Kaffee tawk

When we travel for extended trips like this with hubby, I like to seek out and make contact with expat/American communities wherever possible. Interacting with these groups makes the culture shock a little less, well, shocking for me. And the groups I’ve met in various cities are usually very kind about letting me attend their events and gatherings as a guest for the week or so while I’m in town.

Last year when we were in Germany, I did some research ahead of time and discovered an organization called the American Women’s Club of Cologne. Several women responded to my email requests for information and were lovely about forwarding their calendar of social events and encouraging me to attend. I was able to reconnect with a couple of the same gals prior to our return trip this year.

The AWCC is awesome and has a full schedule of activities, from weekly coffee meetings to book clubs, moms groups, dinners, recipe exchanges, girls’ nights out — you name it. I can see this would be a great resource and a lifeline for new relocatees. I ended up riding the tram over to a small moms’ group gathering yesterday afternoon. We’d originally planned to hook up at a playroom facility, but when I got there, it was dark and locked. Fortunately, I was able to find the friend I’d intended to meet in a nearby café. When I went in, I was delighted to see a children’s play area set up in the back with tons of age-appropriate toys to occupy my little guy. Obviously a popular stop, as there were a half dozen other moms sitting around enjoying lattes as their kiddos played away to their hearts’ content. I whiled away a happy and relaxed hour chatting with two moms from England and one from Seattle and left with my weary travel-worn spirit feeling renewed.

This morning, I marked my calendar for another kaffee klatsch, this one at a place called Bastian’s – a more upscale café around the corner from our hotel. (For my Indy readers, this place is like a bigger version of Taste but with more bakery options, to give you a frame of reference.) Not really a mom-friendly event, this, but I had to bring the toddler with me as hubby was busy at his trade show and I didn’t have a choice. There were four other women in attendance, one native German, two from Australia, and one in the process of relocating to Cologne from Chicago. No other kids in tow today and no such luck for a play area here, so I ended up catching bits and pieces of conversation and quick sips of milchkaffee between jumping up to chase the toddler all over the shop.

Bastian’s is a gorgeous bakery/café and I really would have liked to stay for lunch, or at the very least, a piece of the absolutely beautiful looking cakes and desserts in the display counter. Hmph. Better luck next time. We hightailed it out of there when the toddler started to squeal like a stuck pig in that high-pitched, scare-every-dog-in-the-neighborhood way that only toddlers can. I sensed the golden window closing and picked up a small salami sandwich from a stand stack for a quick lunch in the hotel room while the toddler inhaled peanut butter crackers and a banana.

Our dinner last night went a long way to restore my faith in dining out with kids in Germany. I’m of the mindset that when in Rome, you should eat as the Romans do. Therefore, wherever we are, I like to seek out the best quintessentially local cuisine we can find. The only catch is, in Germany, people don’t seem to bring their kids out to dinner very often. Or at all. So when we go to German restaurants, we usually get the stink eye from waitresses and often from fellow diners as well. Now, my son is a typical, curious, busy two-year-old, but he does ok for the most part. It’s not like he picks up plates and smashes them onto the floor or flings goblets of sparkling water at fellow diners, for Pete’s sake! Still, we get the cold shoulder.

I asked my expat friends about this situation, and they all agreed that it’s hard to find child-friendly dining-out options here, with one exception. Italian restaurants. The Italians don’t seem to mind a little noise and a little mess. To test this theory last night, we went for dinner at a place by our hotel called Ristorante Sansone. And what do you think happened? We had the most fabulous, relaxed dinner and the staff doted on our son like crazy. Two of the waiters joked with him throughout the entire meal, even going so far as to snatch him up and take him over for a close-up look at the residents of the lobster tank.

Michael meets a lobster

It was so refreshing, and the food was delicious, too. I loved my fresh ravioli pasta stuffed with a ricotta and pear filling, topped with spinach, nuts and gorgonzola sauce. Divine. Hubby’s pizza diavolo was good, but CRAZY spicy – the thick slices of meat were so hot, he had to pick them off. The residual heat still made him sweat.

ravioli

Back in the mood for German food once again, we went for a walk down by the Rhine riverfront this evening for a visit to one of hubby’s go-to Cologne stops — Der Lowenbrau. This is an old-school beer hall joint that looks like it’s been around for ages and ages. And, as we were there early and it wasn’t terribly crowded, they were fairly tolerant of the toddler’s explorations.

Der Lowenbrau

 

The menu’s full of German classics, thankfully with English translations. I went for kasseler rippchen, a delicious smoked boneless pork chop/ham deal with a mound each of sauerkraut and mashed potatoes. The plate was a little cold by the time it got to me, but everything tasted wonderful and I polished it off without further ado.

Kassler rippchen

To wash it all down? One of my favorite drinks in the world – gluhwein. Like gulasche, gluhwein is an ideal way to cure what ails you on a chilly night, and a seasonal Christmas market standard offering. Basically, it’s a big honking mug of red wine spiced with cinnamon, orange and vanilla. It’s served hot with a little sugar on the side, and in my case tonight, a few crispy tiny almond meringue cookies. Just as good as I remembered.

gluhwein

The Christmas decorations and lights are currently going up all around town, and the preparations for the annual Christkindl markets are well underway. These miniature villages are popping up in various sites, each looking like a magical fairyland with its sweet booths and twinkling lights. I can only imagine how fun it would be to while away an afternoon or evening strolling along, sipping gluhwein, nibbling roasted chestnuts and checking out all the wares. Think stuff like nutcrackers, replicas of half-timbered houses, toys, dolls, sweets and all manner of holiday gifts. I’m really sorry we’ll miss this experience, as the markets don’t officially open until the day after we leave. Maybe we can time our trip better next year…

Greetings from Germany

We’ve been in Deutschland for two days now and the differences between this country and the previous two we’ve visited on this trip are strikingly apparent.

For starters, Germans operate by the book. I’m not saying they’re, um, uptight, just very much more formal and reserved than the French or the Italians. Gone are the friendly smiles on the streets, the pats on the head and high-fives for the toddler, and the casual sense of ease. These people mean serious business, not monkey business. Not that there aren’t exceptions to every rule, of course. The young man at hotel reception who checked us in couldn’t have been more accommodating, and there have been a few random offers to help me carry the stroller up and down public stairs.

I must fess up and say that the language barrier is really wearing on me at this point in the trip. I know enough French to get by in basic interactions and social situations, but I’m totally at a loss when it comes to German. I can say hello, goodbye, please and thank you, another beer and where is fill-in-the-blank. That’s about it. If someone starts speaking to me in French, I can probably deduce enough to figure out the gist of what he or she is getting at. In German? Not a clue. In some cases, this is probably not such a bad thing.

For instance, the waitress at the restaurant last night blasted me for the collapsed baby stroller accidentally falling into the busy main service aisle for about two seconds before I could grab it out of the way. Or the dirty backpacker at the Dom who made some sort of lewd comments about me hefting the stroller and carrying it up a small flight of stairs (without offering to help). It sounded like the German equivalent of “oh yeah, baby.” Whatever it was, he was NOT on the up and up. I contemplated telling him to F off, but he probably wouldn’t have understood anyway.

