Hungry in Berlin

Can you name that sprout?  We’ll give you a few hints.  They belong to the genus Physalis, for one.  They are a key ingredient in salsa verde.  And we’ll be damned if you’ll find them on a menu in the Hauptstadt…although we’re willing to be proven wrong, as long as you direct us to said restaurant immediately.

These little green friends represent the first sproutlings from three secret locations where HIB and a few very generous friends are growing decidedly non-local vegetables for cooking fun, perhaps even for a little guerilla planting once they’re all sprouted and feeling strong.  (Don’t tell the Ordnungsamt.)  We’ll keep you posted on their progress…

But in the meantime, we’ve got some Cinco de Mayo to celebrate.  While briefly in Barcelona we came across an amazing Mexican restaurant where they served micheladas alongside some of the finest, authentic food we’ve ever had both south of the border and this side of the Atlantic.  (And yes, that was a plug. If you’re in Barcelona, find this place and eat.)

But what’s a michelada? A mixed beer concotion that might make most Reinheitsgebot-purists faint, a michelada combines hot sauce, Maggi (or soy sauce or Worchestershire sauce), some salt and lime juice with a Pilsner-style beer (or Mexican beer, if you’ve got a Tecate or other light sort available.)  Oh, and even the WSJ thinks it’s cool. 

I’d like to establish this as Berlin’s next cool hangover cure, the proper beverage to go with that 3 p.m. Sunday brunch. It might even make Berliner Pilsner potable…

I’ve had a tough time finding coffee beans I like in Berlin. It’s not that I’m one of the aficionados who can tell an Ethiopian bean from a Colombian shade-grown. But it’s a big part of my day. I drink a lot. And I come from the U.S. west coast, where standards (as with beer) have gotten fairly high in recent years.

I brew my own at home, usually with a french press, but with occasional forays into drip, or stovetop-type espresso. I grind my own whole beans, and keep them in an airtight jar, away from light (the keeping-in-freezer thing is trouble, since it breaks down the coffee oils) , and buy small batches, so they don’t age too much before I use them. I use filtered water.

But without good coffee, none of this matters.

Over the last two years, I’ve tried a number of different purveyors. Impala Coffee (several around the city), occasionally produces a decent dark-roast flavor, but I think overroasted. A large cup often destroys my stomach, and makes me jittery and anxious. Zeezicht, on Gleimstr., is typically a bit acidic. Too green. Don’t even get me started on Balzac.

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Well, it’s not Oktoberfest — yet that’s probably a good thing. Starting Friday, 1 August and running through Sunday, 3 August is the “Internationale Berliner Bierfestival,” the self-proclaimed “longest biergarten in the world.” Some 240 breweries from over 80 countries serving up some 1,800 types of brew will be lining the “biermeile” along Karl-Marx-Allee in Friedrichshein. The good news (for those of us who have a preference that we often, given the present surroundings and fear of the small print in the Reinheitsgebot, keep to ourselves) is that this year’s theme is Czech beer — with 32 Czech breweries, big and small, in attendance. But never fear, as this is still very much a German festival, with breweries grouped by region (with freaky groups such as “Middle Ages beer“? Beats me.) And for Americans missing a taste of home, of course, the U.S. Belgian concern Budweiser will be there.

Entrance is free; the beer will cost you. Here’s a list of participants. Zum Wohl!

You’d never expect a good micro-brewery and ersatz biergarten to be tucked away behind a few looming Neubauen in Wedding. But it’s there, the Eschenbräu, big brass tanks gleaming in an Innenhof window, and kegs of tasty wheat beer, dark and light on tap. Aimee and I visited earlier this week, and their seasonal Maibock was out, so we stuck with the regulars.

I’m not one of those beer guys who can talk brew for hours. But I have good friends who are, and a brother who is, and so I’ve picked up a pretty good beer palate. These were good, and fresh, something that’s hard to come by this far north, as good as much of the beer is.

The light, a pils style, was rich and live-tasting, creamier than most bottled beers here, though not quite like what you’d get in München. The dark was very nice, I think an amber ale style rather than a real German Dunkel, malt-heavy and a little sweet. Rich and complex, and like the light, fresh.

