Franconia day five

It's all my fault. Let me make that clear. All my fault.

Our four days in Ebermannstadt done, it's time to make our way to the bright lights of Munich.

"Don't you think we should check out now, dad?" It's 09:15 and check out time is 10:00.

"Nah, we've ages yet." I continue to go ticky tack on my fliptop.

"Daad, can't we check out?" This is getting irritating. It's not even 09:30 yet.

"Oh, OK then." I'm thinking that there will be time for a quick beer in the station pub. Our train isn't until 11:02.

"I can't remember if I've already paid for the hotel or not."

Turns out neither can the owner. After looking through some bills we decide that I haven't.

"Is a credit card OK?"

"No, only a bank card."

We try my card and it's rejected.

"I'll go and get cash. You stay here, Andrew."

By now it's 09:40. On my way to the bank, inbetween fretting about whether it will let me take out 300 euros, I start to think of the train journey. Shit. Our train in Forchheim is at 11:06. We need to take the 10:02 from Ebermannstadt, not the 11:02 like I thought. No wonder Andrew was nagging me. Double shit. I increase my pace, despite the heat.

The machine plays nicely and spits out 300 euros. It's now 09:48, but at least I've enough cash to free Andrew. I've sort of left him their as hostage. It's 09:52 when I get back to Gasthof zur Post. And can't find the owner. This is getting tight. We finally find, her, pay and set off for the station. Andrew doesn't say anything.

"Don't worry, we've got plenty of time." Andrew replies by picking up the pace to a near run.

We hear the train rattle in as we get close to the station. No time to piss around. They turn around pretty much immediately. The last passengers are already getting on as we reach the platform. We break into a sprint, diving through the doors just before they close.

"I told you we had plenty of time." Andrew's not in the talking mood.

You know the term "bathed in sweat"? It's literally true. I'm as wet as if I'd had a bucket of water poured over me.

"At least you'll always remember this part of the journey." Andrew's still not in the mood for chatting.

"Think of it as an important lesson," I'm quickly running out of clichés and Andrew is no more talkative, "a character-building experience."

He's just about forgiven me by the time we get to Forchheim. His anger cooling at about the same rate as my sweat dries.

Luckily I've brought along some impulse schnapps. That cools me down even more. That and the fully-functioning airco on the ICE we catch in Nuremberg. I've booked seats this time as we're in pleb class. It's not too crowded, thankfully. And I've something to read. A Spiegel history special Andrew spotted in Rewe. It's about the German Empire, 1871-1914. One of my favourite topics.

Munich feels even hotter than Forchheim. Luckily our hotel is just a couple of hundred metres from Munich Hauptbahnhof. We're there in a jiffy. Not that we stay there long. Just long enough to stash our bags. Then we take the S-Bahn to Marienplatz.

"Look, there's the new Town Hall." I say to Andrew.

"Looks a bit too fiddly, to me."

"It's Neo-gothic. It's supposed to look fiddly."

We're heading for Hofbräuhaus. I know what you're thinking: "Didn't he swear never to go there again after waiting more than an hour to get served?" That's perfectly true. But we're not heading to that Hofbräuhaus. We're going to Hofbräuhaus-Kunstmühle. Dolores wanted me to bring her some flour back. Can't get this particular type in Holland, it turns out.

Shopping done, we turn our backs on Hofbräuhaus and return to Tal. Because you can't visit Munich and not go to Weisses Brauhaus, can you? It's packed outside, but we can find space just inside, where there's still a cool breeze. Andrew seems happy enough.

I usually have the sausage-orama, a dish with several different types of sausage. I can't remember what it's called. Pretty sure it's not really sausage-orama. I go for something totally different: A Schweinshaxe.

"It's like the non-healthfood version of Schäufle, Andrew."

"You have a very limited range of jokes you know, dad."

"It's the way I tell them that counts."

"Badly, that's how you tell them."

I think he's still annoyed about our death sprint.

The Haxe arrives, looking like it's been stabbed between the shoulder blades. There's something about the way Andrew looks at it. Like he's imagining the knife sticking out of my back.