Our hotel room here is tiny compared to our previous accommodations – three single beds crammed into a room with a cramped bathroom, slow wifi connection and no fridge (fortunately, it’s cold enough outside that we can keep milk, yogurt and beer on the window ledge). The hotel does offer a pretty impressive breakfast buffet that includes stuffed crepes, scrambled eggs, a mélange of fried meats, fresh fruit, nuts, cheese/cold cut platters, and something that looks suspiciously like sushi. It’s a buzzkill that the food doesn’t taste as good as it looks, and the coffee sucks.

Even hubby prefers to get his morning fix at the Starbucks around the corner, and you know he wouldn’t set foot in that place unless he was really desperate. The toddler and I actually ducked in there ourselves yesterday – they offer some interestingly flavored seasonal lattes, and I’m intent on trying all of them. The lebkuchen version was yummy with a hint of honey and spice, and the toffee nut I enjoyed today was equally good. Hubby brought back a cup of steamed milk for the toddler; he wasn’t interested at first, but got pretty excited once we started calling it “Michael’s coffee.”

I guess I’m making Germany out to sound pretty bad, which is unfair. Really, Cologne is a lovely city. Very picturesque with the gigantic Dom cathedral as the centerpiece of the city, hyper clean, lots of charming pedestrian shopping streets, and an entirely different kind of good food than France or Italy.

Cologne Dom

For our first dinner in town, we revisited a place we found and liked during our trip last year. Bier Esel is an old-style traditional German brauhaus not far from where we’re staying. I had my heart set on schnitzel, and that’s what I got. The place was packed, though, and service was slow as a wet week in Wales (another classic hubby-ism). It felt like we had to wait forever for our food and drinks, not a pretty picture when you’re exhausted from a daylong train journey and trying to wrangle a cranky, overtired, hungry toddler. At last, our dinners arrived. If you enjoy Hoosier-style pork tenderloin, trust me, you’d like schnitzel. My pounded, breaded pork cutlet was absolutely enormous, served Jager-style with a creamy mushroom sauce and a mountain of fries. I chewed my way through half of it and cried uncle.

What I really love about German cuisine are the snack stands and backereis (bakeries) on every corner. German baked goods are every bit as good as those you find in France, but in a completely different way. The breads are heartier — hefty pretzel rolls and chewy buns, but there are also fabulous butter cookies, strudels, cakes, huge doughy gingerbread-like men, and donut-ish Berliners. It’s all good. My usual lunch here is a tomato mozzarella sandwich on a crusty hard roll, perhaps with a smear of butter or basil oil and a slice of salami. Yum, yum, yum.

a typical backerei window

One of the first things I ate during my first trip to German six years ago was a bowl of warming, delicious gulaschesuppe, and it’s still something I seek out when we’re here. You can also find a thicker gulasche on its own served over noodles, and that’s what I ate last night. In its basic form, gulasche is a beef stew made with peppers and onions in a spicy tomato sauce. The suppe is the same thing in more watery soup form. Either way, it’s the perfect thing to warm your bones and your tummy on a cold night, and the version I had last night during our return trip to Bier Esel was fantastic. So good that hubby ended up eating half of it, despite the fact that he’d already had gulasche earlier in the day somewhere else.

On the Cologne agenda this week – a couple of coffees with the American Women’s Club and a trip to the local Chocolate Museum. Stay tuned for a full report.

Final thoughts on France

As our train slowly sways its way out of Gare du Nord before picking up speed bound for Cologne, I can’t help but reflect on the past 10 days we’ve spent in France. Several impressions stand out in recent memory:

For me, the food is the best thing about France, bar none. Ah, the food. I’ve already covered my love for the street markets in a prior entry, but this affection also extends to so many other items as well. I think I could eat croissants for breakfast every morning for the rest of my life and be perfectly happy about it. Perhaps a pain au chocolat thrown in here and there for a little variety. And crepes…

I almost enjoy watching crepes being made more than I do eating them. Well, almost. The way these vendors know how to pour the perfect amount of batter onto the steaming greased griddle and use their little sandbox toy-contraption to spread it out, then wiggle a long flat spatula under the whole thing, fold it and flip it to the other side without tearing the delicate golden brown crepe… it’s half master skill, half art form. My go-to crepe is one spread with a layer of melting drippy Nutella, but I also had a delicious savory version that was stuffed with ham, cheese, olives and mushrooms. The crepe master managed to position the cheese so that as it melted, it oozed out the sides, turning all crunchy and brown on the grill. He then folded the whole thing a couple times like origami, and handed it over. I was in raptures nibbling the crusty cheese away to get to the actual crepe-wrapped goodness inside.

A short list of the best things I’ve had to eat while in France would have to include the salads I made with my street market produce purchases; the breads, pastries and preserves at a place called Le Pain Quotient during our first Paris breakfast with hubby’s mom, thyme-scented rotisserie chicken from a Parisian butcher shop, a chocolate macaron with ganache filling, Brie-smeared baguettes, and the steak dinner I prepared in our Aix hotel room kitchenette.

Second thing worth mentioning: I do a hell of a lot of walking here, without even thinking about it. Contrary to popular belief, some French women DO get fat, but they’re few and far between. With the amount of passive exercise they get, it’s not difficult to see why this is so.

Since neither hubby nor I like being cooped up in a cramped hotel room, we make a big effort to get out and about on foot as much as possible. I always come home from our European adventures with looser-fitting pants and, in the words of my dear hubby, feeling fit as a racing snake. I’m blessed to have good genes that keep me fairly thin to begin with, but I walk my ass off when we’re abroad. Literally. I keep intending to bring a pedometer with me on these trips to see just how much ground I’m covering, but never manage to remember to buy one beforehand. No joke, we walk for MILES, and that doesn’t even include stairclimbing. Take it from someone who struggles with a perpetually flat-as-a-pancake booty — my butt has never looked better than it does right now. I may just have hubby take a photo of it for me to post, I’m so proud.

Not to mention, my European travel diet consists of often spotty meal planning. For example, we might arrive at a hotel late and not get to eat a decent dinner. Or, say, we sleep in and miss breakfast. Whatever the case, I rarely eat three full meals a day here. I know I’m definitely burning off way more calories than I’m taking in, so I don’t feel bad about allowing myself an extra croissant, real cream in my coffee, or a big honking chunk of bleu cheese. Which is cool, because the French don’t do low-fat. Why would they when food tastes this good? The closest I’ve seen to diet anything is Coca Light (Diet Coke), but no one seems to order it.

On the far end of the continuum, many of the pale waifish teenagers and early twenty-somethings in France are impossibly skinny, seeming to exist solely on cigarettes and espresso. They look nearly vampirish. It’s unnatural. I want to rip the smokes out of their mouths, hold them down in the bright sunlight and forcefeed them creme fraiche.

