Journey in Germany - Marion Einbeck

WALD UND SCHLOSSHOTEL FRIEDRICHSRUHE
the horses, which were sometimes sulky and pretentious, and at
other time would beg for caresses, we’d spend hours watching
them. By car we went as far as Schwabisch Gmund, the gold and
silver town containing some 70 studios. On the market square
there was a lovely babbling fountain with a statue of the Holy
Virgin that attracted much attention.
Of course, we never planned our wandering in advance. On
vacation, we’d decide which direction to go depending on the
mood of the moment. Still, there was a certain constancy in the
way we arranged our days, for we’d never miss a meal.
Light of foot, though with an imposing figure, Jean Borgeat kept
busy spending time with each guest, and thus made the tour of
the large dining room several times. The spirited maitre d’
acquitted himself quite well of this task, just as he knew how to
maintain the quality of the flawless service.
In a way, he was a goldsmith in the art of serving. He
seemed to address each person with infinite kindness, delicate
and detailed attention, never rushing around even when a waiter
seemed a little clumsy to him. He intervened only when he
thought it was absolutely necessary and never interrupted the
execution of the meal. In a way, it was a daily and never repetitive
creation and to his position he brought the majesty of another
era. When Mr. Borgeat glanced toward the door we already
knew he’d heard footsteps approaching. He’d go over to greet
the arrival before showing him a seat at the reserved spot. And
since he had fine and infallible taste, we would listen to his precious
advice when choosing dishes and wines.
Later, when we were lazily settled and warm from the drink, we
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saw Lothar Eiermann approach. We realized he was not going to
join us at our table because he had important business to attend
to, which did not take very long. We saw the man arrive with a
dish on which we heard a well-cooked golden duck sputtering in
its gravy. The chef carved the pink flesh with the precise gestures
of a surgeon and placed it on the plate. It was then that it
seemed to us that everything began to breathe and the
silence was broken. We had witnessed a remarkable act of
cutting, accompanied by fragrant, irresistible, and appetizing
spirals. The chef left as discreetly as he had come to our table,
leaving us to our gourmandise. The duck was surrounded by
small plump and tender cherries, with a smooth and shiny skin
and the impertinent flavor of wild fruit. The refinement of the
meat of the sacrificial animal was exalted by that of the sunripened
cherries. Since the dish came in two separate servings,
the duck’s legs arrived next, fleshy and tender, to take part in
the sensual feast, accompanied by hearts of romaine, that first
grow in the soil, then to be cooked slowly and gently in a small
fondue pot with a large chunk of butter. These have nothing in
common with their distant cousins, the chicory lettuce that grows
in hothouses and comes out of its glass nursery as if it were
returning from a house of correction, full of bitterness and frustration.
It was Lothar Eiermann’s ethic to give his customers the best
nature had to offer, depending on the seasons, and the chef made
no concessions in choosing his produce. He was an exceptional
cook who didn’t settle for pleasing at any cost or for the fiat of
going along with the fashion by suggesting combinations of
extravagant foods, with antinomic flavors, even if they might
help the business and bring him renown. Respecting ingredients
and good food that arouse the appetite, I understood the chef’s
choice of never having subscribed to that kind of dangerous and
disappointing practice. On my path, I had tried that kind of
avant-garde cuisine. I’d found the creations of those kitchen
acrobats amusing because they were unusual, but in the end I’d
remained without any appetence for their work. Therefore, I had
no need or desire to renew the experience.
At Mr. Eiermann’s table, we were also regaled with a perfect foie
gras with green grapes that was expressed with opulence and delicacy.
Then there was a Coquille St. Jacques with marinated fennel,
ginger, and an orange sauce, like a dessert that glorified the
mouth in its embrace of anis, its strong rhizome fragrance and
the delicate one of scallops. The St. Pierre with baby vegetables
also became one of those memorable experiences. We were simply
in the great traditional cuisine that honors the product.
An eternal and perfect cuisine, food-loving,
appetizing, joyous, and sensual. In the restaurant with its
theatrical red walls, we were enchanted by a rice and veal dish,
small well-prepared potatoes, and were relaxing as we watched
young Johannes Velten very seriously and gently serve us wine.
Some evenings Lothar Eiermann would stay and talk with us.
That is how he told us about some of his encounters. Charlie
Chaplin was part of one of the important moments for him. The
book Starke Stucke that the chef had written made him quite
proud. We’d listen attentively,
without interrupting
the great chef, for fear that
he wouldn’t continue the
account of his memories.
In the morning, we’d wake
up in our lovely suite with
the sunlight peeking
through a crack in the
curtains. We’d get a whiff
of the morning scents,
the fragrance of flowers,
then that of the delicious
coffee steaming in the
cups and announcing the
butter croissants. We
were grateful for this royal
breakfast. A platter of raspberries,
a plate of gooseberries,
but also competing in
their freshness were melon,
pineapple, and grapefruit.
We gazed hungrily at the
breads, the young farmer’s
cheese, yogurts, muesli, and
bowls of dried fruit. We
weren’t aware of time anymore,
but only felt a deep
sense of inner peace.
GRAND HOTEL RUSSISCHER HOF
weimar - 4.55 pm
In the center of the city is a lovely home
with a large, welcoming, red-carpeted
entrance that links the street to the
interior. As soon as the door is opened to
the incessant coming and going of people,
strangely enough one has a feeling of calm
and activity at the same time. Chandeliers
made of drops of Bohemian crystal light
the principal aisle. The floor is decorated
in a light marble that contains the emblem
of the Austro-Hungarian Empire—the
eagle with two heads—preceded by the
inscription “Ihr lieben’, with the signature
of Franz Liszt inside a bronze sun.
It was with these words of welcome that
the musician received Clara and Robert
Schumann at the Russischer Hof Hotel one day in November
1841. Time passed by. The words became golden-stemmed calligraphy
that set their stamp in the marble of the gracious
house. Many years later, the first inhabitants of the Russischer
Hof remained proud of it and the adornment of its history
and the establishment itself preserved an inspiring, benevolent
shadow of great artists—now gone—who had lived
there, and this seemed to cover its walls with a mist of
poetry. In their time, musicians, writers, poets,
philosophers, and painters had been inspired by the
place. The hotel was
blessed and felt like an
oasis, it continued to be
attached to that which is
best in humankind. Here
they had all proclaimed,
"Noble is man helpful
and good". Goethe,
Schiller, Herder, and
Wieland had raised the
dignity of humanity’s
spirit.
But the dark had followed
the light, and with
the town present around
the building—an imperious
one, indeed— the
admirable humanist
vision of great men had
been caught by surprise
almost a hundred years
later by a fanatic faith,
the way a clarion calls
for the moment of combat.
Then it was Adolph
Hitler’s turn to make
Weimar into his general