Journey in Germany - Marion Einbeck

sounds, the window is open, a Jesus looks at us on a shelf from
where he watches the world, a sunflower in a little vase bends
its head, and the wine we are tasting is incomparable, as
is Arne’s smile this evening.
It had taken five generations to turn a farm
that subsequently became a butcher’s shop
into one of the finest restaurants in the
region.
The place could boast a kitchen masterfully
orchestrated by a chef of whom
it could be said that he was “born in
the theater,” for the
expression “born in
the kitchen” doesn’t
exist, not even
when a cooking
pot is one’s first
home. Winf
r i e d
SCHWARZWALD HOTEL ADLER
Zumkeller
came in a
s t r a i g h t
line from
p r a c t i -
tioners of
the food
profession. After his
father—a sometime
chef and a butcher
the rest of the
time—Winfried, the
family’s son, had in
turn become an
ambassador of fine
food. Through
hard work and
with a strong will,
he’d even managed
to make his place
into one of the
finest restaurants
to be found in all
of Germany.
Winfried was a
great cook and,
like all great
cooks, had retained
his good nature and a
generosity that made him a most
30
Hausern - 3.40 pm
appealing and especially popular person.
To be convinced of this, all you needed
to do on a Saturday night, was wander
through the crowd of guests waiting to
meet the master. If by chance there was
an empty seat, you’d sit down waiting
for the arrival of the chef who’d appear
in due time to have a friendly chat with
each of the guests. Everyone would
await his turn and it would all happen in
an established, prize-giving ritual.
When our moment had come to be
noticed, we behaved like two children
confronted by a teacher, as we stuttered
a few words. Winfried was polite and
acted as if he hadn’t noticed our stammering, but asked us
with a great smile what we’d like to have for dinner. His manners
were gentle, he had beautiful frizzy hair, very light blue
eyes, and he wore a white chef’s jacket and dark pants. After
introducing us to his slender wife, who was wearing the traditional
regional dress, he led us to our table. They were an
open-minded couple who loved foreigners. We were immediately
at ease with Mr. and Mrs. Zumkeller.
The meal that followed was, without a doubt, one of the finest
we have ever tasted in Germany. Even now, the memory makes
my mouth water. A tuna carpaccio with a well-seasoned curry
sauce was a sun-drenched, sparkling dish that warmed both
body and soul. A small gem of splendid, tender lamb followed.
It was presented like an egg enveloped in aspic,
with dried tomatoes, and impudent ceps like hot and
hilarious will-o’-the-wisps on the tongue. A perch came
next, surreptitiously slipping its smooth, full body into a corner
of the mouth, its consistency aromatic, caressing, and silky.
We were regaling ourselves, drinking the exceptional wines of
the Bercher vineyards. Dear God, how fine all of this really
was! The crawfish that came next were equally worthy of
being remembered but, because it was so good, the dish seemed
almost too small. It was round, dense, and ample, staying in
the mouth, and came with a lively, sensual bisque. It was a
marvel of fine eating. The chef proved to be a superb sauce
maker. How can one not mention the course that followed,
which truly had to be good to suffer the comparison
of excellence with what we had just tasted. A
marvelous and royal Venison, the traditional dish, arrived,
accompanied by small beads of flavorful and tender spätzli in
fine butter. Then there were sweet, tender, and creamy baby
cabbages, served on a small plate. For dessert we decided to
have a compote of quetsch and plums, and we also tasted the
champagne Sabayone and hazelnut ice cream. It was an
exquisite moment.
We could now talk at leisure about the warm and carefully
chosen décor of the bright pillared room we’d been given, from
the large soft bed, in which we slept very well, to the gorgeous
and cheerful façade of the hotel with its balconies filled with
pots of flowers in every color. For us, however, none of this
had the same importance anymore, because Mr. Zumkeller’s
cuisine superseded everything else and was, in and of itself,
well worth the trip.
In Munich we had decided we would go to Murnau, about
which we had read in a tourist brochure, for a few days of
rest. The high mountains of the Zugspitze were tempting us
with their sharp forms that purify the heart from any worldly
desire. We were dreaming of long walks, wandering hither
and yon, and achieving the lengthy hikes necessary to reach
Gletscherbahn at and altitude of 2,964 meters. We wanted to
climb the mountain, stop at every turn and take advantage of
the unobstructed view over the opulent landscapes whipped
up by the Föhn. Its breath would increase the view, blow
away the clouds, and bring good weather. The power of the
rocky barrier would
parade before our
eyes, and the peaks,
which had seemed to
block the horizon
just a few minutes
earlier, would be
reaching up behind
it. It would try to
retain each of the
extraordinary, mobile
colors that were
blending together.
This way we’d
escape from the
routine of the
usual perspectives
and recognize the
image before us of
the four neighboring
countries in a
panorama that
rendered one
speechless. We’d be able to see farther and at the same time
we’d discover this part of Germany; the Dolomites and Italy;
the peak of the Bernina and Switzerland; the Grossvenediger
and Austria. We wanted to see the last outposts of the
Kaisergebirge, the Dachstein, and the Karwendel; the icy summits
of the Upper Tauern; the Upper Alps of the Tyrol, the
Ortler, and the Bernina; the mountains of the Allgau and the
Ammergau; the lower regions of Bavaria. We were eager and
impatient and wanted only to begin wandering under these
skies that were unknown to us. As we were driving rather fast,
the distance diminished and so did the hours, and soon we
were arriving in the blue land we had wanted to get to know
so much. We were in Murnau.
Closely associated with the hotel, Thomas Heilig had welcomed
us with a dazzling smile as soon as we arrived. Facing the
blue sky, the young, elegant manager of the Alpenhof chatted
ALPENHOF MURNAU
31
Murnau - 5.36 pm
about the fine weather we must have brought with us, then
obligingly asked after our trip, cleverly keeping our ideas in
mind.
We’d entered the place through the paved courtyard of the
hotel, all in flower, and parked our car in front of the main
entrance, in the court surrounded by well-kept buildings, the
way the great Swiss chalets are in the green mountain pastures
and fields. Thomas seemed to enjoy our pleasant exchanges
that continued until evening on the terrace and later at a table
in the dining room of the genteel restaurant. We found out
that the young man was married and that his wife originally
came from South Africa where they had met, and that they
had two children. Outside of his family, which mattered more
to him than anything else, Thomas loved his profession. He
was proud to have had his first hotel experience as a kitchen
apprentice, even if
he’d rather quickly
come to prefer
working in the dining
room before
finally taking over
the direction of the
establishment. He
spoke so wonderfully
about his
adopted Bavaria,
which he liked to
compare to Austria,
the land of his
birth. We listened
to him, enjoying
the moment of communication
and
sharing, which
mixed with the
cloudless sky,
the distant blue
mountains and,
at their feet, the sheep-like wool of water droplets
subduing them in a strange shawl of mist, the delicate
blooms on the balconies close to us, and the flowers in
the park and pastures. On the table stood freshly
squeezed fruit juices that Thomas had offered us; the buttercup
yellow façade of the house responded to the rays of the
sun; the shutters, green like little corners of the field were
opening up to springtime. Watering cans in every color and
size seemed to be standing at attention on the ground in the
perfect alignment of a squadron ready for inspection.
We were staying in one of the elegant wings of the hotel and
occupied the prettiest suite one could dream of. A bottle of
bubbly champagne awaited us in its silver bucket together
with endlessly appetizing delicacies on delightful little platters.
Their sinful and delicious little bites aroused our desire
and were devoured in less time than it takes to mention them.