Bavarian Bliss

“Cooking anything interesting this weekend,” boss man asked one morning at work.
“Well,” I answered vaguely, “I was thinking of doing some sort of Oktoberfest themed feast. Not sure what to cook though . . .”

Boss man was silent, staring down at his old German coffee roaster, as if conversing with it for inspiration. Then he looked up, a gleeful gastronomic gleam in his eye: “You wanna know what to cook. I’ll tell you. This’ll really impress them, ok. You’d better write this down.” The man clearly had a plan so I didn’t argue.

“Go to the Bavarian meats shop in Pike Place Market. Go and buy a big piece of smoked pork ribs. Ok? And a good selection of sausages. You’re also going to need sauerkraut, potatoes and a big pot. . . .”

And so, obedient to these instructions, I found myself trundling down to Pikes yesterday morning, bleary eyed from a late night yet still bouncing with enthusiasm for my impending visit to Bavarian Meats. I entered the little doorway, tucked inside the market amongst the candy stores, bakeries and delis, and felt that familiar sense of child-like delight as I stepped inside. This place is heaven, walls lined with mustards and pickles, breads and jams.

I read the familiar labels: the lavender wrapped bars of Milka chocolate sporting its signature contented cow; golden foil trimmed bottles of apfelsaft, and packages of rye bread boasting a plethora of benefits to mind and body. Behind the meat case brimming with bratwurst and bockwurst, knockwurst and landjaeger, bacon, ham hocks and a million other configurations of the flesh, the Bavarian ladies bustled about. I waited patiently whilst they attended to the other customers. This was not something to rush. I wanted their full attention.

When the shop was finally empty I stepped up to the counter. “Now,” said one of the aproned ladies in heavily accented English, peering at me cheerfully with a knife in one hand and a piece of sausage in the other, “how can I help you?”

I was so bubbling with enthusiasm for this cozy shop and its contents that I found I didn’t have the ability to think properly. Boss man had told me what to buy, but I decided that the occasion called for assistance. I explained to the woman vaguely what I intended to make and asked her to pick out the requisite meats. Her eyes lit up as she nodded effusively. She understood, then fired a volley of questions: “How many people? Men or women? Do zay have big appetites? You like spicy sausage? Ok. I find a bacon end to give you. Yes, you throw it in for flavor. I go get my chef.” Within moments another aproned woman emerged from behind a curtain, this one smudged with flour and clearly in the middle of cooking. She listened seriously while I tried to relay boss man’s recipe, and agreed, reminding me to glaze the onion before folding in the sauerkraut, and tossing a final chunk of pig into my bag.

In addition to the meats I bought several jars of sauerkraut. Finally, unable to resist the pull of nostalgia, I tossed in a bar of Milka. Milk chocolate with hazelnuts. The crinkle of the wrapper; the rich, creamy sweetened chocolate and contrasting crunch of toasted nut . . . I floated back to the clean cold alpine air. Snow laden fields, glades, heisse schokolade, fondue, exercise induced exhaustion, muddy boots, chap stick, terrifying drop offs, layers of woolen sweaters . . . ski holidays in Switzerland.

Reluctantly I gathered my bags and prepared to leave the shop. “Do you need mustard,” the lady asked as an afterthought.

“Oh, no thank you,” I replied, “I’m making my own flavored mustards.” She beamed even more broadly and patted my shoulder. “Ah! You are a good girl.”