Story 5: Bratwurst in Berlin

We arrived in Berlin with the same attitude college freshmen have when they come home for the first time around Thanksgiving. We expected Berlin to immediately embrace us, feed us and clean up after us. In return, we would let Berlin embrace us, feed us and clean up after us. (Me note: I'm not exaggerating this in any way. We even refused to change our dollars to euros. I have no legitimate logical explanation for this.)

Samantha and I strolled the length of the airport terminal twice, reciting single words to each other like, "beer," "bakeries," "coffee," and the occasional, "Yay!" This continued even after we realized we had no idea where we were going or how to get there. No sleep and endless possibilities of food usually yieldas state of delirium. A spontaneous "strudel" bursted from me as we're waiting to in the information queue.

When we're finally on the bus to our hostel, I had the same thought that any normal Thanksgiving guest would have, "did I pack my super stretchy pants?" Then a horrified realization interrupted my thought, "Wait, why don't any these people look like they don't own a pair of super stretchy pants?" Everyone in Berlin looked slender and bendy, like their diet was the exact opposite of meat and potatoes. You would think I'd welcome this as good news. I should have been relieved. I've had my fair share of apprehensions around a homecoming where my friends, Richard Simmons, and a forklift await me at the airport. Instead, I felt like I got handled. All I could think was: Everyone lied. The portions are probably normal-sized. The dishes are probably entirely vegetables. The potatoes aren't actually fried in butter. (Frightening stuff.)

No one lied. (I'm glad to report.)

That was my first meal in Berlin, appropriately massive with an ample helping of gravy. Everything here is served with some sauce or sour cream or strudel, which is something that a gal can really get used to. Wait, I'm getting ahead of myself.

Naturally, I opt for potato and smoked sausage soup as an appetizer for my potato and smoked sausage meal. The soup isn't cream-based. Samantha and I quickly moved past the disappointment once we taste the brothy goodness. Miniature mystery spice balls punctuate each bite of the soup perfectly. I can't make out the spice but it tastes as it it were black table pepper with a personality. The mystery spice balls make another appearance in my golden, crispy-yet-fluffy, butter-fried potatoes. I dipped the potatoes in the Dijon mustard with a little bit of pickled beets complemented with a chunk of sausage.

I felt my stomach clench so tight, as if was giving this taste a hug and never wanted to let go.