Berlin (part three)

It's still raining in the morning, so Dolores lets us lie in until 09:00. No point trying to breakfast al fresco in a downpour.

When it's dry enough for al fresco dining, we head downstairs. It's the same drill as yesterday. Gather provisions in the supermarket, pseudo-ctoffee from reception, plates from the kitchen.

Volkspark Friedrichshain
Andrew has been poring over his Nazi Berlin book. He discovers there's a bunker in Volkspark Friedrichshain. That Volkspark bit sounds a quite Nazi. Either that or socialist. It's hard to tell, sometimes. Our hotel ("It's a hostel, dad.") is in Friedrichshain. The park can't be that far, can it? We set out on foot.

Volkspark Friedrichshain is cleverly situated well away from any U- or S-Bahn lines. We have little choice but to walk. At least it isn't hot. The overnight rain has cooled the city down a treat. After about 20 minutes we get to the edge of the park. There's a map right by the entrance. Handy. I don't fancy trying to search it all. Grosser Bunkerberg and Kleiner Bunkerberg. That sounds about right. We choose the big one. Just to be on the safe side, I photograph the map. In case we get lost. Even though we have Andrew with us. He has the orientational skills of a homing pigeon.

They weren't joking calling it a berg. A path snakes around the wooded hill. "It's like Wartburg" Dolores comments. She's right. It's very like the forest that wraps the hill on which the castle stands. I remember the walk up that bloody hill well. It was so much fun.

"Look, there's a shortcut." Lexie says helpfully, pointing at a near-vertical strip of mud. "No thanks. One broken bone at a time is my limit." Climbing isn't my forte, even with a full set of working toes. Two joggers run past, heading uphill. We're still plodding upwards when they run back down. After circling the hill two or three times, we come upon a staircase. That's a shortcut I can use.

We finally reach the summit. There's a three metre stretch of concrete wall, covered in graffiti. Andrew looks for the rest of the bunker. But there is no more. We've walked all the way up that hill for this. Great. "At least it isn't hot." I keep telling myself. Dolores says "At least it isn't hot." Though beads of perspiration are strung across our faces. We eat a couple of the plums we've brought with us. "Why are they green inside, dad?" Lexie asks. "Because that's the way they are." Try asking me an answerable question for once.

Andrew hides his disappointment well. "Why don't we go to the Flakturm in Humboltshain? That's right next to an S-Bahn station." I suggest. The Flakturm had been Andrew's original preference. Until he noticed the closer bunker in the park. That smaller distance was illusory. Getting to the park entailed much more walking.

We soon have An Amended Plan. We've noticed trams running alongside the park, heading towards Alexanderplatz. So, tram to Hackischer Markt and lunch in Lemke's. S-Bahn to Gesundbrunnen to see the Flakturm. Then S-bahn the other way to Potsdamer Platz. That was to search for a toyshop for Lexie. He's nothing if not consistent. And for me to photograph a couple of pubs. he must get the consistency (or obsessive behaviour) from me.

It's good to add a tram to our collection of Berlin public transport. And good to finally get to a pub. It's 1 PM. Way too late for the first beer of the day. Lemke's is built into a railway arch just by Hackischer Markt station. Unusually for a German brewpub, it ventures off the Dunkles, Helles, Weizen path. They makes Ales. Or at least things they call Ales. This has garnered them a degree of praise. I hadn't been that impressed on my last Berlin visit. Time to give them another try.


Lunch at Lemke's
Me and Andrew had picked Lemke's as a possible lunch destination for one reason. The "Sausages of the World" section on the menu. The "world" is stretching it a bit. Bavarian varieties are as exotic as it gets. While everyone works out their food requirements, I get on with beer drinking. I know what I want to eat. Schweinehaxe. Haven't had that for years. Last time was in the Paulaner pub in Stuttgart. The day I broke my first ankle. Maybe that's why I haven't had it since. I should be safe. I already have a broken bone.

Lemke Amber Ale. Hazy amber colour, little head. A little caramel in the aroma. In the mouth, there's no discernible malt, just tobacco, grass and resin from the hops. Not quite sure what they were aiming for with this. It doesn't taste particularly Ale-like. 47 out of 100.

