Apart from being what Fulbright likes to call "an American Ambassador," I have become a kind of apologist on behalf of German culinary skills, which I generally admire. Despite what, I don't know, the entire world says, German food can be really damn good, kind of like an entire culture based on comfort food, which is to say starches and sauces derived for rendered fat. I have been a defender, an advocate; I have stood against the tide, yelled into the wind, and rebuked the sea, all for this complex people right of the Rhine, but they just make it so damn hard sometimes, dammit, and I'm tired. Why this sudden wavering of commitment, you ask? OK, I'll tell you. Here's the deal:
Yesterday was one of those Spring days that requires several types of clothing, all depending on the time of day: a jacket for the morning, short sleeve shirt in the early afternoon, and a raincoat for later. I left school during this last and wonderful period, leaning forward against the rain, my face held slightly to the side, as I slid down the cobblestone street toward my house. I hadn't eaten yet, but had decided to enjoy a nice ham and cheese sandwich in my room watching Snooker coverage on TV, when, just around the corner from the bakery, I was struck by a lingering craving for Bratkartoffeln. Literlly translated, it means simply "grilled or roasted potatoes," and they are perhaps one of the greatest foods ever invented by the human race. I love them. I could eat a whole plate of them if you were generous enough to give them to me, and I had noticed the day before that "Das Kartoffelhaus (The Potato House)" offers these wonderfully fat-enriched tubers, together with something else (I didn't really care at the time what it might be) for as little as 5,00 €. Score.
Change of plans. Tschüß, ham sandwich, hallo, Bratkartoffeln. Ordering from a German menu can be a risky business, no matter how well you can translate, but I was confident. After all, I've been here for seven months now and I can understand about 90 % of what I read and hear, plus or minus those special situations that come along every now and then, so a five page menu in a tiny restaurant should be as easy as predicting who dies first in a horror movie. From the mouths of babes. From the mouths of stupid babes.
I chose number 50, "Bratkartoffeln mit hausgemachten Bratheringen (Grilled potatoes with the house-made grilled Herrings)" Yeah, that sounded good; a little plate of grilled fish with a side of hot potatoes is a perfect match for such imperfect weather. Yeah. Perfect. The waitress came over, took my order, and I sat, expectantly awaiting my sizzling fish. The sound of oil popping coming from kitchen was encouraging. My coke arrived and I shivered a bit for the last time before settling into my chair....
It was cold. Stone cold. The fish was STONE COLD! The side of potatoes was hot, but the three gutted and headless Herrings on my plate were stiff and icy under my fingers. They certainly LOOKED grilled; the skin was brown and folded into tight creases, the way things do when water pops through the skin in a pan, but there was no....oh, what's the word? Oh, that's right: steam! Anyone who knows anything about middle and high school boys knows that a "cold fish" is a sudden and vicíous punch in the crotch, and ironically enough, it pretty well describes the soul-crushing feeling that comes with having to eat three cold, grilled, Herrings when that was exactly the opposite of what you thought you were going to get. Oh, did I forget to mention that they were pickled? Yes? Well they were. They where PICKLED grilled Herrings.
Now, I assume the misunderstanding here comes from the fact that I was building off of the English concept of "grilled," which is something grilled in the immediate past, preferably just prior to, or immediately following, the placement of the order. German, it seems, favors a more flexible definition, meaning something grilled during the last year or so, and dunked in vinegar until the skin assumes a silky texture that slides away from the meat with gelatinous ease.
And having thought about it, it certainly has the possibility to make life in general much easier. Imagine trying to sell your old rust bucket of a car through an Ad in the paper. It's a piece of crap that barely runs, but you buy the lines anyway and use phrases like "brand new," and "just off the line" to describe something that is clearly past its prime. Naturally, people come by to see it, and when they look at the rusted paint, dented doors, and cracked windshield and accuse you of false advertising, you can simple reply: "It was new....20 years ago. Man, you should have seen it then. It would have been exactly what you wanted."
Yesterday was one of those Spring days that requires several types of clothing, all depending on the time of day: a jacket for the morning, short sleeve shirt in the early afternoon, and a raincoat for later. I left school during this last and wonderful period, leaning forward against the rain, my face held slightly to the side, as I slid down the cobblestone street toward my house. I hadn't eaten yet, but had decided to enjoy a nice ham and cheese sandwich in my room watching Snooker coverage on TV, when, just around the corner from the bakery, I was struck by a lingering craving for Bratkartoffeln. Literlly translated, it means simply "grilled or roasted potatoes," and they are perhaps one of the greatest foods ever invented by the human race. I love them. I could eat a whole plate of them if you were generous enough to give them to me, and I had noticed the day before that "Das Kartoffelhaus (The Potato House)" offers these wonderfully fat-enriched tubers, together with something else (I didn't really care at the time what it might be) for as little as 5,00 €. Score.
Change of plans. Tschüß, ham sandwich, hallo, Bratkartoffeln. Ordering from a German menu can be a risky business, no matter how well you can translate, but I was confident. After all, I've been here for seven months now and I can understand about 90 % of what I read and hear, plus or minus those special situations that come along every now and then, so a five page menu in a tiny restaurant should be as easy as predicting who dies first in a horror movie. From the mouths of babes. From the mouths of stupid babes.
I chose number 50, "Bratkartoffeln mit hausgemachten Bratheringen (Grilled potatoes with the house-made grilled Herrings)" Yeah, that sounded good; a little plate of grilled fish with a side of hot potatoes is a perfect match for such imperfect weather. Yeah. Perfect. The waitress came over, took my order, and I sat, expectantly awaiting my sizzling fish. The sound of oil popping coming from kitchen was encouraging. My coke arrived and I shivered a bit for the last time before settling into my chair....
It was cold. Stone cold. The fish was STONE COLD! The side of potatoes was hot, but the three gutted and headless Herrings on my plate were stiff and icy under my fingers. They certainly LOOKED grilled; the skin was brown and folded into tight creases, the way things do when water pops through the skin in a pan, but there was no....oh, what's the word? Oh, that's right: steam! Anyone who knows anything about middle and high school boys knows that a "cold fish" is a sudden and vicíous punch in the crotch, and ironically enough, it pretty well describes the soul-crushing feeling that comes with having to eat three cold, grilled, Herrings when that was exactly the opposite of what you thought you were going to get. Oh, did I forget to mention that they were pickled? Yes? Well they were. They where PICKLED grilled Herrings.
Now, I assume the misunderstanding here comes from the fact that I was building off of the English concept of "grilled," which is something grilled in the immediate past, preferably just prior to, or immediately following, the placement of the order. German, it seems, favors a more flexible definition, meaning something grilled during the last year or so, and dunked in vinegar until the skin assumes a silky texture that slides away from the meat with gelatinous ease.
And having thought about it, it certainly has the possibility to make life in general much easier. Imagine trying to sell your old rust bucket of a car through an Ad in the paper. It's a piece of crap that barely runs, but you buy the lines anyway and use phrases like "brand new," and "just off the line" to describe something that is clearly past its prime. Naturally, people come by to see it, and when they look at the rusted paint, dented doors, and cracked windshield and accuse you of false advertising, you can simple reply: "It was new....20 years ago. Man, you should have seen it then. It would have been exactly what you wanted."
posted by Der verwirrte Ausländer at 10:25 PM
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