Over on The Local's Toytown message board, some dudes said they'd opened a Mexican restaurant -- Maria Bonita -- just around the corner from us. The Local's Brett went and said it was pretty good but he was confused by the bacon in the tacos. I figured we're thousands of miles from Mexico and I'm against dogma, so I was willing to see it as a creative flourish -- though we all agreed bacon is too often used to mask a lack of something else.

But I still figured I'd give it a try. I had to.

Last night I picked Sabine up at the store and we pedaled over to the place at 33 Danziger. As we pulled up, my stomach sank. The tables outside were full. The bar along the window was packed and two chicas were even occupying the counter, flirting with the cooks. Even the dumpster and bench-sized building materials out front had been dibsed.

We debated leaving and coming back another time, but the menu looked fab and there was something about the vibe that made us want to stay. A friendly dude with a Spanish accent joked with us (and the ladies, man versteht sich) about Puerto Rican hip hop and then took our order while filling the drink order of those before us -- a skill never before seen in Germany.

We then waited just under 10 minutes for what is the best Mexican food I've had since leaving the Southwest for Germany's Northeast. My fish tacos were Hermosa Beach taco cart good and the wife's cheese enchiladas tasted as though the chefs at some chain Mexican place (Armadillos, for example) decided to care about the food. We didn't go for plates but they looked just as downmarket as I like a plata: Mexican rice, salsa and guac. None of it's fancy but it tastes fresh and spicy and the hipsters running in and out of the place are fun to watch.

The negative: the guac is a bit dull and tastes like green mush with cilantro, but it's a difficult food to get right and on home-made chips I didn't care much. And they've only got Corona or Astra. The Astra (a sort of Hamburg PBR) is a nice touch but Corona? Get me some Dos Equis amber, please.

We ended up getting two seats at the window but next time I want the dumpster.

I took the kids to the Children's Culture Carnival on Saturday. The Karneval der Kulturen is an annual parade in Berlin that celebrates all the diversity in the city. Every Brazilian puts on some traditional duds and does some caiporeira, Africans grab any drum they can find, and various women from various nations get half-naked and dance. Since Berlin's a homogenous place, these ex-pats have to rely on locals to fill out their ranks.

To me, it's more the parade of bored German women looking for excitement in dark-skinned men. Well, I use a different lexicon to describe just what it is the women are looking for, but let's keep this a family show.

Every year I've been disappointed by the lack/quality of the performances, frustrated by the three-deep crowd along the route and shocked at the mundane food booths (beer, wurst and a token ethnic dish or two).

This year I thought I could circumvent it all by going to the kids thing. The festival was in Görlitzer Park. There was less variety than your average German kids fest and longer lines than a Detroit unemployment office. Though I bribed them with cotton candy, the kids were as happy as I to leave.

The highlights of the day were Martha convincing me to take public transportation rather than drive ('Cars make the environment dirty, dad!") and stumbling into an estranged boyfriend trying to win his ex's heart via her kids (they were terrified of him and a large man escorted him away, something I was about to do only I couldn't figure out what to do with my own kids).

And the in thing to do at this year's Karneval was to scroll your mobile number on your kids' arms and then ... well I don't know what these parents did then because I never saw them. This left me and another frayed woman to explain to these four-year-olds (yes, they were that little) the art of waiting in line (or at least getting in line behind us). And of refereeing the internal fights they had as they failed to understand the art of waiting in line (or at least getting in line behind us). Were there any pedophiles there, these numbers would have made it easy for them to find the kids least likely to be missed for an hour -- and arrange a future play date.

The one good time I had at Karneval was five years ago when Martha was still a baby. I met Marc and Benedikt there and, since Martha was asleep in the stroller, we decided to grab a beer. As the crowds pushed past they would look into the stroller and smile at Martha and then look up, hoping to congratulate the parents for having such a cute kid. Instead, the smiles slid away as they saw three louts coiffing lager.

We had a good laugh, the only one I'd ever have at Karneval der Kulturen.

 

As an exchange student 20-some-odd years ago, I was horrified to discover Germans living up to their stereotype as sausage eaters. Every festival, party and gathering was accompanied by at least a small barbecue with several examples of seasoned pork parts stuffed into (artificial and real) intestines. Once over my shock, it became a guilty pleasure.

Early in our relationship and decades later, Sabine introduced me to the raw bratwurst. I was used to the pre-cooked variety we get in the states or at all those festivalsin Germany, so I was skeptical of this soft, pink tube. Would the meat in the center get cooked? After eating them nearly daily while Sabine she was pregnant with Martha, I realized she was on to something. A little while later while visting her parents in Kassel she introduced me to the coarsely ground bratwurst, which sounds horrible but tastes much better than its finely ground sister -- imagine chunks of meat rather than ground ... lips and, well, you know.

Slowly I was becoming a bratwurst snob. Gradually I began to turn my nose up at the stale, pre-cooked bulk sausages offered at massive parties and concerts, especially considering their cardboard texture and non-taste. I started to scope out the best stands at the Christmas Market. And I was completely disappointed with Berlin's gastronomic contribution to the world, the Currywurst. This is essentially a bratwurst sliced up, buried in ketchup with a bit of curry powder added on top (see above). It's OK on if you pick the right place and are hungry but it can't beat a good flame-broiled brat.

And now we've discovered the ultimate. The best in Berlin. These babies are to be had every Thursday at the Kollwitzplatz organic food market, sold out of a red tent. They're made by the lady peddling pig products next door and come from her own farm of Bentheimer pigs, an heirloom (as the Americans would say) breed that has been ignored because the meat is too fatty. They seem coarse to me and I haven't a clue what seasonings she's using, but she's doing it right.

I bought 30 for Martha's 6th birthday and they hardly lasted. I could have gotten rid of 50 -- and there weren't even 50 people there. Unfortunately they're not fresh (read: uncooked) because she would have to sell them within two days, but they're really good. And Conny, who makes them, is nice.

So it's a stereotype I like.