From Bangkok to Berlin via Delhi, on a sausage roll.

For the longest time, sausages meant masala sausages from Green Chic Chop, subsequently Pig Po and eventually Steakhouse. Basically, masala that doused whatever those desi sausages were about, I didn’t want to know.

Those breakfast buffets, and they could be anywhere, the sausages had more or less the same canned indifference; was always glad to can them, except the solitary sausage to remind myself why I’m all for one and no more.

Then one afternoon in June, in 2011, it all changed at Bei Otto in Bangkok. Previously, we’d been catching a cappuccino and a freshly made ham sandwich at their café. This was their German restaurant. 

No stairway to sausage heaven, just a step or two

Sitting in a German restaurant that seemed more German than anything I’d experienced, the decision was made: Let’s dive into the sausage platter.

Mein Gott. Wunderbar. Schwein! Let me put whatever German I know here, happy to embarrass myself for a delightful memory. It was a Dylanesque song on a plate, Tangled up in…sausage. But still, it was sausage, and their sight was one thing, I didn’t expect much from these bland creatures. Wrong. 

Their magic didn't end with the variations in colour, shape and size  – the taste took it right up to the turrets of Neuschwanstein. With each bite I was walking down the Rhine, glad that I had been audacious enough to order something I thought would backfire.

When I returned to Bei Otto seven years later, it was for a snack and a beer or a coffee; not quite mealtime. Sat either outdoors or in the café, had their great ham sandwich. Then again, maybe I wasn’t ready to mess with a memory that grand.

My next memorable sausage encounter was at Basil & Thyme in Delhi. Funny bit, I didn’t order it, Keith did. Though looking at them, I knew, there was a bit of Bei Otto in them. Forked right in, and yeah, they were more schwein than pig. And so the price that accompanied them; more Delhi than Bangkok or Berlin.

If you strain your ears, you'll hear David Bowie's Outside

Finding myself in Berlin, I wasn’t exactly on a sausage trail; wasn’t even on a food trail. I was walking on, making sure I didn’t eat at one of those tourist traps that camouflage themselves as pizzerias. You could see the world’s tourists there when there was such a thing as tourism.

So here I was in this bustling flea market starting a conversation with a designer. He directed me to Clärchens Ballhaus – “see if the ballroom with the giant mirror is open, it’s upstairs, ask them”

Ballhaus was barely a few minutes away by foot, the Jewish synagogue overlooked it – little did I know, between google maps and me, we’d be pussyfooting round the place for the next half hour when it was bang under our nose. Had I tried moonwalking, would’ve reached faster.

Both Google Maps and me make a great team,
we are directionally challenged

Once there, it was one helluva exclamation that welcomed me. It was a beer garden. The entrance to the ballroom upstairs was shut but the sky was open, conversations were flowing, as was beer, food and creepers on the high walls.

It was quite magical. Finding a table that overlooked it all as if this was my personal fiefdom made me go trigger happy with my phone. This was as German as it gets, the menu no different. I had been warned by the flea market designer that the portions could be humungous, and only his friend with a huge appetite could do justice to the mains.

Notice: The guy behind is looking at her look at the camera/me

What should I do in a place like this, a beer and some sausages please. And could you kindly take a few photos of me drinking my beer.

The sausages arrived, crisscrossing each other like giant scissors. Radish, gherkins, potatoes mustard, German staples it appears. I got down to work.  Schnell! Schnell!

Picture Edward Scissorhands eating them sausages 

Meanwhile, my mind is still preoccupied with those masala sausages that I dumped a while ago. And that hotdog stand that only pimped to my camera. Why? Too touristy for me?

German English, rather frankfurter. 

Learning tower of pizza.

It’s amazing what names can evoke – an Instagram handle called Cheese_Pizza_enthusiast brought back memories of the first pizza I’d ever eaten – at CP Nirula’s. It brought back memories of the perfect sized stainless steel plate the pizza hugged; memories of that crispy wispy crust, the generous offering of bright red molten puree, the melted cheese lava landscape; how if you rushed in too fast, your tongue was scorched; memories of my companions that afternoon, mom and Gautam; the countless rows of pizza ovens, that stainless steel sink with water glasses next to it, the novelty of it all.

