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.