This Friday, they’re kicking off the new seasonal brew, a Bayerisch Hell, by offering Weißwürste und Brez´n, and beer in the traditional Ma­ß. Yum.  Find it at Triftstr. 67. And thanks to Gridskipper, and their plug for Wedding, for the tip.

Now that we’re finally cruising in the 20-degree Celsius band and the parks are packed to overflowing on the weekends, summer wines are in order. I like that there’s a decent market in larger-sized wine bottles — and the wine’s often of a quality that’s definitely higher than the swill we guzzled during high school (bring on the Hearty Burgundy!) My idea of a good summer wine is one that’s got some good acidity (like lemonade; juicy and refreshes the palate), light in alcohol and if possible, under 5 Euro a bottle. Here’s two recent finds that we’re enjoying — if you’ve some recommendations, let us know in the comments below.

Veit Gruner Veltliner 2007, Austria: This 1-liter bottle was shoved in John’s hands last weekend, with the insistence from our very favorite wine dude that “It’s the perfect summer wine!” Well, for 4.50 Euro, it was hard to argue. This Qualitatswein offers a good combo of green apple and lychee flavors, and isn’t too heavy (12.5% alcohol). Although the wine’s label claims it’s good with “Wiener Schnitzel” (props to the home team there), I’m pretty sure it will do the job with lighter dishes quite nicely. Find it at Sonnenreich at Arnimplatz, Seelowerstr. 6.

Le Pavot Rosé 2007, Vin de Pays de l’Aude, France: This kills a couple birds with one bottle — it’s crisp and refreshing, it’s cheap (4.95 Euro) and it’s bio. The Aude is a river that runs west-east through the western Languedoc; the vineyards have been organically certified Ecocert (no mean feat in France) since 2002. It’s a gorgeous deep pink and tastes and smells like super-ripe strawberries (blend of Grenache and Mourvédre methinks). Uncomplicated and easy to sip. At the bioladen Kiepert & Kutzner at Schönhauser Allee 65 (in the wine section, very lower shelf.)

A smart salesman starts off with a heavy hitter. On this particular afternoon, Heribert Kastell‘s first punch was his 15-percent alcohol Chardonnay. Not that the HIB team isn’t a group of seriously seasoned, er, professionals — but having weathered this powerful white wine from this equally seasoned and extremely talented Rheingau winemaker, we were primed and ready for a serious afternoon of German wine discovery. How lucky we were that Kastell was our guide.

One of the most frequent refrains I’ve heard in my short time here in the hauptstadt is, “I don’t like German wine.” Which I typically translate to mean, “I don’t understand German wine.” German wine labels can be impenetrable and intimidating; grape varieties often unfamiliar; and flavors potentially off-putting, as the common misconception that all German white wines are cloyingly sweet still lives on. Enter Heribert Kastell. Read the rest of this entry »

The kids at HIB have been hibernating following the holiday snack fest (My house made chicken-shrimp gumbo; I’m gonna bet we were the only ones in Berlin-Brandenburg, however…what did you cook? Tell us below…) but figured it would be wise to wake up enough for a glass of Sekt or two to celebrate Silvester and the New Year. Whether you’re a bubbly newbie or a seasoned Champagne lover, here’s a quick cheat-sheet for local sparkling wine options to celebrate 2008.

Rotkäppchen: The so-called communist Champagne, this “little red Riding Hood” of German sparkling wine is familiar to any Berliner used to stepping over bottle shards on Saturday mornings on the way to the farmer’s market. Less than 3 Euros for a 750ml bottle, Rotkäppchen is easily identified by its red foil top and its slightly sweeter but very budget bubbly taste. For ostalgie and large gatherings of friends who don’t know any better, it’s acceptable. Better as a mimosa mixer; also comes conveniently in mini-sizes to fit in multiple pockets. Berlin chic, however, is a large bottle in hand.

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Some say the world can be split into tea drinkers and coffee drinkers, like cat people and dog people. I say no – not only because I consume copious quantities of both, but because it leaves out my personal addiction, yerba mate.

Here in Berlin, it’s easy to get the wrong idea about this concoction. There’s a soda-like beverage called Club Mate which does technically have mate in it, but it’s ludicrously sweet. I can’t stand it. When I attended hacker camp a few months ago, it was the beverage of choice for folks who were staying up late coding, the way Red Bull is, or Jolt Cola used to be, in the States.