It also brought back memories of the last Nirula’s pizza I had for a long time, after which, I disconnected with them for years; until very recently, when there was a change of ownership and things appeared to be on the mend. But of course there was no way they could capture that feeling of those first few pizzas – where, moving from cheese pizza to cheese capsicum pizza seemed like one helluva upgrade. As was when we moved up to the chilli sausage pizza – where we always begged for more of that marinated chilli.

Also served was the reminder that pizza is a default mode for me when I travel - just before a flight, when in doubt, when playing safe, pizza, and even better, the Margherita pizza. If they can get that right, then you go back and try other stuff, like the pepperoni and so on. But the humble Margherita or cheese pizza as it was called way back, is the gateway to the heart of a pizza lover, at least for me. There are no distractions, no extra toppings, just the bare necessities.

It helps when there’s a pizza place close by. In SDA, there is Fat Lulu – until one day, when they outdid themselves by serving us a pizza that had gone round the block before returning to the restaurant – and here we were seated next at the table closest to the kitchen. Other times, when ordering in, they burnt it like it had come straight from the coal mines of Margherita, Assam. But there were enough happy memories but when a joint starts to slide, you also slip, slide away.

At Leo's, VV. A bad pic of a good pizza. 

 And that’s where Leo’s in Priya market, Vasant Vihar stepped in – first shot was the Margherita and a book that looked me in the eye, What’s the pitch. Leo’s was buzzing, and they only served pizza, salad, drinks. It was good but didn’t prepare me for the best pepperoni I had had in Delhi in years – absolute bullseye, just top-draw sausage, what else. Ordered one, ordered another, somebody stop me.

Before this, the last time a pepperoni slayed me like this was the erstwhile Pizza Pizza Express in CP. It seemed like a different place then. Spotless, matchless, not like the also ran it became, no sub-branding could save it. And they had the greatest Caeser salad in town. What else does a man need?

Amici threatened to be the go-to pizza place for a while, they did a mean pepperoni but some bizarre behaviour by their staff spoilt it for me. Possibly why they went and renamed some of their outlets.

Before 1999, I barely ate fish. Which meant my first foreign trip was all about pepperoni pizzas. Why did I even bother looking at the menus? I was like a kid who wanted to be grownup, look at the menu, and then order for himself – one pepperoni pizza please! The fact that I was eating pizza in Italy had put my unformed palate at ease.

Read the menu cover to cover. Ordered the Margherita Pizza. Sweet Jain.

Pizzaing away in Venice, an acquaintance from the hotel, Professor Waldemar seemed both offended and shocked in equal measure, at how foolish we were to be eating pizza at an overpriced tourist trap. He felt sorry for these clueless young Indian tourists and sat them down to an antipasti orgy – one after the other after the other; we just kept picking; it was the longest bill ever, and he insisted on paying. We did not touch another pizza in Venice.

The good professor who saved us from a bad pizza

Back in Delhi, Sundays meant Xena the warrior princess and Slice of Italy or Domino’s pizza – and always pepperoni. This went on for years till one day at Pizza Hut some ingredient (we both thought it was the Ajinomoto) pulled off a Mick Jagger on our lips. That was it with the Firangi chains. We stuck to Slice of Italy but then they couldn’t stick to either hot pizza delivery or that atta crust.

Somewhere down the line came Jamie’s – with the most astonishing puree, as if right there, they had unlocked the secret to the joys of a great tomato and how to extract wonderment from it. And never mind the toppings, Jamie’s killed it with a Margherita. But it wasn’t the pizza alone that made you trip, the lopsided entrance did too – without a warning or a marker. Why on earth would a restaurant pull off a gag at its entrance?

Diva and its Café at the Italian Cultural Centre served pizza too – but it was far from their forte. It was often good enough on a winter afternoon to be sitting outdoors there, transported, but it was the setting and not the pizza that was sending you.

Then came the Diva Café at the Sangam Cinema Mall; with the surprise of all sorts of crusts like Ragi and god knows what else. Ritu Dalmia half-joked I think, when she said her chefs were making all those ingenious crusts for her as she needed to lose weight.

