The Food Calendar

The Bavarian calendar seems to be calibrated more by food than by the ancient designations of the months: Starkbierzeit (strong beer time) ushers in the year with the higher-alcohol beers that eased the way through the strenuous Lenten dietary restrictions. Then, along with the first greening of spring comes Baerlauchzeit (wild garlic time), closely followed by Spargelzeit (asparagus time) and Erdbeerenzeit (strawberry time). By mid June, the chanterelles (German: Pfifferlinge; Bavarian dialect: Reherl) begin to appear in the markets. These golden, trumpet-shaped mushrooms that exude the scent of apricots, ease the pain of the disappearance of asparagus, an event that happens every year on the same day: June 24. Walking through a market, one need not see the Pfifferlinge piled high in bins in order to know they have made a return—the subtle scent is enough to draw your attention.

Chanterelles (Cantharellus cibarius) are definitely not unique to Germany. They grow wild around the world and are one of the most prized mushrooms for cooking—and eating. Most of the chanterelles sold commercially here come from further to the east—this year the markets were filled with mushrooms from Styria (Austria), Lithuania and Belarus. To find local Pfifferlinge, I had to go to the small, independent green grocers.

Chanterelles have a substantial bite, as satisfying as a piece of meat, and a delicate flavor that intrigues the taste buds. Between June and November, mushroom hunters concentrate their search on dry, alkaline ground near spruce and beech trees, as well as under oaks and pines—all found abundantly in the Werdenfels region. Since Pfifferlinge grow in the same area year after year, you can pretty much count on a supply—once you know where to look. But like any treasure of gold, no one is too excited about broadcasting the exact location. Perhaps part of the reluctance to share is due to the decrease in the numbers of Pfifferlinge growing locally—in the past four decades their numbers throughout Germany have significantly declined, possibly due to pollution. A saying that dates to the 16th Century, “It’s not worth a Pfifferling,” provides a definite clue that this mushroom was once more abundant.

One of the earliest German recipes for Pfifferlinge comes from Das buch von gutter spise (The Book of Good Food), considered to be the earliest known German cookbook. It dates to 1345–1354 and was compiled by Michael de Leone, the chief clerk of the Archbishop of Wuerzburg, Albrecht von Hohenlohe. The surviving portion of the manuscript is in the collection of the library at the Ludwig-Maximilians University in Munich. Although the digital version, http://cs-people.bu.edu/akatlas/Buch/buch.html , does not include the recipe, it still offers a glimpse into the communal life of a busy 14th Century religious community often shadowed by the Black Death—and raises the intriguing question of who was actually doing the cooking and trying to follow the vague instructions that de Leone provided.

Pfifferlinge appear in many guises on restaurant menus. My favorite dish is Pfifferlinge cooked in a cream sauce seasoned with herbs and ladled over a bread dumpling (or two). It’s a soul-satisfying combination that, paired with a Riesling, produces a state of pure contentment. But other choices abound—Pfifferlinge with a filet of beef, a Pfifferlinge omelette, or a meal-sized salad with sautéed Pfifferlinge and bacon. I suspect that most of these mushrooms on restaurant plates come from commercial dealers—but in a small town, the restaurant may be able to obtain the mushrooms locally. More than once I have seen people walk into restaurants with buckets brimming over with just-picked mushrooms.

Pfifferlinge—and other wild mushrooms like the Steinpilz (porcini)—are not inexpensive dishes to order in a restaurant. I suspect this results as much from the labor costs as it does from the raw ingredient. Cleaning Pfifferlinge can be time consuming, especially if the mushrooms are small. But cooking the mushrooms is quite easy and I am happy to cook them at home several times a week during their season. Following are two easy recipes—the hardest job is cleaning the mushrooms. Once that is done, you’re just about home free.


Pfifferlinge with Pasta
(serves 1—can be easily doubled)

4 oz. chanterelles, washed and dried
1 Tbl. olive oil
1 onion, chopped
Salt, pepper, and a few flakes of hot peppers
1 clove garlic, minced
1 slice bacon, pancetta, or prosciutto, chopped
Chopped mint (1½ Tbl. fresh, or several pinches, dried
A splash of lemon juice or white wine
Parmesan cheese, freshly grated

2 oz. spaghetti

Wash and dry the chanterelles. Check the gills for specks of dirt and gently wash or brush them away. Dry the mushrooms thoroughly by wrapping them in a clean dish towel.

Fill a medium sized pot with water and bring to boil. Cook spaghetti until it is done.

Meanwhile, heat olive oil in frying pan, sauté onion until it begins to brown. Season with salt, pepper, and pepper flakes. Add garlic and sauté for about 30 seconds until the garlic gives off its fragrance. Add bacon and cook until it browns (if you are using pancetta or prosciutto, add it with the chanterelles—it shouldn’t brown. Over high heat, add chanterelles (chop them if they are too large) and season them with the mint. Sauté until they begin to give off their liquid. Add lemon juice or white wine and allow to simmer for two or three minutes.

Drain spaghetti. Turn the spaghetti into the pan with the chanterelle mixture. Heat for a few seconds, tossing the mixture constantly. Serve in a heated bowl strewn with the Parmesan cheese.