Which brings me to my next point: smoking. Still compulsory in these parts. It’s a minor victory that smoking has been banned inside restaurants and cafes, but anywhere al fresco, it’s still fair game. Bummer, because the best part of the whole café experience is sitting at one of the outdoor tables, sipping your coffee and simply watching the world go by. A little hard to do when you’re worrying about your toddler inhaling loads of second-hand smoke from the oblivious mademoiselle sitting two feet away. And the second you step off a train or out of a hotel lobby, you’re walking straight into the heart of darkness that is the unofficial smoking section. I grew irritated with seeing young women galore pushing baby strollers around, butts aglow and hanging out of the corners of their mouths. Alas… let’s move on.

I wholeheartedly admit, fashion is not my forte. Just ask the two gal-pals who came to my home and staged a wardrobe intervention earlier this year, dismissing nearly half the items in my closet as “Spongebob Squareshirts” and “grannywear.” It’s no surprise that I feel like a fish out of water in France. Paris, especially. The younger French women wear some crazy-ass stuff that I wouldn’t even attempt to get away with (or want to) back home – think bubble skirts and leggings, or jean shorts with black tights and knee boots in the dead of winter. I saw one guy wearing a pair of pants that were slung so low in the middle, even M.C. Hammer would have passed on them. Honestly. It looked like he took a dump in them and forgot to change.

However, with age comes wisdom. Many of the more mature women dress impeccably. I can’t even recall any actual outfits, but they all just seem put together in a way that appears simultaneously effortless and tres chic at the same time. A jaunty scarf (I’m telling you, these women know more creative knots than a sailor), fabulous footwear, a classic bob haircut, a swipe of red lipstick… they know how to pull it all off.

Fashion isn’t restricted to humans here, either. I’ve seen some seriously pampered pooches out and about, dressed in sweaters, raincoats and hats that probably cost more than I spend on my own clothes. The French LOVE their dogs. I just wish they would do a better job of cleaning up after them. Everywhere you look — poop. You really have to watch your step closely, lest you wind up with a soleful. To make matters worse, the piles are all but camouflaged this time of year by the brown leaves on the ground. Taking a stroll down the street is like walking through a minefield.

I somehow managed to tread in a big smear and didn’t even know it until I got back to the hotel room and started wondering where that awful shit smell was coming from. After deducing that the toddler’s diaper wasn’t to blame, I realized the bottom of my boot was caked. Even trouncing through puddles and shuffling through the grass didn’t get rid of it. I ultimately managed to scrape the merde out of all the tiny grooves with a twig. Ugh. The very next day, the toddler and I were playing in the expanse of grass across from our hotel when some woman’s yappy furry friend came bounding over to us. As he/she/it enthusiastically jumped all over me, I saw that this dog had apparently stepped in its own mess and with each bounce, was now transferring it onto the tops of my only remaining pair of clean shoes.

I certainly can’t wrap up my summation of one of the most beautiful and vibrant countries in the world talking about crap, so I’ll change the subject to a happier theme. I have this theory that cities are like people, and you can have relationships with them just like you would other human beings. To that end, I’ll attempt a little word association game to describe my impressions of the places we’ve been and seen:

Paris = Majestic. Magical. Cultural. Stylish. Feast of the senses. Out of my league.

Aix en Provence = Graceful. Friendly. Fashionable. Laid-back. Intelligent.

Marseille = Scrappy. Persevering. History. Tough talking, but with a soft side. Surprising.

And with that, I bid France adieu and au revoir, looking forward the rest of the week in Germany.

Arrividerci, bella Italia

The last few days in Italy were action-packed! Let’s see, where did we last leave off?

On Sunday morning, the toddler and I took another spin around the supermarket of the gods to stock up for our last few days of supplies. After, we lunched at a place in the shopping center called “Risto.” I’ve walked by Risto a few times and was intrigued. As it turns out, Risto is like a very upscale cafeteria, Italian-style. Yummy! It has the first salad bar I’ve seen maybe ever in Europe, along with a whole handful of hot-food stations. Panini, pasta, soups, cheeses; you name it, they had it. And it was BUSY.

I loaded up a big bowl of salad, and not just any salad. This bar offered some definitely Italian ingredients you don’t find just anywhere – radicchio, endive, sliced fennel, cannellini beans… good stuff! The toddler and I grabbed a table and a rare high chair to enjoy. It was a great little find. And as we were eating, an old Italian man passed our table and, best I could understand, told me that my son is a very lucky little boy. NICE! I think I’m liking Italy more all the time.

Dinner at Il Pavone again Sunday night… hubby wrapped up at his show at a decent hour and we had a celebratory supper with his colleague to enjoy. Although I had pledged to try not to order the same thing twice, the fusilli della casa sang its siren call to me and I was happy to answer. A side plate of steamed spinach with a drizzle of olive oil and a sprinkling of parmesan made the perfect accompaniment. Hubby got pizza and pasta, and his colleague put us all to shame by ordering vegetable soup; an outstandingly huge bowl of seafood pasta loaded with mussels, clams and langostine; AND a pizza. Which he couldn’t finish.

When I was in Cologne, my Hoosier laundry comrade Jerry had suggested I try some limoncello in Italy. Remembering that I hadn’t yet done so, I asked Maria if she had some. Happily, the answer was yes. Out of the freezer came a tall bottle of the lemon liqueur and three chilled shot glasses shaped like little boots. Not sure what the significance of the boot was, but it sure made for an adorable presentation. She filled them up, we toasted to Jerry and sipped. The shot tasted like a lemon drop martini, a very sweet and puckery frosty lemonade with a serious kick. YUMMY. I can’t believe I waited until this late in the week to discover this little gem.

Hello, limoncello!

Monday was our one and only road trip, and although I was disappointed in the lack of beautiful Italian countryside I was hoping for, the stops more than made up for it. We grabbed a quick breakfast at the hotel and then set out on our big adventure. Hubby did all the driving, thank God, because I never could have navigated the Milan traffic and gotten us out in one piece.

We stopped in Parma, home of Parma ham and a beautiful little town in its own right, and ditched the car to take a quick look around. We strolled past a picturesque cathedral and piazza, then onto what seemed to be the main shopping street. It was getting toward lunchtime, so we found a cute little cafe and ducked inside. A counter full of delicious-looking sandwiches served us well. I ate a fabulous wedge of rosemary-and-tomato-studded focaccia topped with a few thin slices of proscuitto crudo. Simple and wonderful.

The cafe housed a series of spinning hot chocolate machines just inside the front door that looked like something out of Willy Wonka. Clearly, I couldn’t say no. After my sandwich, I ordered a cup. It was insanely rich, like drinking warm melted chocolate pudding. Oh my goodness. I couldn’t even finish it. Seriously, you could serve this stuff as fondue.

magical hot chocolate machines in Parma

After lunch, we hit the rest of the drive through some side roads and vineyards (I believe this is Chianti territory), past the Ferrari factory in Maranello, and then on to Ducati near Bologna. For the non-sports oriented, Ducati makes the crème de la crème of two-wheelers. Hubby calls it the Ferrari of motorcycles. As the whole reason for our being here was a motorcycle exposition, it seemed the perfect way to cap off our trip to Italy.

