Berlin Reified: Food, design and life in Berlin

A walk along the water (Travemünde)

Our day in Lübeck was a great success, but my eyes really shine when remembering the afternoon in Travemünde. This small beach town bordering the Baltic Sea is where Thomas Mann fondly remembers summering, and we were lucky, on a mid-autumn afternoon, to have exquisite skies and clear walking. Alighting from the bus we rushed to the water, then headed left along the beach with no particular plan, pausing to admire the several trees that had capsized from cliff into sea.

Once we began to flag we stopped an approaching couple to ask how much further the next town was, and, reassured, continued for another forty-five minutes or so until the beachside buildings of Niendorf appeared on the horizon.

Safely ensconced in a beachside cafe, we sat by the window and watched a small child rushing at the swans at the shoreline, who whisked themselves away in that indignant manner of swans. Our Spätzle arrived and we inhaled it, then decided against cake in favour of Quarkbrötchen from the small bakery along the harbour. We munched the raisin-studded buns while taking the cliff route back to Travemünde, and lingered on the promenade for a half-hour observing children fly kites before making our way to the bus, to Lübeck, and thence to Berlin.

This is Thomas Mann speaking

The highlight of Lübeck's Buddenbrookhaus was the line of seats upholstered in nubby mustard, interleaved with listening stations where you could hear excerpts of interviews with the Manns. (But the family tree ran a close second, and how odd, really, to imagine a Mann as a gardener in California.)

Buddenbrookhaus (Heinrich-und-Thomas-Mann-Zentrum)
Mengstrasse 4, 23552 Lübeck (map)

Lübeck!

Another Hanseatic city ticked off our list!

Vineyard peaches (Weinbergspfirsiche)

And if you'll allow me to exult over foreign fruit for another day, the vineyard peaches (or Weinbergspfirsiche) that our vintner-cum-landlady was selling were a marvellous find, the blood oranges of the peach, I found myself thinking, as I sliced one open on Saturday morning. (The night before, we'd bought four for a euro out of the vintner's cheery green truck, parked in the courtyard.) Fresh, they're best for the surprise of their vivid red flesh, but their obdurate tartness means they're best enjoyed converted into jam. We bought our jars from an elderly woman just up the road from our holiday flat; she had a modest assembly of bottles displayed on her doorstep, and we had to knock twice before she came out to take our money. Oh, city kids exulting in The Countryside...

As a few have asked, I can heartily recommend the decidedly unstylish but clean and comfortable holiday flats offered by the Mainzers: We took the smallest one (which has the biggest balcony), and thought it a steal at 27 EUR per night.

Tiny grapes freshly picked

Hmm, well, I suppose going onto the balcony to pick a handful of tiny grapes from the vines growing on the rail must run a close second. I don't mean to gush, but really, being in wine country during the harvest is just extraordinary.

Along the Moselle

Really, is there any happier moment than walking through vineyards alongside a river and helping yourself to wild grapes massed on an old stone wall, to eat while admiring the view across the water?

For anyone considering a weekend away, I can really only sing Ernst's praises.

Henry Moore at Hoglands (Haus am Waldsee)

Oh, I did enjoy the Haus am Waldsee, though for all the wrong reasons (coffee at the terrace cafe; the pond ducks pedaling wildly with only their bottoms above water level; deliciously dressed elderly museum-goers). Of the Henry Moore exhibit, what I remember best is the quaint, queer captions that adorned the photos in a book about Hoglands.

Salon saveurs des plaisirs gourmands

We made our way towards the Espace Champerret, remarking on the close proximity of one Metro station to the next and on the racial diversity of Paris compared to Berlin, admiring the peculiar downiness children's hair seemed to possess and the middle-aged woman in front of us, tidily clad in beige and navy, who paused at one point with a distracted face to gently squeeze the soft finger-like leaves of one tree she passed.

As we neared the conference center we exclaimed with excitement and I began taking a few photos of the signs. She approached us, asking us in French that we could just barely understand if we had tickets, and when we replied in the negative she pressed the postcard above into David's hand, pointing to the line that promised admission for two.

When we entered, I couldn't help clapping my hands: I Was There.

La Caravane

One travels for difference, and so we were bemused, walking into the restaurant across the street, to find ourselves in a place straight out of northern Prenzlauer Berg. The prices, of course, were oh so Parisian...

Off! (Paris)

And we're off! If the promised wireless internet in our Paris apartment functions then you'll hear more from me soon - if not, things will be quiet here until June.