And while the pizzas I have had at La Piazza (Hyatt Regency) have been good, there was something altogether unmemorable about each meal there. Pizza eating can be either a solo or community pursuit, so when the enjoyment dips in the group, it fetters the overall mood.

Ordering in, while working late night at the ad agency, the collective attack on the pizza boxes was about a deep lustful hunger in the belly – never mind what they tasted like; it was seeing those piles of pizza cartons coming in, feeding a bunch of hungry ad guys burning the midnight oil for yet another make or break presentation.

The only time I made to San Gimignano (Imperial Hotel) , wish I hadn’t. Ordered a pizza, some rabbit and wine. The server was a snob, and made it quite an ordeal. Anyway, he got what we wanted, we didn’t return. The place was small, as was the man who served us.

At Spaghetteria Loeta, That cap flattened my hair like a pizza

In Berlin, there was Spaghetteria Loreta. Barely two minutes from the hotel, the servers were Italian, as was the ownership. Suspect the cook was too.

It was my go-to place, when I didn’t want to experiment or was headed out to town closer to lunchtime. It was bustling, quite a few Italians always, and prompt with the orders – a quick beer, and the pizza and salad followed soon enough – as I often opened the Berlin map on table, plotting my pre-pizza move.

But do I remember the pizzas, seeing as I ate there thrice, can’t say I do – it was steady but the kind when you’re nearly done, you really are done.

Waiting. Waiting for the pizza. Just how The Doors would've sung it.

What is it, all that flour, cheese, the repetition – and I long back stopped adding red chilli to my pizza. Mustard or oregano was as far as I'd go.  

But all these years, really didn't have to go very far for a great pizza - as these battle worn gloves will testify. 

Climbing Berlin's Food Wall can give you a Doner.

A shawarma treasure hunt

 From the early days of Arabian Nights and Arabian Delites in V.V and Def Col, I’d leased my stomach to the spicy shawarma. Then came along Alaturka in Select Citywalk with a juicier, pricier doner. If you got the rewrap of the wrap wrong, which I often did, it would leak onto your hands and make quite a mess that added to the ritual – licking up, in a hand-to-mouth Desi way.

Before making it to Berlin, I was dead sure my first meal would be the city’s mainstay – a Turkish shawarma. At the front desk, the Dutchman directed me to the hipster area -  with a lot-of-vegan joints. (Indian = Vegetarian assumption possibly).

After being blown by the East side gallery, I backtracked to Simon Dach strasse – "the alternative part of town". By now, I’d seen plenty of shawarma joints but I was in a Simon says mode. Over the bridge, right followed by a left, and there I was, on the street named after the Prussian poet.

When you see the one, you know it. And there I was, in front of the shawarma joint, that would be the first of many, over the next six days. There was outdoor seating, which clinched it, and made me go indoors to place my order.

Look at those tomatoes on top. And the juice run down

Cash only it was, as it often is in third world Berlin. Demonetisation beckons, perhaps?  What caught my eye, as I placed my order, was the tomatoes perched on top of the chicken-stashed rotisserie. Day in, day out those tomatoes were being juiced, slowly, naturally; and seeping right through that chicken mound.

As I ordered, somewhat hurriedly, and typically Indian and out of line, I wanted to know how long it would take. That shawarma was already talking to me. There was beer too, as often is in Berlin, unless it’s an ice cream parlour.

It's a wrap.

It didn’t take long before my first shawarma in Berlin and me were united. It was wrapped tight, in this gleaming silver foil – I had gone for the roll instead of the sandwich; could tell, the locals prefer the sandwich while the Turks and Asian immigrants roll with it.

In front of me was a wasted roll with fidgety sparrows eating like, what else, but birds.

@donerdach11 was a success. I informed the maker. He asked me to follow them on Instagram. Instead I took a pic of their Insta handle.

Looks like tomatoes got to his t-shirt too

Insta Doner

 None of the shawarmas that followed came with the tomato perch. None had the finesse or poetry of the one at Simon Dach’s. That day, I walked to the next block and wrapped my shawarma adventure with a Ben & Jerry’s ice cream cup from a mom and pop store.