We're in the beer garden. It's very pleasant, except for when an S-Bahn rumbles by overhead. That's about every 60 seconds. It soon gets to Lexie. "I hate that stupid noise." Screech, screech, screech. A train takes the corner. "Make it stop, dad." "You know I can't do that. Not until I'm made Stalin. Then I can do what I like."

A man at the next table tells his companions that the train wheels regularly shoot stones out into the beer garden. The rest of the family hasn't heard. I'm not about to pass on something so worrying. Just like I didn't tell Dolores about the mouse I spotted scurrying around the hotel ("It's a hostel, dad.") garden the first evening. I'd never have got her to sit there again.

The kids have been given colour-in placemats and crayons. Lexie draws the Death Star blowing up a planet. How sweet. I'm sure the Empire's spin-doctors would have thought of a more user-friendly name. Life Star. Regeneration Star. Freedom Star. Something like that.

My Schweinehaxe has nice crackling on it. The fried spuds are pretty good, too. Andrew is enthusiastically tucking into his gourmet sausage. Some sort of bratwurst filled with cheese. He's getting as bad as Wallace.

Time for another beer.

Lemke Original. Hazy, pale brown colour. Nuts and chocolate aroma. I won't bother going into much detail for the rest. It has the half-rotten vegetables flavour of a fermentation problem. I score it 15 out of 100. And I'm being generous. I just about manage to force most of it down. I only gag five or six times.

I'm losing the will to visit any more brewpubs. At least Berliner Pilsener doesn't taste off.


Flakturm
We need to take the S1, S2 or S25 from Friedrichstrasse to get to Gesundbrunnen. I don't recall there being underground S-Bahn platforms at Friedrichstrasse. We jump on an S25. Oranienbergerstrasse, Nord Bahnhof. I can't remember these stations. Their names are written in strange, old-fashioned, gothic-like script.

Gesundbrunnen is a surprisingly large station. We make a big mistake and take the northern exit. The Flakturm lies to the South. At the entrance to the park are a great pair of signs. You don't often see the words "Rosengarten" and "Bunker" next to each other.

We're soon climbing another hill. But the Flakturm is so massive (even half buried) that we can see there's plenty left to look at when we reach the top. The path loops around for a while, then we're presented with a choice. Several flights of stairs or the relatively gently inclined spiralling path. The kids go for the former, me and Dolores the latter. Andrew must be excited. He hasn't complained of his knees hurting yet. He usually starts moaning after about 5 minutes of walking. At least it isn't hot.

A wonderful panorama of Berlin is our reward for the climb. The Flakturm itself is pretty impressive. Like a Norman castle keep in concrete. There's even a tower in each corner. It's pock-marked, not with bullet holes but two foot wide gashes where Soviet artillery shells have struck. The surface is uneven elsewhere, too. Probably where earlier scars have been filled.

After the war they tried demolishing it, but gave up because it was too much effort. Repeated dynamiting only managed to bring down one wall. And that only partially. The next plan was to bury it with tons of rubble. (The hill is totally artificial. The area was flat as a pancake before the war.) They had plenty of rubble after the war. But even that was only a partial success because of the nearby railway line. Too much chance of something falling onto the tracks to finish the job.

The Flakturm will doubtless be standing when the rest of Berlin has crumbled into dust. It's that tough. Quite an impressive feat of engineering. Though the slave labourers who helped build it might have thought otherwise.

Walking back to the station, I consult my map. I've noticed the ethnic mix is very different to in Friedrichshain. No Vietnamese, loads of Turks. The map confirms my suspicion. This was a spit of West Berlin reaching into Berlin, Hauptstadt der DDR. Despite being just a few hundred metres from East Berlin, it's strikingly different here. Though there are some crappy 1970's concrete flats that equal the worst East Berlin can manage.


Potsdamer Platz
As we ride towards Potsdamer Platz I consult my map again. I see why these stations look weird and I couldn't remember underground platforms at Friedrichstrasse. This section of S-Bahn only has a handful of stations in the East. It must have just been sealed up and left unused.

