Berlin's Wurst
by Madhu Krishnan

Europe is filled with street vendors selling hot food from carts, booths and stands. Each country has its delicacy, the smell of which beckons hungry tourists to indulge in a bit of authentic national flavor at every corner. London has its kebabs, Paris its creperies and Berlin its bratwurst. If you picture Central Europe to be teeming with sausage in all its incarnations, Berlin does not disappoint. An average vendor sells countless iterations of processed meat: currywurst, turkeywurst, bratwurst, the list goes on. At any hour of the day, sausage stands are crowded with tourists hungry for an authentic German snack.

In December 2001, when I had to good fortune to be in Berlin for the holiday season, I witnessed the spectacle of the roadside wurst stand firsthand. My friend and de facto tour guide, himself a vegan, insisted we go to one particular wurst stand so I could sample "the finest bratwurst in Europe. " Always up for "the best" of anything, I agreed to suspend my usual disdain for bratwurst and head over.

After several bus changes and a near fatal dash across one of Berlin's wide boulevards, we arrived at the home of Berlin's supposed best bratwurst. True to the reputation that preceded the place, it was mobbed. The tiny stand looked more like one of the Gilroy Garlic Fries stands in Pac Bell Park than any sort of world-renowned establishment, but sometimes the best things are the most innocuous. People spilled onto the street from the small dining area on the sidewalk, apparently convinced that death by a speeding German motorist was a small price to pay for a few mouthfuls of the finest bratwurst in Berlin.

After standing in line for twenty minutes, it was finally my turn to order. Wanting the real deal, I ordered a simple bratwurst. The plate I was handed didn't exactly look like the gastronomic masterpiece I had been anticipating. Actually, it looked like a hot dog, thrown on a paper plate — but the presentation didn't matter! The taste was all that counted. Because I didn't want to dilute the purity of what I imagined to be the greatest sausage I would ever taste, I took a bite without any ketchup, mayo, mustard or any of the other condiments that everyone else was throwing on theirs.

The bratwurst wasn't bad. To be honest, it wasn't that great, either. Really, I was disappointed. I'd trekked halfway across Berlin, risked death by rabid tourists and crazy drivers, all for a piece of mediocre bratwurst. If this was the best bratwurst in Europe, I'd be sure to steer clear of bratwurst for the rest of my trip, that was for sure.

After a minute, though, I realized something; the bratwurst tasted familiar. In fact, I was sure I had tasted this exact type of sausage before. Then it hit me: I was tasting my favorite snack from my preschool days, Hickory Farms' Sausage on a Stick. I had traveled thousands of miles, spent far too long in the freezing cold and ended up with Sausage on a Stick, only more expensive!

Later that day, I asked the other Americans I was traveling with if they had been to this bratwurst stand, and what they thought of it. Every single person gushed over the fabulous quality of bratwurst in Berlin, saying that it was impossible to get bratwurst like that back home in America. The mystique of authentic German food from an authentic German street vendor had clouded everyone's judgment. That night in Berlin, Sausage on a Stick reached heights of delicacy that the good folks of Hickory Farms can only dare dream of. And I was out 4 Deutsche Marks, with a raging stomach ache.

E-mail Madhu Krishnan at moutarde_mechante@hotmail.com.

— graphic by Alison Paddock (arpdesigns@hotmail.com)