had lunch yet, and we have more visitors coming later today.  Could you come a bit later?”

“We’ll drive slowly,” I said.  “And we’ll only stay a few minutes.”  To kill time, we all sat on the floor and played with Toffee for a while.

“Toffee is the only dog my mother likes,” said Katie.  “If I could have a dog, it would have to be someone like Toffee.”

I told the girls about our mating Toffee with another Havanese dog last week.  These girls, age 9 and 10, know about the facts of life, and wanted to know if the dog has gotten pregnant.  “It’s too soon to tell,” I said.

We piled into the car and drove off to Denise’s.  While waiting at a stop light, Katie said, “My uncle lives over there in that building,” pointing to a brick apartment building.  I had thought she and her mother were the only people from Cameroon in Cologne. 

“I didn’t know you had an uncle here,” I said. 

“I have lots of aunts and uncles here, all in Cologne” she answered.

“I only have an aunt in Germany, far away.  Every one else is in the Czech Republic,” said Sophia.

I have no relatives here, nor does Peter, my German husband.

Despite my driving slowly, we arrived way too early, so I decided to take them with me into the supermarket at the corner.  I wanted to buy green asparagus for the weekend.  Peter prefers green asparagus, even though he’s German and most Germans, especially older ones, eat only the white variety. 

“I’ve never eaten asparagus,” said Katie.  “Me neither,” said Sophia.  But they spotted the asparagus before I did.

Finally, we had killed enough time, and we walked over to Denise’s.  “Do you think I could take photos with my cell phone?” asked Sophia.

“I don’t see why not,” I said.

But all thoughts of photos were gone as soon as we saw the puppies.  It was the same feeling as when we first saw Toffee.  Four tiny little creatures, so perfect, so helpless.  They fit into the palm of your hand.  All was hushed and reverent as two girls and two women sat on the floor, holding the little puppies in turn.  After a few minutes, Bijou, their mother came and nursed them as we sat in awe, watching.  This was her first litter, and it was as though she always nursed babies.  Less than a week ago I had witnessed her brother Toffee mating for the first time, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. 

“It feels so holy in here,” I commented.

“One evening this week I came in here and did nothing for an entire hour except and sit and watch these puppies,” said Denise.  She seemed to be in no hurry.

“We have guinea pigs too,” she told the girls.

“I have a guinea pig at home,” said Sophia.  “We used to have two, but one died.”

“Would you like to see our guinea pigs?  We have hens too.”

“Oh, yes!” 

So we all went out into the back yard, the girls clutching their handbags in case anyone should break into the house and steal them.  I had told them not to leave their bags in the car, lest anyone break in and steal them, so they were not letting go of their bags anywhere. 

We visited the guinea pigs and the girls held all four of them. 

“This one looks almost like Toby – the one who died,” Sophia said, holding one of the guinea pigs.  Denise’s daughter, nine, was outside playing with one of her friends.  “Would you like to hold a hen?” she asked.  The girls took turns trying to hold the hen, but it kept flying out of their arms.  I admired Leah, who carries the animals around with such grace.  She’s a real natural.  “We have eight hens,” she said.  “We get eggs from them every day.”

“I annoyed a chicken in Cameroon,” Katie said. 

“Did you hold it?” I asked.  Katie nodded.

I’m allergic to most animals and the straw that is around them, so I instinctively turn away.  That’s why it’s such a miracle for me to be able to have a hypoallergenic dog! 

Sophia and Katie couldn’t get enough.  I held their handbags so they could climb into the tree house, unencumbered. 

All four girls clambered up and were in a world to themselves as they called, “Tigger!” and a stray local cat came to them, and I stood there with the handbags.  I heard them talking about their ages, about school, about hens and guinea pigs.    

 I got tired of standing there, waiting, and I had told Denise we’d only be staying a few minutes.  By now it was over an hour, and Denise had long since gone inside the house.  “Come down, girls!” I called.  “It’s time to go home.” 

They climbed down, and then Leah said, “Would you like to see one of the hens do gymnastics?”  I had never heard of a hen doing gymnastics, and was intrigued.  We stayed and watched as she went into the hen house, pulled out one of the hens and carried her around the yard as her friend played assistant, holding a handful of grains as a reward for the hen’s tricks.  They carefully placed the hen’s claws onto the handles of the seesaw and moved it up and down.  The hen stayed put!  They put the hen onto the swing, and the hen didn’t budge as they gently pushed the swing back and forth.  Leah carried the hen onto the top of the slide and we watched it – whoosh! - slide down and flutter her wings a few times.  They put her onto the monkey bars and she balanced there a few seconds.  This was quite an amazing hen, and an amazing girl, who could get a hen to do such marvelous things.

By now we had been there nearly two hours.  “We must go home,” I said.  “Your mothers will wonder where you are.”

“Can we look at the puppies one more time?” Sophia asked.

“OK – just a peek.” 

As we walked back into the house, Katie said, “I wish I could live in a house like this.  Maybe when I’m grown up.  I guess you have to be rich to have all those animals.”

I know that Denise isn’t rich in money.  But she and her family are rich in love for animals and other people.  They have only one child of their own, but four foster children, a single mother and her daughter living with them, and all these animals in a house and large garden, right in the middle of Cologne.

We walked back into the puppy temple, which was now filled with another family admiring the puppies, and three adult dogs.  Denise had finally had enough of us, and we left. 

As I walked out of the house, carrying my asparagus, Katie said, “In Cameroon they chew on something that looks a bit like asparagus.  It’s called ‘sugar cane’ and it’s very refreshing and delicious.”

“I’ve always wanted to try it,” I said.  “They eat it in Egypt, and I wanted to try it when I was there, but I never had a chance.”

“Next time I go to Cameroon, I’ll bring you some,” she promised. 

“Noreen, if Toffee gets pregnant, do you think I could have one of the puppies?” Katie asked.

“Toffee can’t get pregnant,” Sophia answered wisely.  “He’s a male.”

These girls don’t know how rich they have made my life, and without much forethought, I gave them a memory that will last them a lifetime.

Such a wonderful afternoon, and it all started with a dog.