We signed in at the gate and were met by our lovely tour guide, Violetta. She proceeded to give us a very informative and interesting walk through the top-secret factory (every single piece of these bikes is assembled by hand – no wonder the price tag!). The adjacent museum reminded me a little of the one at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, housing motorcycles through the years along with info on when and where they raced, along with a whole wall of trophies. I’m not really a motorcycle fan, but I still found the whole thing pretty cool. The toddler, on the other hand, though he’d died and gone to heaven! He ran riot through the whole place from one exhibit to another, purring motorcycles noises the entire time. Hubby and his colleague were as happy as two little boys on Christmas morning.

The journey back to Milan was fast, and uneventful, thank God, in spite of hubby’s pedal-to-the-metal driving style and a close call on the autostrade. I tried not to pay too much attention from the backseat. I think he said he averaged something like 98 mph the whole way. Not bad for a rental car.

Our last Milano supper took place, where else, at Il Pavone. Hubby ordered his favorite pizza salami, and I had a fresh mixed salad and a sizzling platter of sliced steak topped with mushrooms. Mm, mm good.

PDAs are de rigeur here in Italy. This is the land of amore, I suppose, but these people don’t just do a quick peck on the cheek, they nearly devour each other. I’ve seen quite a few couples out and about this week (of all ages mind you, not just the teenage variety) engaged in serious clinches. At the tram stop downtown, one such duo had their tongues so far down each other’s throats, I wanted to slip them a handful of euros and tell them to get a room.

With that said, I was ready to give Milan a big, sloppy, wet kiss and say ciao, baby. After a nine-hour flight to New York, a three-hour layover, a 90-minute flight to Indy and a 45-minute taxi ride, we finally arrived home. Not that I haven’t solidly enjoyed our trip and the food that it entailed, but I’m in the mood to cook up some of the most un-Italian dishes I can think of for the next few days. Chicken stir-fry, here I come!

Buon giorno, Milano!

We’ve been in Milan for almost a day now, and here are some of my first impressions…

I must start by mentioning, the train ride here was HELLA long. Two transfers (Zurich, Switzerland and Lugano, Italy) and took about 10 hours start to finish. The scenery was beautiful – journeying through a portion of the Alps was particularly spectacular. Hubby is still fighting off a cold and tried to rest as much as possible; the toddler was a little super trooper and tolerated sitting on our laps, napping and looking out the windows for the most part of the trip. It was an exhausting day, and we were never so glad to pull into Milano Centrale at long last.

I think the train station itself is probably a taste of what’s to come here in Italy. The place looks like a museum. Or a cathedral. I’m not sure which. It is gorgeous with a huge domed ceiling that belies something greater than just a commuter stop. We managed to lug all of our bags into a taxi and cabbed to the hotel.

Our hotel is perched on the corner of a busy street. The room is smaller than our digs in Cologne, but the bed and the pillows are more comfortable. It didn’t really matter much last night – after 10 hours on trains, I could have slept on the sidewalk. The toddler is enchanted with the bidet in our bathroom, which concerns me a little bit. We’re staying a ways out from the main city center in a more residential area of apartments. A quick glance around confirms that there may not be much to do within walking distance of the hotel, unlike in Cologne where everything you could possibly want or need was within a block or two. Salvation – there is a tram stop just outside the hotel that zips right downtown to the Duomo.

As it was getting on to 8 p.m. by the time we arrived at the inn, we quickly ditched the bags and walked down the street in search of food. Hubby has spent a little time in Milan and is sorta familiar with our area, so he’d already sussed out a small casual pizzeria-ristorante about two blocks away called Il Pavone. My first thought when we walked in was, “Wow, this place is pink.” The walls are a shockingly bright shade of Pepto Bismol. I guess I expected something more subdued for some reason. No matter, though.

A pretty, friendly hostess immediately squeezed us into some seats at the end of a six-top table. The place is small and tables are kinda jammed together. If you’re not careful, you could end up rubbing elbows unintentionally. To my relief, no one looked twice at us rolling in with the stroller. A big flat-screen television on the wall drew more attention from the diners. Honestly, it was sort of like eating in front of the TV at home. At one point, we were treated to what looked like an Italian game show hosted by a couple of old farts and featuring dance numbers by two scantily clad hotties.

There was a steady flow of customers in and out of the restaurant while we were there, which I took as a good sign, and the plates we saw coming out of the kitchen looked insanely tasty. Rustic, hearty, uncomplicated Italian food. I was excited. And starving.

My college Italian is really rusty, but I recognized most of the food items on the menu and ordered the fusilli della casa (the fusilli pasta of the house), a mixed veggie salad and a ½ liter of the house red wine, or as they called it, the “wine on tap.” Nice. Hubby got spaghetti bolognese and a beer. All of it was FABULOUS. My pasta was a huge plate of noodles dressed in a combination of tomato, pesto and cream. Mmm, mmm, good.

The salad was super fresh and unadorned with dressing, leaving me to dude it up myself with the table condiment bottles of olive oil and balsamic vinegar and a sprinkle of parmesan. Perfect, and so refreshing to get a salad with slices of really good juicy red tomato, as opposed to the tasteless crap variety you usually find back home. We also got a basket of bread to share. The wine was really light, VERY drinkable, and went down like water. I had to monitor my intake closely, lest I get completely smashed.

We also made the brilliant discovery that the toddler LOVES grissani, those long, thin, crunchy, crackery-type breadsticks. A couple packages of those kept him more than occupied enough for us to enjoy our meal at a relaxed pace. I couldn’t believe how many he ate. On the way out, I saw a plate pass by that contained gnocchi with gorgonzola, completely stopping me in my tracks. Guess we all know what I’ll be ordering on our next visit! We returned to the room where all three of us took baths and slept the sleep of the dead for about nine hours.

This morning, we enjoyed an impressive continental breakfast here at the hotel. They really do it right, I have to give credit where credit is due and this was some spread! Cold cereals, yogurts, breads and rolls of all sorts, cold cuts, cheese, boiled eggs, juice, fruit, you name it. And all included as part of our hotel package – yay! It’s rare to find inclusive breakfasts in European hotels, so this is something we’ll definitely make good use of.

I ate the chocolate croissant to end all chocolate croissants. This little gem was composed of a blend of regular pastry dough and chocolate pastry dough, all wrapped around a thick layer of chocolate baked inside. And I made it into a triple hit by eating a small single-serving size Nutella spread. I seriously thought for a minute I was going to lapse into a chocolate coma. The coffee was top-notch as well. I was thrilled to get a cafe latte in the truest sense — small, dual carafes of strong coffee and steamed milk poured simultaneously to create the perfect cup.

We took a stroll down the block to find a supermarket and stock up on some in-room supplies. It is Saturday morning, so I suppose we should have expected the store to be busy, but this was ridiculous. It was the biggest clusterfuck I’ve ever seen. Aggressive shoppers, practically rolling over you to get to what they want, no one gets out of your way or makes room for you to pass in the crowded aisles – and I’m talking about frail little old ladies and harmless-looking little old men! Sheer craziness.