I wash the Haxe down with Hopfenweise. Quite a bit of Hopfenweise. I'm surprised how much I like the stuff. From the description - German wheat beer meets hops - it sounds like something I should hate. Truns out to be a lovely supping beer. Especially in this heat. It looks sad by itself, so I get it a lttle mate to keep it company: an Aventinus Eisbock Schnapps. They seem to get on well together.Too well, perhaps.

But we can't sit here all day. I noticed something over the road. Another Tegernsee pub. In the modern retro Kitsch style I love.

"Let's go in there for a beer. They do a lovely Spezial . . .

"You've already done that one, too, dad."

"Have I?"

"Yes. Can we just sit down and get served."

The waitress is wearing a dirndl. Always a good sign. I order a Dunkles.

"Why didn't you get the Spezial you keep going on about?"

That's a good question. "I forgot." Shit. And they do have it on draught.

"The Dunkles is quite nice." I'm not sure I'm convincing even myself.

There's one more destination before heading back to our hotel. Nürnberger Bratwurstglöckl. For one simple reason: I want to drink some Augustiner Helles. Helles the way god . . . .

I don't even bother starting to say it this time.

"We can come back tomorrow for some sausages. They're deliciolovely, Andrew."

"If you say so, dad. Just as long as there's no running."

He's not going to forget that, is he? "I told you that you'd remember that journey for ever."

The Augustiner Helles is lovely. But they only seem to have put in two mouthfuls per glass. Or at least that's all I'm getting out of them. I remember why it's one of my favourite drinking beers.

The street outside our hotel is still busy when we return. It's still busy at 3 and 4 AM. We're not in the country no more. Oh no.




Hofbräuhaus-Kunstmühle
Neuturmstraße 3
80331 Munich, Germany
+49 89 294222
www.hb-kunstmuehle.de



Weisses Bräuhaus
Tal 7,
80331 München.
Tel. 089 - 299 875
Fax: 089 - 290 13815
http://www.weisses-brauhaus.de/



Tegernseer Tal
Tal 8,
80331 München,
Tel: +49 89 222626
Opening hours: Mon - Sun 09:30 - 24:00
http://www.tegernseer-tal8.com/



Nürnberger Bratwurstglöckl
Frauenplatz 9,
80331 München (Munich).
Tel. 089 - 220385
Fax: 089 - 2904736
Email: info@bratwurst-gloeckl.de
http://www.bratwurst-gloeckl.de/

Continental and English Railway Travelling

We're back again with an ancient travel report. I hope you enjoy these things as much as I do.

Some things never change. Like the superior organisation and comfort of continental railways compared to those in Britain. Funnily enough, one of the area wher the Germans excelled was in superior catering. It's still true today. A German station of any resonable size will have at a bare minimum a kiosk selling food, beer and impulse schnapps. Large stations have a dazzling array of refreshment options.

"CONTINENTAL AND ENGLISH RAILWAY TRAVELLING.
A correspondent of the Athenaeum, writing from Vienna, says:- One great faet which strikes an Englishman travelling on the Continent is, that in foreign parts the convenience of the public (with some exceptions) is more studied better cared for than in England. Who that has eaten and drunk at a railway restauration, or Speise Saal, as they call it in Germany, or a "buffet" in France, but must have felt more than ever ashamed of the so called "refreshment rooms" in which the British travelling public are supposed to refresh themselves? Go where you will abroad, the superiority is manifest. The restauration at Olten is well known to all who have traveled in Switzerland, It is one of the largest, if not the largest, in Europe. I arrived there with a party from Baale, and during the 20 minutes of waiting for the train to Berne we had an excellent breakfast, unlimited in quantity, café-au-lait, bread, butter, honey, and jam, for whioh the charge was one franc each person, There were waiters enough to attend to the crowd of travellers, and, notwithtanding the apparent confusion, the traincaller did his duty so well that throng after throng left the tables as their train was ready, and none was left behind.
Glasgow Herald - Saturday 24 October 1868, page 3.

I'm pretty sure that you'd pay more than one franc a head in a Swiss station buffet today.

Now we get to all the good beer stuff.