The Orangerie (Spreewald)

We spent a lazy afternoon drifting though the Spreewald waterways, shading our eyes from the sun, peering at the rare fauna and flora, giggling at the women dressed in Traditional Sorbian Clothing hawking their pickles and other local delicacies Indian-train-station style from the banks: living in Berlin, one sees little of such kitsch. Feeling a bit dazed by the unusual warmth, lulled into contemplative peace, we made our way from the harbour to the Orangerie beckoning from the opposite shore. The broad dappled lawn was sprinkled with tables, and when we seated ourselves at one and received the menu it did not take long to select the Hefeplins, or yeast pancakes filled with apple sauce. They were perfect: pillowy, not oversweet, and filling enough to fortify us for the twenty-minute walk to the train station followed by the hour-long train ride from Lübbenau back to Berlin Alexanderplatz.

While eating, we listened to the Sorbian-German band playing traditional music from both cultures, one of the men pumping away at bagpipes recognisably made from a goat. Beyond the band, a few children occupied themselves with the playground, kited out with a complex series of levers and water pumps. For wet days, the pale yellow interior is just as cheerful as their broad lawn.

The Orangerie is located conveniently next to Lübbenau's small harbour and as such before or after setting off along the Spreewald's waters. They offer lunch menu (which changes daily) for 12 EUR, along with a wide range of snacks, main courses, and tempting desserts.

The Orangerie
Schloßbezirk 4 (map)
03222 Lübbenau

Paris Reified

David and I are off to Paris for two weeks come May 11th. Has anyone got any tips for us?

Lycidas/Aberdeen Art Gallery/Kelly-Anne Cairns

The 'Art in Aberdeen' evening put on by the conference organizers was easily one of the highlights of my trip to Aberdeen.  I loved this space when I first visited it in 2004, picking out this exasperated Lycidas by the entryway as one of my favourites. The gallery came alive in a different way this time through Kelly-Anne Cairns' thoughtful illumination of the works on display. Afterwards I quizzed Kelly-Anne for gallery recommendations in Edinburgh with an eye to our trip there in late May: the Leith Gallery, the Open Eye Gallery, and the Scottish Gallery were all on her list.

Sharpham views

What is better, to lift the sill in the hen house and gather two warm eggs, to crack them later into a tiny cast iron skillet and eat them with fresh brown bread, to gather rocket and mustard for the evening's salad, or to open the hen house door at dawn and watch the chickens rush out for their morning meal? Certainly it's the last that I go on dreaming of, now far from Devon.

Back

Mozarttaler

A pill or a pie indeed: Our guest from Austria brought along a packet of these Mozarttaller (2 inches in diameter) by way of thanks for our invitation. Two thin layers of milk chocolate surround even thinner layers of marizpan and nougat. Yes, they're delicious, and yes, I must get away from all this chocolate.

Chestnuts in two forms (Milan)

The chestnuts I've been admiring in Berlin were out in full force in Milan: in huge round trays, roasted, and on a few market tables in long, mysterious strings...

Marzipan fruits (Milan)

In a sweet-shop window at the beginning of the Via Torino.

SuperFresca (Milan)

Yes, I saw La Scalla, and the Duomo, and the Sforza Castle, but no-one will be surprised to hear that my favourite moment in Milan (where I was for the last few days, while Typepad's 'Publish on...' function busily clicked away) was walking into the SuperFresca supermarket on the Via Torino and spending an hour ogling everything on offer.

Paintings of dogs playing cards are not remarkable, a man with breasts for eyes is not astonishing, and why then should the possibility of porcini stock cubes when I'd never seen any hold me rapt? Food is portable, and changes your life in little ways; this evening's leek and mushroom soup was ennobled by those cubes. Food is social, and supermarkets are humble, and there is for me a difference between sharing a supermarket packet of tender almond nougat with friends that is a pleasure finer than fancy costly fare.

 

I did not find buffalo milk, though I was hoping to, reasoning Italians must surely not always manage mozzarella straightaway: One of my many fond memories of India is fetching metal pails of milk from the neighbouring dairy, where in the cool deep blue interior – a dream of milk – they would ladle me the day's milking and I would take it home and bring the pan to a boil to pasteurize the milk and then perhaps have some milky tea, or just some milk. Buffalo's milk is undeniably whiter than cow's milk, and richer, and not even the charming glass brown jugs of milk you can buy at the BioCompany touch it for taste.

As second best, I bought this UHT pack featuring a roguish goat on its front, and will leave it for a moment where someone is bragging about caramels or custard with the stuff and I can pull it out of the cupboard and feel pleased to be there.

 

You look, and a little looping voice in your head declares 'that's the same, that's different, that's the same, that's the same, what's that?', ever-tireless, ever-curious.

 

Here's what I found:

• Olive oil from Bari
• A jar of Santa Rosa sweet chestnut paste with real vanilla
• Classico and porcini stock cubes
• Pesto with olive oil, not sunflower oil, and pine nuts, not peanuts, for EUR 1.59
• Whipped cream stabilizer, for the packaging
• Vials of almond, orange blossom, and lemon extract
• Almond nougat
• Goat's milk

Billa A.G. Standa, Via Palla 2/A, Milan (map)