The store stock was something else, though. The produce was absolutely beautiful – if peppers and eggplants can be sexy, these are some sexy vegetables. Tins of fresh olives, cheese, hanging salamis, yum, yum, yum. It was a feast for the senses. The butcher shop featured a whole row of huge cured hams hanging off the back wall; there was an entire aisle dedicated to pasta and another to wine. The baby food section made me smile – it was the first time I’d seen jars of baby food containing proscuitto and fresh mozzarella. We made our purchases and got out without losing any limbs or getting into any fistfights, then the toddler and I returned to the hotel so hubby could run a few errands for his upcoming trade show this week. He later came back saying he’d walked by another market during the course of his errands and realized that the store we went to was actually the “LoBills” of Milan. He’s promised to take me back later.

butcher counter at the supermarket

Italian baby food - proscuitto and mozzarella!

After the efficiency, cleanliness and formality of Germany, Italy is really something of a shock to the system. You just can’t get in a hurry here. If you do, you’re likely to find yourself cooling your heels while everyone else chills and takes things at their own speed, wondering what the hell your problem is.

Case in point – coming out of the train station last night, we were on the lookout for a taxi that could accommodate our bags, plus a carseat and collapsible stroller. Mind you, we’d gotten everything into a station wagon in Germany with no problem… the first driver who pulled over to attend to us got about half of our stuff in his car, which was plenty big, and then decided he didn’t have enough room. He unloaded our bags again and pulled off, no offer to wave over a fellow cabbie or anything, leaving us unceremoniously dumped on the sidewalk and back to square one. Several cabs later, hubby finally spotted a mini-van and we were set. His attitude was like “yeah, whatever, I’ll give you a ride,” but at least he got us to our destination.

Hubby calls Italy “scrappy.” It’s not that it’s dirty exactly, it’s just that everything seems slightly worse for wear and outdated. This is odd to say in Milan, perhaps the fashion capital of the world, but it’s true. The buildings look dingy, the streets are dirty and things just have a dilapidated feel. It is what it is, but I’m not complaining! I’m anxious to get into the main city center and take it all in, I’m sure there’s MUCH more to see and be seen.

Auf weidersehn, dear Cologne

Currently catching up aboard a train, somewhere between Mannheim and the Swiss border, en route to Zurich, Lugano and ultimately, Milan. The train ride coming out of Cologne down to Mainz is like something out of a fairy tale. It’s no wonder, as I think I remember hearing that the Brothers Grimm actually hail from somewhere around these parts, and Heidelburg Castle just south of Mainz is the real-life original model for the Disney version.

The train hugs the beautiful Rhine River for the first two hours down from Cologne, gorgeous mountains rising up on the far side of the water, adorned with scatterings of ancient picture-postcard villages and the frequent sight of castle ruins perched on top of the hills. Throw in the occasional vineyard climbing its way up the rocky face and you start to get the picture.

Myriad images and impressions of Cologne are still fresh in mind after a lovely, lovely week. Hubby and I often end up coming home from business trips like this saying, “What were we thinking? Never again.” This is not one of those times. Our visit to Cologne seemed to work out very well for the most part.

A few random interesting Cologne anecdotes: two days ago, I hauled four small bags of dirty clothes into the laundromat across the street from the hotel to do some much-needed washing. As I stood in front of the pay station with a clueless look on my face, a friendly older gentleman approached and asked if I needed help. Turns out he was American, had lived in Cologne for more than 40 years and seen the likes of naïve tourists like me many times in just such a circumstance, I’m sure. After he gave me a brief tutorial in the ways of German laundry systems, we made small talk. I asked where he was from originally, and it turned out he was born and raised in Elkhart, Indiana, just a few short hours away from Indianapolis. We marveled over the fact that the world truly is quickly becoming a much smaller place.

Yesterday morning was the kaffee klatsch (coffee meeting) with the American Women’s Group of Cologne back at Bastian’s Cafe. It was a small turnout due to the fact that there was a bigger event last night that many of the women would be attending instead. Still, three ladies showed up and I found their impressions of living in Germany very enlightening. One has lived here for four years; another just six months. I found their advice and stories comforting; it’s nice to know that should we end up living in Europe at some point, there are support networks, opportunities for camaraderie and potential new friends just waiting to be discovered.

Hubby wrapped up his last day at the trade show early, due in no small part to an oncoming cold, and we were able to pack at a fairly leisurely pace. It’s funny how luggage contents seem to expand from one stop to the next, even though we actually have less material to work with now than we did coming over.

For our last dinner in Cologne, we returned to Bier Esel, banking on once again getting a truly stellar traditional German meal. I hoped the food would live up to the sauerbraten I enjoyed there the other night, and I’m thrilled to say it did and then some.

Hubby ordered the jagerschnitzel, a slightly odd choice for him because he doesn’t like mushrooms and the cutlet came absolutely smothered with them. He said he liked the sauce, just not the fungi itself. I was on the verge of ordering the gulaschesuppe I’d been craving all week when I noticed an actual gulasche entree listing. Bingo. Decision made.

Each of us got a mixed vegetable salad to start — a bed of lettuce filled with shredded carrot, cabbage, cucumber and some thin slices of a crunchy whitish vegetable we couldn’t place (the waitress would later tell us it was pickled radish). Hubby notes that salads in Germany are usually brought to the table swimming in dressing. No problem for me, being the condiment queen that I am, but hubby would prefer a little more restraint. Ranch dressing, of course, doesn’t exist anywhere outside the U.S., but the yogurt dressing versions in Germany are pretty close in flavor and appearance.

The jagerschnitzel was delicious (I did my best to make a small dent in the pile of mushrooms hubby ended up scraping off), but again, I got the better end of the bargain with my choice. My gulasche filled half of a huge pasta bowl alongside a pile of buttered penne. The noodles were a nice base, but really, they needn’t have bothered. All I really wanted to focus on was that fantastic stew of tender beef and spicy, peppery, paprika-spiked tomato sauce. The serving was enormous and hubby had to help me out with finishing the meat, which he did very gladly, onions and all. It was that good. We stuffed ourselves silly. One last kolsche beer and we were outta there. A post-dinner stroll through the shopping district was definitely in order on the way back to the hotel.

jagerschnitzel, the sequel

gulasche with penne pasta

All packed up and ready to go this morning, we bid a fond farewell to an older Asian gentleman on the hotel staff who’d all but adopted our son. He sought him out and chased him around the lobby trying to pick him up any chance he got, and even snuck me a clandestine candy bar as we left. I don’t know if I’m getting more familiar with German customs and language efforts or what, but it seemed to me that the residents were much friendlier this time than they have been in my two previous visits to the country. Hubby and I were both genuinely a little sad to leave Cologne.

