I’ve always loved fish & chips, even before I knew chips were French fries. Now and then my parents would take us to a tiny wood-paneled shop in downtown Englewood where you could get a plate of what to me was the holy grail of food and check out the quirky pictures on the wall. I’ll never understand why we didn’t eat there more often and, at the time, I didn’t realize Arthur Treacher’s was a chain. I guess I thought some dour guy in a three-piece suit with an umbrella once opened this store near the epicenter of the universe – it was just blocks from Cinderella City,


And I still do.

To be honest, I’ve been underwhelmed by the chippies I’ve visited on various trips to London. The batter is always tasteless and the fish too massive. Not to mention the dental disasters frying everything up. Also: more vinegar, please. Mushy peas have proven a nice surprise, though.

And so I was happy when I discovered a little chippy joint at the end of Oranienburger Strasse when I moved here. Astor. I went there plenty by myself and then it became a staple of Sabine and I’s dating years. The evening of Sept. 11 we sat there trying to decide what it all meant. It was the kind of place where I could never tell if the woman behind the bar recognized me or not. It felt like they were always renovating and never getting finished.

Then it closed. I’m sure it’s a shoe or clothing shop now. That area is now for tourists, not natives.

But not too long ago Fischladen opened up in an old fish store on Schönhauser Allee. First one friend recommended it, then other, then I ate there. And I thought of a dour guy in a three-piece suit and an umbrella. The batter is tasty, the fish is actually spiced a bit before it gets a nice coat and the chips might not be hand cut but they’re the better ones from Metro’s frozen food section. It’s more like a high-class snack bar where you can order what’s on the menu or ask them to do a little something special – and they will. Martha and I like to split a small fish & chips and a salad and he always throws something extra in with the greens. “Hey, how about some fried mushrooms?” Last night, with two smalls to go, he made sure to only put vinegar on one set of chips because of the kids. He and the kids also talked about the Ice Age that was playing on the TV.

“It’s Ice Age 2,” Cy assured me.

The cook and the other older guy behind the counter always joke in an odd mix of formality, small talk and wise cracks that only Northern Germans can pull off (Berliners can do the last two bits but substitute irreverence for formality).

So, go there if you’re here.

(That's a pic of the Arthur Treacher's building today, FYI)

 

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.