What did I miss? Yogi Snack – that had Tinda Masala; at 6.40 euros the most expensive thing on the menu. Yeah, this place was alternative alright.

 

Love me Tinda

Fishing for a table in Helsinki

there was some banter, and then this photograph

I had been messaging with Sanjoy Narayan who had yet again given me the lowdown of a city he was familiar with; its drinking holes and where to go when you find yourself in a hole.

Sanjoy lives half the year in Finland, the other half in Gurgoan. So if you ever find yourself at odds with what to do in Gurgoan, he's your man.

Among other tips, here's what he said: "If you're adventurous, go to Kallio, the bohemian part of the city, to explore food, music and interesting bars." Here I was, the last of the Mohicans, tracking a place to eat at in Kallio. Adventurous? This place was barely ten minutes by foot. Kolmon3n had the highest ratings, it was a Scandinavian restaurant. It appears Finland isn't regarded as a Scandinavian country; just as Jack Daniels isn't Bourbon whiskey. 

I arrived at a deserted residential neighbourhood with the designated restaurant in sight. There were tables outside. It was cozy indoors. I wanted to be indoors. I didn't have a reservation. 

I had some insistence though. Wangled a table for 45 minutes before the diners with bookings would stake their claim. I was peckish already, found myself seated next to a gent from Hungary. 

the local brew before I behaved like a lukha

I was eating a lot of fish in Helsinki, mostly salmon. In soup, burgers, or straight out of the sea, into the frying pan. I had fish here too. But I didn't photograph so you'll just have to take my word for it. On the seafront however, under the sky of blue, and this is what it looked like - 

A well read fish

But what nailed it for me, and months after I ate it, and don't quite know why I stopped at just one, was a great food investment at the food market - a prawn cocktail on bread. Must have been rye, that's their thing in Finland. The sighting excited me, the price excited me and biting into it was food friggin heaven. For me, that was Helsinki. In a no-nonsense food mart, Kauppatori Market Square and Old Market Hall (of course I had to google that), there it was, waiting amongst many, to be picked by me - or was I picked by it? So I sat it on my thigh and captured it, so i could look back and fill my stomach's eye with delicious. 

"Look at me now behaving like a fool" - Simply Red

I'm wearing the same jeans as I type this. 

After the Free Walking Tour, salmon soup at The Old Market Hall followed - and it seemed as if I had followed my fellow walkers (both from Australia but now in Germany) to share their table. An even longer walk, ice cream and then more fish at the seafront followed.

It was only later that I figured that I really hadn't made it to the proper Boho part - with fresh instructions from front desk, google maps turned on; I set off to Kallio. Only this time, it was further away. 

After the music stores, I made it to a pizzeria run by a sardar and his wife; they came here in 1984; probably after the riots. A beer later, I left for a pub where more beer and fish followed. Also at the bar was this dude with a Jack Daniels tattoo. He said he loved bourbon. I refrained from telling him that JD was not bourbon. 

The waitress doubled up as a DJ at night and asked me to pose in front of this poster. 

So much fish going but it all started with meat balls and a beer at the Scandic Paasi Hotel restaurant. I intended the meat ball snack but what came was the meat ball main course. After relatively inexpensive Berlin, these balls and beer had me by the. 

I continued to see smaller versions of the meat balls at the breakfast buffet for the next four days.

The Kingfisher variant 

Gherkins will save the world or at least the blandest food in Europe 

My last supper was at a restaurant that shared the same staff as the hotel; the owners were friends. A band of Blues old timers was about; and as in Berlin, I made my last sup a Margherita pizza. What is it about winding down before a flight.

I did have a beer, the lightest one I asked for. 

I had an early morning flight, but they had an early morning breakfast just for me - the whole nine yards, and Scotland too. I felt important, being taken care of, and wondering, if it was a little bit extreme for one person. 

I made it through my many course breakfast of fruit, cheese, juice, bread, cold cuts moving back and forth to my table for one. I finished with a weak coffee, because that's what they always served. Apparently they drink so much coffee, they suck the life out of it.