But real yerba mate is something else, the way a good cup of fresh-brewed tea has nothing to do with Lipton’s iced in a can. And it turns out that despite my fears on arrival, it’s pretty easy to find here in Berlin

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What’s white as a feather, as bubbly as a spritzer, and certainly capable (if consumed copiously) of giving you a hangover of the sticky-sweet cocktail kind? That would be Federweißer, otherwise known as young wine, a seasonal treat that’s tied to the wine harvest in early fall. You’ll find it in cask or bottle at some independent wine shops, as well as at local grocery standbys here in the Hauptstadt such as Extra or Kaiser’s—usually refrigerated and about 1.50 Euro or thereabouts for a 1-liter bottle.

The fun part of Federweißer (and the trick that makes it fizzy) is that it’s wine essentially still in the making. Read the rest of this entry »

Sorry for the long absence, folks. As I’ve been telling people, becoming a teetotaling vegetarian is probably good for you, but having economics force it on you isn’t. And as for becoming an involuntary fasting teetotalling vegetarian. . .

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It’s heartening to see the very best pasta in the world suddenly showing up in the supermarkets here. Voiello is Barilla’s professional line, available in a number of traditional shapes, and formerly it was only available in Berlin at Centro Italia, the monster Italian wholesale market. (Watch for a post on these wholesale/retail markets as soon as the Guy With The Car takes me out to the Vietnamese one we’ve discovered!)

What makes Voiello better is its absolute consistency and the extreme high quality of the wheat used to make it. I’m not sure what the bronze dies used to extrude and stamp it do to make it so good (although I did see the same dies in use when I had my memorable tour of the Agnesi factory some years back), but this is trumpeted on the bag. My criterion is simple: feel a piece of uncooked pasta. If it’s rough, it’s good. Again, I’m not sure what the science of this is, but I suspect it has something to do with the grain being able to trap the sauce. The piece of pasta might be microscopically roughened, or the starch may lie in a layer on the surface, which causes bonding.

Another thing I’ve noticed is that water in which Voiello has been cooked is cloudier than with other pastas. This indicates starch in the water, and is one reason why professional restaurant pasta cooks spoon a little water in with the sauce before they mix the pasta back in. Of course, in a restaurant, the water is kept boiling and the pasta introduced in a big sieve, which means the water becomes progressively starchier. Still, starch promotes sauce bonding, and this may be another reason why this stuff is so good.

The only shape where another brand may have the edge is spaghetti, where it’s a tossup between Voiello and De Cecco, in my book. Curiously, De Cecco needs a minute more cooking time for their spaghetti.

Which brings me to another point about Voiello: if you observe the cooking time printed on the bag exactly, you get absolutely perfectly al dente pasta every time.

Bravo to Barilla (who, incidentally, also manufacture Wasa crispbread, believe it or not) for bringing this to the retail market!

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I had the opportunity the other night to have dinner with a couple of friends at a newcomer, Alpenstück, which took over a space that was once a jumping chess bar owned by a local chess club that doubtless had roots back into the DDR days. East Berlin real estate being what it was, it couldn’t be allowed to serve the community like that for very much longer, which is a shame: the room is in the shape of an L, and one side had the chess players — it was completely packed on Thursday evenings with a multi-generational crowd playing chess — and the other the hardcore drinkers. Anyway, it got bought up and a series of seriously awful art galleries appeared there, so bad that I would cross the street so as not to have to look in the windows at the amateurish, pretentious crap on the walls.

So when someone decided to open a restaurant there, I thought that was probably a good move. What didn’t seem like a good move, though, was opening a high-end Southern German restaurant, which is what Alpenstück is. I’m not even sure what “Southern German” means in this context. Not Bavarian; there are plenty of those around. The specialties seem to be Maultaschen (which are from Swabia) and Wiener Schnitzel (which is from Vienna), and that’s sort of stretching the definition of “Southern Germany” a bit far. But one of the best restaurants in Berlin, Honigmond, is only a block away, and their astonishing interpretation of traditional dishes, as well as their inspired inventions with traditional ingredients has attracted a strong and loyal following, of which I count myself one. Could Alpenstück compete with them?