"All through the Rhine provinces; the Palatinate, and Baden, railway travelling is divested of some of its inconveniences by the nimble lads and lasses who, wherever the train stops, run from carriage to carriage with baskets of fruit or trays of freshly-drawn beer, or jugs of water. Many a traveller who does not wish to alight may wish to quench his thirst, and there the opportunity is afforded. All over Germany the same practice prevails, but, perhaps, finds its culmination in Bavaria. If any of our railway directors want to know what a refreshment room ought to be, let  him go and look at the restauration at Augsburg or Munich. One room is allotted to first and second class passengers, who, instead of crowding at a single counter, seat themselves at the numerous tables, and eat and drink in comfort. But third class passengers are' not neglected; theirs is the largest room, containing scores of tables every one of which may be crowded, as I saw more than once, and with  a few of the first and second class passengers, who seemed to enjoy the bustle. Of course, the noise is overpowering, but you can get a good dinner, promptly served, of soup; meat (roast and boiled), the never~failing sausage, potatoes and salad, with sweet things if you like, and good beer at a very moderate cost. The counter from which the chief delivers his supplies is so well arranged and fitted with pots and pans that the various dishes are kept hot and ready for serving dut at a moment's notice. And let it be rermarked, a table-napkin is supplied to each person who dines. This is a touch of consideration for third-class passengers which I can hardly hope to see adopted in England, live as long as I may. At nearly all the stations the third-class waiting-room is also the restauration. "Will any of you dine at the table d'hote at Linz ?" asked the guard of the train, looking into our second-class carriage, as we were nearing that city. Whether he sent a message on by telegraph or otherwise I know not, but on our arrival at Linz, with twenty minutes to wait, we found forty plates of soup, smoking hot all ready for us; these were followed by two courses of meat, and a mehlspeise, which resembled a baked apple-pudding. No one complained of not having enough. The charge, inclnding beer, was equivalent to 2s."
Glasgow Herald - Saturday 24 October 1868, page 3.

Doesn't that sound civilised - lads and lasses bringing draught beer around the train. I wonder what it was served in? Because surely they wouldn't be around to collect empty glasses.

 Even continental boats were better than their British counterparts:

"Draught beer can be had onboard the Danube steamers at ten or twelve kreutzers the tankard. How the steward of a Thames steamer would stare if you asked for a pint of draught ale while on a trip to Gravesend or the Nore! when all the while the majority of the passengers prefer draught beer to the frothy, bottled stuff which is supposed to be good because it contaius fixed air. England is commionly spoken of as a beer drinking country; but what are the facilities afforded to drinkers? In London and the large towns you stand at the counter, or the bar parlour, or the big room upstars, where one large table nearly fills the space; and in any case you are, served in pewter. In Germany even at very modest houses, the drinking cups and tankards are of glass, or in some instances stone with a pewter lid, and the room is furnished with rows of small tables, which facilitate companionship.
Glasgow Herald - Saturday 24 October 1868, page 3.

This is exciting. He's talking about a pub I know:

"At the Hof Brauhaus, in Munich, I have seen from four to five hundred persons taking their evening draught - brown beer on one side of the house; white beer, with a slice of lemon in each tankard, on the other. At the Ober Pollinger, a 20 gallon cask of beer stands on a pedestal in the middle of the room, and is emptied in about fifteen minutes. Down goes the pedestal, speedily to re-appear with another full cask, which in turn is soon drawn off, and so it goes on all the evening. So rapid is the demand that although the waiters carry five tankards in each hand, they cannot supply the eager customers quickly enough, and you see a crowd round the cask holding out their tankards to the tapster. In some rooms a fountain of iced-water is provided in which the tankards and glasses can be rinsed and cooled. Pains are taken to keep the beer cool in the cellars; hence, as will be understood, the Bavarians are highly favoured in their national beverage. They can drink it to perfection. To those who know what Bavarian beer is this particular will be important, because even a good thing may be spoilt by bad serving. An Englishman who cannot drink beer at home without undergoing a severe bilious attack, finds that he can drink beer at Munich with impunity. He feels refreshed and comnforted thereby but not stupefied. But hould he travel on to Vienna be will find that the Austrian capital has beaten the Bavarian in the article of beer."
Glasgow Herald - Saturday 24 October 1868, page 3.

Did you spot the most fascinating part of this whole article? The one real nugget of fact. That Weissbier was served with a slice of lemon. No way the Hofbräuhaus would do that today. I'd wondered if a lemon garnish had ever been the practice in Germany. It seems that it was. At least in the 1860's.

