bratworst

a long weekend in berlin was organised on a whim with the explicit aim of seeing very little sun and eating very little food, and... in this sense it was sort of successful. after around 28 hours of nonchalant starvation we found some tasty mexican somewhere on oranienstrasse to digest slowly and rhythmically in darkness, but...

there isn't really a but.

obviously no-one needs to be reminded that english food has a global reputation for being really, really a-bit poor. derided throughout europe, abandoned in its former colonies, and ignored everywhere else, it's starchy, bland, and profoundly unhealthy. but then this is what our malnutritioned forebearers wanted, apparently: suet pudding to keep them warm at night, huge boiled oysters to keep their weighed down on windy days, and... sausages. lots of sausages.

the germans also love sausages. the difference, however--and i'm going out on a limb here--is that they're a lot worse at them.

assured by some australian ex-pats that german food was nice "youjusthavetoknowheretolook" (there is probably a german compound word for precisely that concept), we went to a fine, traditonal establishment by the name of max und moritz in kreuzberg.

catering to tourists but also, presumably, to german wishfulthinkers, the menu celebrates meat in all its offal glory i.e. with cartoons and grammar holds fully unbarred. torn between the "real old german dish steeped in a 'long time' red wine", "cheesy cream noodle-dumpling omelette", and "salted and lightly pickled pork-foot", i went for the "special sausages from westphalia", on the fairly safe assumption that whatever was special about them would at least be worth ... well, writing about.

it looks nice, doesn't it. look at the greens! and, yes, there is almost as much mustard as gravy--and everyone knows mustard is a squeezy gift from the gods. this was sweet and mild mustard similar to what you'd find all over a hot dog, but a little bit less orange.

and it was nice. easily the nicest meal i've ever had in germany*.

in the event, of course, the sausages were a non-event. juicy in the manner of a saveloy, haggis or fermenting corpse, they were also dry. but they did at least taste of pork--which is more than can be said of the notably less-special german bratwurst, which tastes of oily, bloody bath water. from the kind of bath a pig might be given right before it's horrifically decapitated.

the potatoes were boiled. yep, boiled potatoes. the beans were also boiled. yep, boiled beans. sort of like school dinner. but the sauce! who'd have thought it was all about the sauce. you know the urban myth about how mcdonald's cheeseburgers are technically classified as a dessert because of the amount of sugar in the bun--well, yeah, it seems they muddled up the courses here too.

it took me about ten minutes to realise why i was eating it so quickly. if i'd been presented with a black forest gateau i would surely have eaten it at the same speed. i'd have eaten a cheeseburger a bit quicker, but only because i can fit it in my mouth in one go. everyone likes a pudding, especially when it has sausages in it. and i did like this. i just ... you know, couldn't possibly finish it. nor ever consider eating it again. nor, more importantly, ever eat out in germany with enthusiasm again.

and that's about it. i don't really have a point. for a change.

drat... worst? ah fuck.

*true story

roast of the town

nothing much to say here. here's a roast. one hell of a roast.

let's toast the roast which boasted the most. to the roast!

i'd say it was the best roast i've ever had. possibly.

not sure if i should ever really dare making that kind of statement. mm, well, i just did.

from here: http://www.thegrazinggoat.co.uk/home.html, in poncy marylebone.

home is where the heart is

homelessness breeds contempt for the finer things in life. i haven't cooked in years. my repertoire of boring pasta dishes and tuna sandwiches has contracted if anything, and i've become so complacently reliant on eating out and filling up on fast food that i've come close to entirely forgetting the deep spiritual satisfaction that comes from cooking for yourself.

perhaps i should write "oneself" as that would clarify how obnoxiously privileged i just sounded. truth be told i've been homeless partly to stay afloat and partly because i'm too much of a dick to cope with living with anyone other than my parents occasoinally, and anyone else who'll have me for thanklessly brief periods of time.

and if i sound like a spoilt shit, well… yeah. go figure.

also, "deep spiritual satisfaction"--am i kidding? well, it always takes me by surprise. even a crispy little piece of cheese on toast made well makes me glow from the inside out. this is a bit like the genteel middle classes rediscovering the joys of allotment farming, or owning a house-pig, and it definitely tends towards the behaviour of oafs like the prince of wales lecturing town planners on the demerits of cheap, affordable housing--ie, a deadly mix of privileged ignorance and high-minded arrogance.

but so fucking what. i think, on a more prosaic level, it just happens to be a treat for me. especially when i have someone to cook with.

this was breakfast, australian vegetarian style:

in case you weren't aware, australians make the best breakfasts. no competition. they also make the best lunch and possibly even the best dinner, but i wouldnt want to overstate the case, what with them generally being smug know-it-all bastards.

it's all about avocado, really, cheif amongst their bounty of delicious almost-local vegetables. avocado sliced over vegemite on toast is the tastiest simple breakfast i've ever had.

i fucked up the eggs a bit. can you see? school dinner style. ew.

and these are some trout, on offer at waitrose for around 50p each, cooked with butter and lemon:

cool. i'm boring myself.

scurrylous

home time. a time of reflection, privacy and nostalgia. and what could be more nostalgic than the same food that i spent most of my life eating, served up on the same plates and eaten with the same cutlery. no, i'm not being disrespectful.

my mother, like the best mothers, has spent much of her life balancing making ends meet wit the needs and demands of four disrespectful little shits. my older sister "went" vegetarian at an early age, i followed some time after, and my younger sister chose to eat, well, nothing, ever, mixed with salt. consequently there were dinners comprised of different dinners, served up at different times and with different levels of attention. my father eats anything, fortunately, besides seafood and blood pudding, so his would take the least attention, followed by my mother's own, if it even existed, and then ours, in their individual fussy glory.

i wouldn't do it. would you? i guess it has something to do with hormones. oh, and love.

the highlight of my childhood, i think, would have to be a communal breakfast, which we went through various phases of being forced to attend, at some time between 7am and 7.30am, with a rack of toast, some kind of jam and probably marmite, and of course a collection of mostly-empty boxes of cereal, served with one-sixth of a pint of milk. it was from boxed cereal that i learnt what disneyland paris was, how much i wanted to win a holiday to the seychelles, and how important 100% of your RDA of niacin was (though i never learnt what niacin actually was--and now i look at the word it does look suspiciously like a deadly poison).

anyway, the milk. these were the days of daily milk deliveries. i think these still take place, though i'm so removed from (a) real life and (b) mornings, specifically, that i haven't observed any in recent years. we would pour the daily pint into a measuring jug, and we know exactly how much we were allowed by the notation of the side of the jug. i'm guessing it was a bit less than 100mls each, what with there being six of us. nowadays i'd probably take twice that amount, probably as a result of general debauchery.

so what does this have to do with my life today? not much, besides the universally acknowledged facts that i am a social animal, i'm lithe, i have a wide appreciation of tasteless but nutricious grains, and i have a serious middle child complex. these things are all true, and related to my excellent upbringing.

and, as fate would have it, i'm at home with my parents, with the rest of the litter spread to the winds across the south and north of england. within half an hour of my arrival home this was on the table. i didn't even know it was coming! cauliflower curry, deliciously spiced, served with yoghurt and naan bread.

(hi-res--dig it.)

in essence, this post is dedicated to my mother. sorry for the bad language, and thank you for the food.

scurrylous.