A quick taxi ride later, we were at the “hauptbanhof,” or train station. I remember this word with a little mnemonic device – to me, it sounds like “hop on and off,” appropriate for a train, don’t you think? Another German word I get a secret kick out of is “ausfahrt,” which, somehow appropriately, means “exit.”

I was in shock/awe at the number of people bellying up to the bar at 8 a.m. with glasses of kolsche beer. We grabbed machine coffee and insanely good “schoko-croissants” (chocolate croissants) at a station cafe before boarding the train for the start of our ten-hour, two-transfer journey to Italy.

To the wonderful city of Cologne, danke schoen. And cheers!

Oops, I did it again.

Forgive me, Father, for I have committed a cardinal travel sin.

I usually make it my goal on trips such as this to avoid any food or restaurant that is exactly the same as what I could get back home. No McDonald’s, no chicken tenders, etc. etc. Well, friends, I must admit that I have faltered. Not once, but twice. And I may do it again. I went to, gulp, Starbucks.

Starbucks is just starting to make its presence known here. They’re not quite on every other street corner (yet), but you can find them here and there without looking very hard.

To its credit, Starbucks does serve up a consistently good cup of coffee, wherever you might be. It’s disheartening to visit a local German bakery that sells the most mouthwatering pastry and then be handed a cup of coffee straight out of an automatic machine the likes of which you’d find in a 1950s office breakroom. Yuck.

I made plans to meet up yesterday morning with one of the American Women’s Group women I’ve been emailing with (who is actually English, as it turns out) for a coffee and Cologne chat. She’s actually the one who suggested Starbucks, I wonder if it was in an effort to make me feel more “at home,” and I went along with it. We convened at 10 a.m. and passed a very pleasant hour and a half alternately talking about the complexities of ex-pat life and corralling our corresponding toddlers.

There is another Starbucks less than a block away from the hotel where we’re staying, and its windows open out onto one of the busy tram stops. Having had another rough stretch of non-sleep last night, I really needed a big cup of good java this morning, and I knew watching the trams go by would be more than enough entertainment to keep the toddler enthralled in his stroller while I sipped it down.

The Starbucks coffee menu in Cologne seems much the same as back home in Indiana, and I didn’t detect any taste difference at all in the lattes I ordered, but there are a few localized special touches. Such as the seasonal lattes. Back home this time of year, you’re looking at things like peppermint mochas and gingerbread spice. Here, the flavors advertised are lebkuchen (honey cake), toffee nut, and dark cherry chocolate. Or maybe it was dark chocolate cherry… Whatever. In any case, it was enough to make me go “damn! That sounds good!”

The baked goods are different as well. You’ve still got a case of coffee cakes, muffins and what have you, but with slight flavor variations. I was particularly intrigued by something called a “gluhwein” muffin. I think I’ve mentioned before, gluhwein is actually a cold-weather quaff – spicy mulled red wine served piping hot with some extra sugar on the side. The ingredients listed on the muffins included red wine, cinnamon and orange. Hm. I can’t imagine how red wine works into a muffin mix exactly, but I am more than willing to take one for the team and find out.

Other meals worth mentioning… I was on my own with the toddler last night while hubby attended a gala dinner in conjunction with the trade show he’s here for. Based on past performances, I was a tad nervous about managing the little man on my own and being able to eat at the same time, but I was willing to give it a shot. I asked one of the hotel staff in the lobby for a recommendation, and he sent me to a restaurant/bar across the street called “Putz Beer Hall.” I swear. Putz.

The place looked pretty dead when we wheeled in, and the first waiter we encountered was a surly sort of older guy who didn’t speak English. He acted put out at having to find someone who could understand my request to bring in the stroller, and at the fact that I was bringing a stroller into the pub in the first place. But he did and quickly enough, we were settled. Of course, this guy ended up being our server.

This was another old-school beer hall, much like the one we visited two nights ago, but smaller, cozier and darker. Other patrons included a young couple who looked like they were on a date and a young professional guy who was soon met by a buddy. Who could also have been a date. I wasn’t sure. Another woman came in while we were there, sat a table next to us, and then moved as soon as my son let out a lone squeal.

Dining out here with a kid is something that is borderline frowned upon, according to what we’ve seen personally and what my local coffee friend was saying. Apparently, it’s just not done. I only recall seeing one other stroller out during dinner this week, which is odd because you see people walking around outside with strollers everywhere. German custom, perhaps? It was the same in Paris, too. I guess they’ll just have to deal with us; as travelers living out of suitcases, it’s not like we have any choice in the matter, after all.

The Putz menu offered up more traditional German fare, and I selected “kassler rippchen,” smoked pork loin. The plate featured two generous smoked chops with a flavor cross between ham and bacon, one atop a huge mound of mashed potatoes and the other on a pile of sauerkraut. Sauerkraut is one of the those things I would never think to eat back home, but here, I can’t get enough of the stuff. I found combining the mash and the kraut made the whole concoction even more delicious. Another superlative German meal. The waiter even lightened up a little bit when I ordered and conversed in German, my son cooperated and I left feeling I’d won a minor victory.

I think I’m falling in love a little bit with German food. The meals I’ve had here have been hits for the most part; the only misses came when we ventured outside German restaurants! The Italian dinner we had a few nights ago was ok, but way overpriced for the amount of food we received. And tonight, I was on my own again and grabbed some quick Chinese food from a place I’ve been walking past all week. I was in a hurry to get my son back to the hotel before a meltdown, the place looked promising and fairly busy, and I’d seen people getting food there to eat on the go. But… the chicken vegetable curry stir-fry thing I got was less than mediocre. Bland, watery and just plain meh. I was disappointed and spent the rest of the night wishing I’d followed my first instinct and stopped at the sausage stand for a bratwurst and fries instead.

Tomorrow is already our last day in Cologne. Our week here is absolutely flying by. That means only three more German meals to go. I’d better figure out a way to really make them count.

Walk this way

When I was online researching what to do during our time in Germany, I came across the American Women’s Club of Cologne, a group of English-speaking ladies that organizes regular meetings, coffees, playdates and such. I emailed for more information and got the goods on this week’s coffee, as well as a couple of mommy and me gatherings. After finding the address for the coffee, hubby offered to help me suss out the location ahead of time so I’d know where I’m going come Thursday’s event. The destination? An upscale coffee shop/bakery called Bastian’s Cafe, within an easy walk of our hotel.

Quick digression: everything is within a quick walk of our hotel. We have not used a car once since getting to Germany. From the airport in Frankfurt, we took the train up to Cologne, then a taxi to our hotel. That’s the only time we’ve been in a car this whole trip. Cologne, like the vast majority of European cities and towns, is extremely walkable, which I love. Everything you need is just a quick stroll away – groceries, restaurants, shops, whatnot. And if it’s not accessible by foot for whatever reason, all you have to do is hop on the tram and get to wherever you need to go that much more quickly.

