I feel a bit like a child, or an idiot, relating an experience that adults already know from a higher and thus more comprehensive perch. I didn’t attend high school and as an unfortunate consequence avoided history and social studies. My first introductions to places and cultures like China, France and Germany are often serendipitous, combined with business imperatives.
But in a way, this is fun, because I come without robust preconception. Germany to me was like the few clichés I have heard. Cool, deep, dank, dark and stark, with underlying warmth that you have to look for but when discovered provides a reward similar to that of intelligent appreciation of fine wine.
If I related more to the culture, I might spend more time there, as it reminded me of America in the early 60s before the corruption, when there was little traffic and you were expected to amuse and take care of yourself.
As a young man, I remember going to the best restaurants and finding myself alone. Such was the case at Gargantua, named after the Rabelaisian character in search of the divine bottle in Elysian Fields. In every new city to me in my business travels, I always search out what is billed as its best restaurant (if it doesn’t cost twice that of the second best) and usually go by myself on the last night. I go alone because it is very rare that a colleague is willing to contribute an extra couple of hundred dollars over our paltry $60 a day food allowance just to enjoy exceptional food, wine and ambience.
Once in a while I would take an exceptionally beautiful young girl with me to add sensory dimension to a dining experience. But flying to Germany, I was aware of a new maturation. I no longer felt the need and resigned this time, and possibly for evermore, to go it alone. Partly, I realized it was unfair to my wife to pay for these tarts, when the money could be better spent to take her somewhere; since she enjoys dining as much as moi. Nevertheless a colleague, this time only 20 or so years my junior, asked me where I planned to dine, having heard of my reputation for a final night boomer. When I told her she asked if she could go. Yes, of course. I planned to pay if the woman didn’t offer; but I figured she would pay her way, and she did.
I’m not going to write up the Gargantuan experience, because if anyone is interested, they can read about it on the web. Basically it is run by a mature grand chef, who writes cooking books and food columns. Klaus Trebes has also cooked along side many of the world’s most famous chefs in competitions. Frommer’s said the place evokes an upscale and somewhat snobbish 1920s-era bistro in Paris. Yes, this is my favorite type. Contemporary art depicted sexual intercourse in various positions. Klaus looked to be every bit as old as me, but has a paunch; his wife was in her 30s, light skin; dark hair, and to die for. Together they put on the Ritz for my colleague and me; since, as Klaus put it, “I might as well cook everything for you, if you have all night: Frankfurters don’t eat.” My colleague asked why he didn’t move to America. I knew the answer. His tired, bloodshot eyes cast downward and he said nothing. And there was not a single soul besides us. Sad but true. I highly recommend the fusion French, Mediterranean, German and Asian cuisine. With unparalleled ambience, as good as it gets. (Unbelievably, I gained nine pounds on the six day trip; I believe most of them on the last night.)
My colleague wrote the entire experience down on the back of a receipt, including the name of the $110 Euro 2003 Spatburgunder bottle of red wine. She promised to write it up and email it all to me.
In the course of my stay, I drank several Spatburgunders, including some combined with Dornfelder to darken and add structure to the somewhat lighter Pinot Noir wines grown in what I would think is even colder than Burgundy climate; although Klaus said it was nearly the same. And I very much enjoyed a variety of Rieslings, of various sugar contents. Tried a German Merlot, too, for the heck of it. I got none of the negative expressions that make me dislike New World wines. If I had nothing but German wines to drink for the rest of my life, I would be happy (as long as I had memories of French wines to keep). They are solid, quiet, refined and subdued: the opposite of flamboyant, but eminently digestible. If I had my way, I would like to find more depth. But some depth comes from what the wines don't say. It's like depth of restraint, wisdom and sorrow followed by joy of understanding.
However, I got most of my German experience by wandering around and shopping. Germans are not as service oriented as Americans. They were friendly to me because I am American, but sometimes cool to my German colleagues. Only the poor drive Japanese cars, and there aren't many of them. Escalators work flawlessly, like a Mercedes (pronounced “mairrr seed es”), when it is not in the shop. But they do not have stairs on them (at least where I went). They are as if you just stretched an American escalator out so that it was a precarious, slippery slope. With a little snow on one’s shoe, you could take a nasty fall. If such equipment existed in the States, people would be cascading down them like lemmings, and the lemmings would own all the stores after the millions of lawsuits. Apparently people still take responsibility for themselves in Germany.