The short answer seems to be “no,” although I’m willing to admit that I might not have ordered the right stuff. What I got, naturally enough, was the Maultaschen appetizer and Wiener Schnitzel as a main course. Now, I’m a fiend for Maultaschen, and they have great vegetarian ones with a ricotta-based sauce at Honigmond. I learned to like them at the Tiergarten Quelle, an eccentric joint in an S-Bahn Bogen by the Tiergarten station, where they fry them and top them with sour cream on a bed of spinach, which is how I make them myself. Alpenstück’s, though, are quite small, strips of pasta about an inch wide and two and a half inches long into the center of which a spoonful of filling has been placed, the strip folded over on itself and sealed with a fork. I’ve never seen Maultaschen like this, although I’ve seen what the French call raviole done that way. Anyway, they’re arranged in a circle, and a salad with a really, really mustardy vinaigrette is put on top of them. The vinaigrette is good, but it obliterates the flavor of the Maultaschen. The only other diner who ordered an appetizer got a “Geeiste Gemüsesuppe” which was indistinguishable from good old gazpacho.

As for the Schnitzel, well, that’s something Honigmond doesn’t do as well as you’d hope from the high quality of the rest of their menu. Nothing wrong with it, but not transcendental, either, so here was an opening for the competition. I’ve got high standards here, too, because although I’ve never been to Vienna, I have eaten Wiener Schnitzel at Lutter & Wegner, where it was huge, thin, and not unlike a meat-flavored potato chip in its crispness. I figured if Alpenstück could make something positioned between Honigmond’s and Lutter & Wegner’s, they’d be fine.

Can you say…soggy? I couldn’t believe it! The breading held together, but it was soft. The veal was quite good, the potato salad nice and dill-y, and the marinated cucumbers very finely sliced and superb. But the star of the show was a severe disappointment. And — although I can’t prove this — I think I spied the culprit. One of the things this place does that almost nowhere else in town does (and why? Is there a law?) is they have a somewhat open kitchen, where you can see the chefs at work. In the 3 1/2 hours I was there, I mainly conversed with my friends, but at one point I glanced at the kitchen and I can swear I just missed a chef pulling a Wiener Schnitzel…out of a microwave! Hey, I’m a modern guy, and microwaves have their place in restaurant kitchens, but microwave heat is moist, and that’d explain the breading on the Schnitzel.

My friends fared better than I did here: another variation on Maultaschen for one (I didn’t write down the name, but it ends in -krapfen) and marinated pork steaks from “herb-fed swine” for the other. Each expressed pleasure with what they’d ordered, and the pork steaks vanished so quickly I never got a hit. A plate of Käsespätzele that went by looked pretty good, too.

Would I go back? Maybe, although there are a lot of places more to my esthetic serving German food in this town. Service was okay, if a bit confused, price just a tad higher than a comparable meal at Honigmond would have been. Decor was on the stark-but-nostalgic side, if that makes sense: one wall is made to look like a stack of firewood, and there’s at least one lamp made from deerhorn. Crowd was…odd, in a way I couldn’t place until the bill came with business cards both from the restaurant and from the pretentious yuppie bar over in the Lokfabrik, Reingold. That, at least, made sense.

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Hungry In Berlin is happy to announce that we’ve acquired an excellent wine writer, and sorry to announce that she’s on vacation at the moment, along with everyone else on this continent except myself. In her absence, I’d like to pull your coat to one of the best bargains in town, at least for those who eat as much Italian food as I do. Jacques Wein Depot is a chain with several locations around town, and their selection is comprised mostly of stuff they license exclusively, some of which is pretty good, although none is worth going out of your way for.

One thing they specialize in is box wine. Okay, stop scowling: the technology to put up wine in boxes has gotten really sophisticated over the years, and the anaerobic space-blanket kind of bag now used in most of them means that you can keep a damn good wine in stock for up to a month after it’s been opened. I discovered their Farnese Sangiovese one day, and at €19 for five liters, it’s a perfect spaghetti wine. The producer’s web page doesn’t even mention their latest product, which I saw at Jacques yesterday: a Primitivo for which I have great hopes. It’s the same grape as Zinfandel, after all, and someday I hope some Italian producer will start making a big, fruity Primitivo that echoes some of those New World vintages.

Meanwhile, though, I sipped some of this with my pastafazool last night, and I’m happy enough with it.

EW