From our hotel, we can walk to the Dom in the center of town in about 15-20 minutes. There’s so much to see along the way, the journey itself flies by. The streets are built as much for pedestrian traffic as they are for cars. Since the roads here are not laid out in grids as they are in many American cities, finding your way around can be confusing at first. Streets and alleys shoot off of other streets in crazy directions like a maze and it’s easy to get quickly disoriented. I find the best way to go is to simply memorize a few major landmarks. Fortunately, there are city maps posted on kiosks every few blocks or so just in case you hopelessly lose your bearings.

Bikes are also serious business here. You see all sorts of people riding them, from crunchy granola types to well-dressed women in the latest fashions. There is a bike lane alongside the streets and you’d better stay out of it if you know what’s good for you. We were almost run over a couple of times for not paying attention.

In short, the public transport (especially the train system) and the general walkability of European cities is awesome. If only America could get with the program and realize this, I daresay our obesity problem would quickly diminish. Germans eat some heavy food and drink a LOT of beer, but not many are overweight because exercise is so ingrained in the lifestyle here. I could go on, but that would be a whole other blog entry entirely…

Let’s get back to Bastian’s. This is one of those trendy-bordering-on-snooty coffee shops – a big, light, wide-open space full of heavy wood tables, chrome trim, a spotlessly clean glass counter full of cakes and pastries, and jazzy music playing in the background. The wait staff is all young, attractive and dressed in black. For Indy residents, it was kinda like Taste before the remodel, only much bigger.

We found a seat (table-service only) and checked out the menu of breakfast and lunch fare. Hubby ordered a croissant that came with jam, cheese and butter. I recounted and realized I’d eaten pretty much nothing but bread and sweets the day before, so I ordered the omelet of the day to get some protein and fiber – three eggs with diced zucchini, peppers and feta. It came with a small side salad; hubby and I shared a big basket of fresh-baked bread and rolls. They make their own coffee, too – no machine java here, thank God!

After a horrendous night’s sleep marred by a three-hour stretch of crying, the baby didn’t want to cooperate very much and much to our dismay, started tuning up just as the waiter set our plates down in front of us. Efforts to distract him didn’t help, and we knew our time was limited. Hubby always eats faster than I do, so he ended up wheeling our son out in his stroller, leaving me to finish my omelet and pay the bill.

As soon as hubby exited, I realized I didn’t have any change for a tip (we feel the need to tip generously anytime the baby is involved), so I texted him to come back. Tipping isn’t as big a deal here as it is in America because servers’ wages are so much better, but it is still customary to round up or leave a euro or two. Hubby returned, tossed me a few coins to pass over when the time came and left again.

I finished my food, asked for the bill, (in German no less! Right on!), and started to hand the waiter my credit card to pay when he informed me the place is cash-only. Great. I only had ten euro on me in cash and the bill was 20. Out came the phone and I texted hubby again. A few minutes later, here he came, wheeling back in like a broken record. I’ll bet those people thought they were never going to be rid of us.

Hubby dug through his pockets, found the extra cash we needed and we were finally good to go. Or so I thought… no sooner did we get out the door and down the block when I realized we’d left my son’s “Wonder Pets” book sitting on the table. Hubby flat out refused to go back again, so I returned to pick it up. We thus dubbed Bastian’s the Bermuda Triangle of cafes; once you get in, you just can’t ever get away.

The late breakfast tided us over until dinner. In the mood for more traditional German fare, we were disappointed when we discovered the pub/restaurant hubby keeps trying to take us to is closed on Mondays. A few other false starts later, hubby remembered a place called Bier-Esel that seemed worth a try. Lo and behold, it was open and could accommodate us with the stroller in tow.

Our server was a lovely older woman who paid us just enough attention and played along with our botched attempts to speak German. Most servers and store clerks immediately switch over to English the second they realize you’re American. I was pleased that she didn’t.

The restaurant itself is pretty old-school. Nothing fancy, just a bunch of tables, a few German tchotckes lining timbered shelves and mantels, and a bunch of locals drinking beer. Mussels seemed to be a featured item, as many diners were sharing huge bowls of the critters.

My first choice for dinner was going to be gulaschesuppe, but I worried a serving of soup wouldn’t be enough to fill me up and considered the full dinner choices as well. Hubby ordered a chopped steak with gravy, french fries and a small salad. I opted for the sauerbraten, another traditional German dish I’ve been meaning to try. This seemed as good a place as I’d be likely to find.

Hubby’s food looked ok, but mine was fabulous. The sauerbraten is a plate of extremely tender roast beef slices drenched in a rich brown raisin sauce. I know what you’re thinking right now. Raisins!?!? Ew! Ok, before you start judging, let me ask you this. Ever had A-1 sauce on your steak? Enjoyed it? Guess what one of the ingredients of A-1 is. Raisin paste. So there ya go.

My sauce wasn’t anything like A-1, though. It was thicker than a jus, but not as thick as a gravy, with a sweet and sour vinegary tang. It was DELICIOUS. The meat melted in my mouth; I didn’t even have to use a knife. If you like pot roast, you would like this dish. Hubby’s fork kept wandering over to my plate again and again. The dinner also came with a bowl of homemade chunky applesauce and two large potato dumplings, which confused me a little bit at first. I saw them and expected them to be creamy mashed potatoes, but when I tasted them and realized they were doughy, I couldn’t get my brain around it. When I realized they were actually dumplings, hubby pointed out that they served as a perfect vessel for all that yummy sauce. He was right.

Sauerbraten with potato dumplings and applesauce

We tried a different tactic with the baby for this meal and brought his dinner along with us instead of feeding him first before going out, which seemed to work well. He was happy enough to nibble away and let us actually enjoy our meal at a leisurely pace for once.

We strolled back to the hotel, full of fantastic German food and beer. Still keeping my eyes open for that gulaschesuppe, though…

German 101 for foodies

Unlike romantic French or melodic Italian, German is not what I consider a pretty language. Hearing it spoken aloud, some words and phrases aren’t too bad and remind me in a way of pigeons softly cooing. Other sounds are harsh, guttural and downright ugly. This is not a good thing when you’re trying to figure out something appealing to eat in a restaurant and it sounds like your waiter is trying to clear a big wad of phlegm from his throat as he recites the specials.

It’s a given that you’ll have to eat during a visit to Germany, so it does pay to get acquainted with a few of the more common food items and how to pronounce them. Many restaurants in larger German cities such as Cologne do offer menus with English translations to make things easier. Many, however, do not, leaving you scratching your head and wondering just what the hell “erbsen” is and whether you really want to eat one.

It’s always reassuring when the plate the waiter brings to the table contains exactly what you thought you were ordering, and it is possible to deduce some items phonetically or visually. Say “schokolade” out loud and you can pretty much guess that it means “chocolate.” Same with “milch” (milk), “kaffee” (coffee) and “salat” (salad). However, seeing signs for “back” shops initially made me think they were advertising chiropractic services, or perhaps something along the lines of a “Relax the Back”-type store. Au contraire, mon frere. “Back” means “bake,” so there you go. Bakery, or as the Germans say, “backerei.”