That pedastal with the barrel sounds very much like the lifts that some Alt and Kölsch pubs have built into the bar and which bring up fresh barrels from the cellar.

Where was I?

Gee, it's good to be back home. I had a dreadful fright. Couldn't remember where I was.

Amnesia is a terrible, terrible thing. Please help, if you can. Where was I?

 

Any idea? I've a feeling in was somewhere in Slovenia.

Munich (day 1)

That's the appetiser polished off. Now time for the main course, pudding, cheese, port, brandy and cigar. Munich.

After a leisurely and relatively late breakfast, we left Oberammergau. Destination Munich. Years had passed since my last visit. I was dead excited. We picked up the motorway, Andy put his foot down and the summer-green fields blurred around us. "Munich here we come", I thought, for no particular reason.

As we threaded our way through central Munich we soon spotted them. People headed for the Wies'n. Queueing at cash machines in lederhosen or dirdls. Wearing funny hats. All headed in one direction.

Our hotel was in a great spot. At the Isar end of the town centre, just around the back if Tal. Handy for Weisses Brauhaus, Augustiner am Platzl and Hofbräuhaus. We were barely out of the van when a group of Americans approached Andy. "Do you know the way to the Hofbräuhaus?" Did the Pope study theology? Of course he knew where it was: just down there, first left then first right.

After a couple of brief exchanges it became clear this wasn't just a random bunch of Americans. They were part of the group we were supposed to be meeting later in . . . . Hofbräuhaus. Which is where we headed after dumping our bags.

One thing became clear on our arrival at Hofbräuhaus. It was a shit place to arrange to meet. Especially on a day like that. We weren't allowed in the main entrance because of overcrowding. Instead, we entered at the side we made a tour of the whole building to get where we wanted to be. Then toured it again looking for four empty seats. Which we eventually found in the Schwemme.

The noise. That struck me. Though close to the band, we could barely hear them over the noise. The noise of human voices. A few speaking, but most shouting. Electric. That's how you usually describe such at atmosphere. Don't know if it really was electric, but it was certainly more than gas. And candles couldn't hold a candle to it.

Foaming litres soon adorned our table. Mine dark, the others pale. Looked great and didn't taste too bad, either. I've had a few pretty duff Hofbräu beers in the past, but this was good. Slightly sweet, nuttily malty as only a Munich Dunkles can be. A litre didn't seem excessive at all.

As we sipped then slurped, Andy went in search. Of the Americans. And his mate Steve. Rather him than me. I'd had enough of forcing my way through the corridors of drinkers. He returned alone. And returned to his beer, from which he took a few slugs.

If you've never been to the Hofbräuhaus it's hard to imagine its scale. Rooms and halls, each containing hundreds, if not thousands of drinkers, stacked upon each other right to the rafters of the the roof. It's a bit like a pub version of the London Underground. At rush hour. More people than you ever want to see, all crammed together.

A second sortie brought Andy more luck. He'd founs the American group. And there was room at their table. Andy guided our little expedition, in single file, through the ravines of drinkers. I brought up the rear. I'd just been observing a particularly good dirndl when I realised I was a lone. Cast adrift in a sea of pissheads. Where the hell were they all?

I stood around for a while, paralysed by confusion. I checked the beer garden. No joy. The corridor. Still no luck. The funny little room next to the beer garden full of teenagers. Not there, either. Where could they have gone? They couldn't be on the outside balcony, could they? As I approached the steps I heard a frantic banging on the window. It was Andy.

They were sitting right next to the kitchen. That provided entertainment in itself. A conveyor belt brought a never-ending succession of plates to the pickup-point, where waiters queued. A ceaseless flow of Schweinehaxe and Weisswurst was loaded onto long trays and whisked away. Cooking on a truly industrial scale.

They must have said something to the waiter. The Americans. Something he didn't like. Because he didn't intend serving us any more beer. Bugger. My glass was empty. And our seats cramped. Andy decided we should progress onwards and upwards. Literally. To the ballroom where Steve had seats. The service surely couldn't be any worse. Could it?