Last time I was down this end of Berlin, it was the biggest bomb site left in Europe. Now it's built shut. Shiny new buildings sprout from the once barren no-man's-land. We wander into the Sony Center. "Are we inside or outside, dad"? Not quite sure, either. That tarpualin-like roof stretched between the office towers provides shelter, but there are still big openings in the side walls to the open air.

This was one of the things on my list for the day. Photograph Lindenbräu, the brewpub in the Sony Centre. "There's the breWery" Dolores says helpfully. "Where?" "Right in front of us. Where it says Brauhaus." I'm losing my touch. Usually, I can spot breweries from miles away.

Lexie needs a wee. That's a good reason to go inside. In addition to the snapping, I want to take a look at the silver-plated kettles. I can't think of any reason for silver-plating brewing kettles, other than being flash. If I hadn't known, I would just have assumed they were enthusiastic polishers of their stainless steel.

"This is rubbish." Andrew says. He's right. The Sony Center is rubbish. It's made out to be the eighth wonder of the world. Really it's just dull office blocks, a tarpaulin and a few pubs. OK, there's an Imax cinema as well. And a poncey Sony shop. I'm still not impressed.

On the way, out we spot a giant lego giraffe. It marks the entrance to Lego World. We approach to investigate further. Lexie is excited. How much does it cost to get in? 14.75 for adults and 11.75 for kids. That's just 53 euros for all of us. Even Lexie is disgusted at the expense and makes no fuss when we walk away.

I cunningly guide the family along Alte Potsdamer Strasse, in the pretence of looking for shops. "Oh look. There's Mommseneck." I say innocently. "And over there shops. Do you mind if I wait in the pub while you look around them? My toe's hurting." I'm such a sly bastard.


Mommenseneck
Mommenseneck am Potsdamer Platz, to give it it's full title, is a specialist beer pub. The first Mommenseneck is somewhere in West Berlin. This one only opened recently. It doesn't look like much from the street, but opens out inside to a sizable pub with a beer garden. There are engravings and photos of old Berlin town everywhere. Some are larger than my bed. They're going for the nostalgia look, which is rather at odds with the building itself. That's new and shiny. With lots of glass. You know the type of thing.

I sit at the bar and take a look at the beer menu. They have 100 bottled. As they're listed in no particular order, it takes a while to make sense of it. A few Belgians are scattered around it, including a couple of Trappists. Fair enough. Though 4.80 for Westmalle Tripel is a bit steep. But there's also some real shit: Miller Genuine Daft, Castlemaine XXXX, Red Stripe.

I'm not going to drink a Belgian beer in Berlin. Something German. Not Aventinus, either. I can get that in Holland. I know, Andechs Spezial Hell. Never had that.

Andechs Spezial Hell. Pale yellow and fizzy. Grass, vanilla and pepper flavours skip across my tongue. Is it trudge dejectedly? It's OK, but tastes a bit old. Though the sell by date is in 2009. 49 out of 100.

I wasn't totally taking the piss complaining of my aching toe. We've made two death mmarches already today. That's three too many.

Twenty minutes and the family aren't back. Time for another beer. Oh look. They have traditional Berlin schnapps. I fancy a Kummel. Best be quick before Dolores gets back. What to go with it? Riedenburger Urbier. Don't think I've tried that before. The family arrives just as my two drinks are placed in front of me. Shit. "What's that?" Dolores points at my Kummel schnapps accusingly. "Vodka!" guesses Lexie. "Do you want to drink my beer?" I try to distract Dolores. "Did you find a toyshop?" "No. It's all clothes. Except for one bookshop."


Galeria
We decide to return to Galeria department store. We haven't found another toyshop. I prepare myself for a long wait while Lexie makes up his mind.

One of the stimulating aspects of kids is their unpredictability. That's one way of looking at it. You could also say that inconsistency is their most frustrating feature. Lexie walked straight over to the lego and grabbed another Indiana Jones box that was within his budget.

It was Andrew's turn to be indecisive. But actively indecisive. We lose sight of him for a while when he wanders off to the books. It takes him 30 minutes to realise he doesn't want anything. That's 15 minutes quicker than Lexie yesterday.