The items that really threw me for a loop the first time I read them were the meat dishes. Meat here is called, somewhat graphically, “fleisch.” Yup. You’re literally ordering flesh. Add on the animal to determine the kind of meat, as in “schweinefleisch” (pork) or “rindfleisch” (beef). To make matters worse, ground meat is called “hackfleisch.” It’s enough to turn one into a vegetarian if you think about it too much.

Oddly, “schinken” is not chicken, as you might be led to believe after pronouncing it aloud. It’s actually ham. Chicken is “huhnchen.”

After you’ve dined out a few times and eaten something that you’ve enjoyed, it’s easy enough to look for it again on menus elsewhere. Ever the creature of habit, hubby finds one or two things he likes and sticks to them (see “pizza salami” in my earlier entry). Some consistently good and authentic German standbys that I often find myself seeking out include “gluhwein,” a delicious hot mulled red wine; “gulaschesuppe,” spicy beef-tomato soup with peppers; “schnitzel,” breaded pork tenderloin; “rippchen,” a smoked pork chop; and “spaetzle,” noodles, sometimes served with a cheese sauce like a German mac and cheese (“spaetzle mit kase”). Oh, and “eis,” which is ice cream or gelato. You see tons of signs for “eis cafes,” charming little eateries that serve coffee and desserts.

There’s sort of a caste system of restaurants here as well. There are the nicer, more upscale, sit-down places where you can enjoy full table service. There is plenty of recognizable American fast-food, sadly. There are smaller, cozy, more casual restaurants where you can enjoy a beer and some food. There are also tons of bakery/coffee shops with a handful of barstools or sometimes even just tall bar tables and no seats, good for zipping in and out for a quick espresso and a pastry. There are also snack stops galore (“imbiss”) where you can grab a quick bite of whatever might tickle your fancy. Turkish kebabs, Chinese take-out, pizza slices, even seafood.

As in any language, the most important German words to know are “bitte” (please) and “danke schoen” (thank you). I’ve found those two utterances alone, along with awkwardly pointing to the item you want on the menu, can often see you through the worst of times when it comes to ordering.

Guten appetit!

Cologne – day zwei

Got some semi-decent sleep last night, except for a couple-hour awake break thrown in for good measure courtesy of the toddler. We finally got up around 10 a.m. local time (uh… 5 a.m. Indy time?), fed the kiddo and ventured out for a breakfast of coffee and German pastry.

German backereis (bakery-style snack shops) are a dime a dozen. You can find one every block or so, and they are TASTY. Not quite as fancy as the French patisseries, but definitely no slouch in their own right. There are a couple of major franchises that you see over and over, plus a bunch of local shops, too.

These establishments are fairly small, they may not even offer seating, just to-go service. The display windows tell the story in a second. Lined with row upon row of mouthwatering baked goods, it’s hard to make a selection – croissants, hard rolls, raisin-studded rolls, cinnamony buns, donut-looking things, soft pretzels, oh my. The coffee is hit or miss, most comes straight out of a machine and isn’t great, but who cares. You’re only using it to wash down the pastries, after all.

a small portion of a typical backerei window

We stopped into one of the bakery franchise shops for breakfast. Hubby ordered a croissant filled with creme, and I opted for a German specialty called a Berliner. It’s basically a round jelly donut covered in sugar. Yummy. And the center of controversy…

In Cold War-era 1963, John F. Kennedy was making a rousing speech in West Berlin, and in a well-meaning show of support, uttered the words “Ich bein ein Berliner,” proudly intending to say “I am a Berliner.” However, the literal translation came across as “I’m a jelly donut.”

Ein Berliner

He wasn’t far off base though; residents of Berlin ARE called Berliners, as residents of Frankfurt are called Frankfurters. I assume Hamburg residents are called Hamburgers, but can’t confirm.

Anyway, we wandered around a little more today, playing tourist and taking requisite photos of the Dom and all around town. We stopped into the train station so hubby could check into arrangements to get us to Milan later next week, then back out into the streets.

Since we’d eaten such a a late breakfast and snacked through the day, the next real meal was dinner this evening. Hubby wanted to go to a little place along the river called “Der Lowenbrau” that he’d frequented quite a bit when he was here last year. It was cold, but outdoor tables set up with space heaters allowed al fresco dining without shivering. We ordered up a couple of beers, and fed the baby while we waited for our food.

Hubby ordered one of his standbys, a pizza salami – thin-crusted pie with tomato sauce, cheese and paper-thin slices of salami. He got to know this dish well during his previous visits to Germany.

hubby's pizza salami

There are a plethora of Italian restaurants in Germany, due to proximity I’m guessing. Actually, there are restaurants of just about any ethnicity and ilk you could hope to find in major German cities such as Cologne. Indian, Thai, Argentinian, Ethiopian, Mexican; you name it, and it’s here. Sadly, there are also a good number of American chains such as McD’s, Burger King, KFC, Pizza Hut and Starbucks, although I can’t imagine why any U.S. visitor would eat there with so many other local options! Nice to be so spoiled for choice, but I figure when in Rome…

I want to soak up as much of the authentic German cuisine as I can while we’re here. Really, why wouldn’t I? German food is damn good stuff! Heavy on the breads, meats and potatoes, but with some interesting spicing and variations. They definitely like their pork, beef and lamb here. Typical sides seem to include potatoes, cabbage/sauerkraut and spaetzle (noodles).

My dinner tonight was the first of what I anticipate will be several schnitzels of the trip, along with fries and a small salad. I venture to say almost anyone in Indiana who eats meat has eaten a version of schnitzel. I’m talking about the traditional Hoosier pork tenderloin. It’s the same thing — a boneless pork chop, pounded into submission, breaded and fried. There are many ways you can get your schnitzel here, with a variety of sauces and toppings.

Tonight, I enjoyed a Jagerschnitzel, the pork topped with a dollop of creamy mushroom gravy. It was good, but not as good as the schnitzels we used to enjoy in Patrick’s old homestead of Ginsheim-Gustavsburg, just outside of Frankfurt. There, we frequented a tiny pub called Der Kleine Hexe (“The Little Witch”) that made a MEAN schnitzel. The place was so small and traditional, you could actually hear some little old German grandma in the back, pounding out your pork cutlet with a rolling pin before frying it up and bringing it out to your table. Hubby always ordered their Sombrero schnitzel, the chop topped with cheese, peppers and spicy tomato sauce. Brings back good memories.

my Jagerschnitzel dinner

Tonight, unfortunately, the toddler decided to act up, effectively squelching any plans of finishing our dinners in peace or sticking around for a second drink. Hubby and I took turns chowing down our meals while the other chased our adventurous toddler around the general vicinity. Then he started wailing and it was time to go.

Since the evening was cut short, I consoled myself with a few bites of a Ritter Sport chocolate bar purchased at a quick-stop grocery on the way back to the hotel. Ritters are some of my favorite chocolate in the world – hefty square bars of chocolate with a dizzying selection of fillings from strawberry yogurt and nuts to marzipan and peppermint cream. Tonight, I opted for a dark chocolate/chocolate mousse filling number that really left me feeling satisfied.

a small selection of Ritter Sport chocolate bars

Happy Halloween!