As it turned out, yes it could. Much, much worse. The Long Wait. That's what I called it. The trauma will stay with me forever, clinging like an overenthusiastic fart.

We got our order in quickly enough. Three Helles one Dunkles. Our waitress brought the three Helles then buggered off. The Dunkles was for me.

We reminded her about the missing Dunkles after 10 minutes. And 20. And 30. And 40. Even after 50 minutes. When an hour had passed, Andy went to the bar, found another waitress and came back with two litres of Dunkles. I grabbed both. Lots of catching up to do.

We did persuade our waitress to bring us some food. After about 90 minutes. I had a pair of Weisswurst. Though I wasn't quite in the mood to relish them as much as I should have. After all the effing waiting.

The original plan had been to walk to the Englischer Garten and have a beer in a garden there. But no-one could be arsed, so we went to the Hofgarten instead. It was very pelasant there. Sunlight dappling through the trees. A wooden barrel glugging out glasses of beer. And it would have been a great place to relax and wind down, away from the hordes of the Hofbräuhaus. If anyone had effing served us. We gave up after 15 minutes.

Augustiner Großgastätte is, despite its tongue-twisting name, a favourite of mine. Didn't take much persuading to drop by there with Andy and Steve. If only every high street had a pub as good.

Finally, the beers came quickly and kept coming. Out of the wood. I'd show you a picture of the barrel. But two in a row is just too much. Even of something as beautiful as a wooden barrel. Or the Edelstoff that issued from it. Mmmm. Got to love that Augustiner.

It was time to move on. Andy suggested Der Pschorr on Viktualienmarkt. Sounded like a good idea. Especially as he said they had gravity-served beer. Last time I was in Munich, only Augustiner of the local breweries still delivered beer in oak barrels. Not any more.

Most anywhere else in the world Der Pschorr would count as enormous. In Munich, it's just big. It looks like they're taken over what used to be a covered market as a cavernous extension to the main pub premises. Themselves substantial enough. A giant TV screen was showing a Bayern München game. We passed on that and sat in the main bar. In sight of the barrel. As that was dispensing Helles, Helles it was.

Don't expect any tasting notes. It was far too late in the day for any of that bollocks. Now we had service, it was time for a few carefree pints. And carefree they were, as the next was never far behind. The 50-litre wooden barrels didn't last long. Every twenty minutes it was replaced by a fresh one. And the beautiful noise of a tap being hammered home reverberated around the room. Happy times.

But we weren't ausgedrunken. We considered the Paulaner tent amongst the stalls of the outdoor market, until we saw the ashtrays. Seems the smoking ban doesn't apply to tents in Germany. As it was on our way home, Weisses Brauhaus seemed like a good idea. So that's where we went. There was a queue outside. One out, one in was the door policy. No Hofbräuhaus-style crowds inside here. But there was a decent churn, so we were soon seated.

Weisses Brauhaus seems to employ exclusively grannies as waitresses. It's very homely and reassuring. Soon our granny had brought me an Eisbock and the world was looking a better place. After a second, it was becoming positively heavenly.

Back at the hotel, I realised I'd forgotten to have any tea. I asked the lady at the desk if they had any food. I thought I'd asked for a sandwich. What I got was a dry roll. It did the job. At least until breakfast.

And so ended my first day in Munich. Next was the main event: Oktoberfest. Would my throat get as parched as in Hofbräuhaus? Would I remember to eat? Find out tomorrow in the next installment.



Hofbräuhaus
Am Platzl 9,
80331 München.
Tel. 089 - 290 1360
Fax: 089 - 227 586
E-mail: webmaster@hofbraeuhaus.de
http://www.hofbraeuhaus.de/


Augustiner Großgaststätte
Neuhauserstr 27,
80331 München
Tel. 089 - 231 83257
Fax: 089 - 260 5379
Website: http://www.augustiner-restaurant.com/


Der Pschorr
Viktualienmarkt 15,
80331 München.
Tel. +49 (0)89 / 5 18 18 500
Fax: +49 (0)89 / 5 18 18 545
E-Mail: info@der-pschorr.de
http://www.derpschorr.de


Weisses Bräuhaus
Tal 7,
80331 München.
Tel. 089 - 299 875
Fax: 089 - 290 13815
http://www.weisses-brauhaus.de/