Beer festival again
When we hit the festival at 19:00, it's too crowded for extended strolling. We settle in a beer garden in the former DDR section. Seems fitting on Stalin-Allee.

Call me boring and predictable, but I start with a beer I tried yesterday. Döllnitzer Rittergutsgose. When will I get another chance to drink this great beer on draught? Next time I visit Leipzig. It's still excellent. Dolores has the Kirsch Gose. Tastes a bit syrupy, to me. It's not crap, but clearly made with syrup.

I'm a quicker drinker than Dolores so I've time to try Bauer Keller Pils. It's soft and grassy and very drinkable. Unfiltricious fun. (Going into didactic mode, this is a good example of a Kellerbier that is clearly an unfiltered version of another beer. Yet many still are under the illusion that Kellerbier is a specific style. It's like claiming Real Ale is a style in its own right. I blame the BJCP.)

Next I try Einsiedler Naturtrüb, another unfiltered pale lager. It's slightly bitter and inoffensive.

When the blue clouds wafting over from the chain smokers sitting next to us get too annoying, we move on. From Saxony to Thuringen. Very appropriate, as that's where Dolores is from. Thuringen. Not quite sure why, but on the Thuringian stalls all the barmaids are wearing nurses uniforms. "That's sweet." I say. "Harumph" says Dolores. I guess it's a man thing ("who knows fear burns at the Man Thing's touch." Or was that Swamp Thing? I always get those two confused.)

"Braugold was one of my favourites." I tell Dolores, "Do you remember drinking it in a pub opposite Erfurt cathedral before our wedding?" She doesn't. Funny how different her memories are from mine. Between the two of us, we remember just about everything. But with minimal overlap. We complement each other. "Lovely hair today, Dolores." "That shirt goes really well with those trousers, Ronald." No, that's compliment, isn't it?

Revisiting Braugold Pils seems a good idea. Until I see the signs advertising their new Porter. The style seems to be staging a mini-revival in Germany, if the festival is anything to go by.

Braugold Porter. It has a nice tight head. That's a good start. But the taste. Incredibly sweet and just about roasty. Like very weak coffee with ten sugars. I'm glad I just got a small one. "It tastes like artificial sweetener." Dolores says when I let her try it. I begin a lecture about the use of saccharine in German beer in the 1890's. I'm so romantic. "Just throw it away if you don't like it." Dolores comments, as she watches me force the Porter down through gritted teeth. "I hate throwing beer away." She snatches the glass out of my hand and pours the contents onto the grass. "There. Why waste your time on rubbish?" She has a point.

"Dingslebener? I've never heard of Dingsleben." I assure Dolores it is in Thuringen. I've heard of it. But I have compiled a guide to Thuringian breweries. I order a Dingslebener Schwarzbier. It's not what I would call schwarz. Even brown is stretching things a bit. At least it isn't sacchariny like the last one. A bit roasty, but not much else.

Tired of the smoke and crowds, we return to the hotel ("It's a hostel, dad."). There's still time for a bottle of wine in the garden. And a bottle of Bürgerbräu Heller Bock. Tonight with neither scurrying mouse nor spattering rain.

There's a slight commotion when water, presumably thrown from an upper window, splatters onto a young bloke on the next table. He takes it remarkably good-naturedly. "That was water, wasn't it?" Lexie sniffs. He has the sharpest senses. "No, it doesn't smell like wee, dad." What higher praise is there than that? That's what I hope others say of me. Doesn't smell like wee.



Lemkes Spezialitätenbrauerei
Dircksenstr.,
S-Bahnbogen 143,
10178 Berlin (Mitte)
Tel.: (030) 247 28 727
Fax: (030) 247 28 728
Email: lemkes-spezialitaeten-brauerei@t-online.de
Homepage: http://www.brauerei-lemke.de/


Mommseneck-Am Potsdamer Platz
Alte Potsdamer Straße,
10785 Berlin.
Tel: 030 - 2529 6635
Fax: 030 - 2529 6609
http://www.mommseneck.de