Scrambled eggs with Pfifferlinge and Potatoes
(serves 1—can be easily doubled)

4 oz. chanterelles, washed, cleaned and chopped if large
1 onion, sliced and quartered
1 clove garlic, minced
Olive oil
Chopped mint, burnet or parsley
1 slice bacon, diced
1 or 2 small, firm-cooking potatoes, thinly sliced (I don’t peel them)
2 eggs
2 Tbl. cold water
Salt and pepper

Wash and dry the chanterelles. Check the gills for specks of dirt and gently wash or brush them away. Dry the mushrooms thoroughly by wrapping them in a clean dish towel.

Heat oil in a frying pan. Add onions and fry until they begin to brown. Add garlic and fry for 30 seconds. Add chanterelles and cook over high heat until they give off their liquid. Season with the herbs and a bit of salt and pepper. Remove the mushroom mixture to a bowl.

Add a bit of oil to the pan and then the bacon. When the fat begins to render, add the potatoes, toss to coat and then let them brown. Remove the pan from the heat and return the mushroom mixture to the pan.

Crack the eggs into a bowl and add 2 Tbl. cold water. Season with salt and pepper. Beat.

Return pan to the heat and allow the mushrooms to get hot. Toss in the eggs and scramble.

Serve on a heated plate.

With a salad, this makes a very satisfying meal.

There Went the Sun!

Listening to BBC early yesterday morning, I was jerked awake quite rudely when I heard the announcer talking about the sun crossing the equator, thus officially beginning autumn. Autumn? Where did summer go? Were those three or four sunny days several weeks ago our summer? And there is still so much that I wanted to write about for the blog—about the midsummer’s eve celebrations with the fires that glow along the mountain ridges, about the beer fests, about the flowers gathered from the fields to celebrate Assumption Day in August. On the other hand, that just leaves me with some ready-made topics for next year.

At any rate, our weather turned fallish before the official astronomical event occurred—all last week clouds hovered overhead and the temperatures followed the pattern set by stock markets—they fell. The change (in temperature) was dramatic enough to warrant pulling out heavy sweaters and long-sleeved clothes. Leaves have taken on a yellowish tinge, the color of the geraniums spilling out of window boxes is a bit less brilliant, and we had a heavy frost mid week.

Two friends, Cheryl and Susan, and I decided a short trip in search of the sun was in order. We tossed our overnight bags into the car and headed south early Friday afternoon. The road from Partenkirchen leads past the new Olympic-sized ski jump at the edge of town, then through exquisite Alpine scenery and lush green meadows dotted with sheep and cows. Finally, as the road clings to the edge of a mountain, spectacular views of the valley of the Inn River spread out far below and the road begins a descent into Innsbruck. Passing another Olympic ski jump outside of Innsbruck, we follow those seductive signs to Brenner Pass, the gateway to Italy. About 90 minutes after leaving home, we were in Italy, following the Autostrada past castles and fortresses, the toll booths of the Middle Ages.

After a short stop to fill up on cappuccino, we were back in the car, passing Bolzano, home of the museum where the Ice Man sleeps in an ice-encrusted, glass-walled room. Mountainsides filled with terraced vineyards sped by the car windows. Finally we left the Autostrada and turned onto a road heading west toward Lake Garda. About four hours after leaving Partenkirchen, we emerged from the mountains into the lakeside town of Malcesine, our destination. We quickly found our hotel and walked back to town, down a rock-paved path.

The wind kicked up white caps on the lake and windsurfers, sails billowing in the breeze, whipped across the lake’s surface, providing a stark contrast to the castle with its 14th Century fortifications built at the lake’s edge. Walking through town, we noticed several buildings named after Goethe, one of Germany’s —no, the world’s—greatest writers, poets, and natural historians. He had passed through Malcesine on his “Italian Journey” (1786-1788) and had managed to raise the suspicions of the local ruling family, who thought he was a spy when he was discovered drawing pictures of the castle.

We found a small restaurant and ate dinner on the patio at the edge of the lake with the silhouette of the castle in the background. The meal was simple but satisfying—pizzas for Cheryl and Susan and a plate of pasta with a sauce based on fish from the lake for me and huge salads of fresh greens for all of us. Oh, and wine, too, of course—local wine, probably from a vineyard we had passed on our way south.

The next morning, I found my way to the hotel’s breakfast room and had already made considerable progress on my first cappuccino of the day. Thus fortified, I walked over to the buffet table and found a plate full of small, green figs. I put one on my plate, along with cheeses and fresh bread, and had just bitten into the fig when Cheryl and Susan appeared. The juicy sweetness exploded on my tongue and perked up every taste bud I had. They, too, came back to the table with figs to savor along with the more usual foods of breakfast. And no wonder the figs were so good: the hotel owner had picked them from his yard the previous evening and the delicate fruit had traveled only a few feet to the table.

We spent most of the morning walking around the small market in the center of town. Cheerfully colored table cloths, purses and belts, and tables full of pottery competed for shoppers’ attention. That, of course, built up an appetite, a problem easily addressed at one of the cafés nearby.

On our walk through town the previous evening we had noticed people sitting in cafes drinking from tulip-shaped glasses filled with a liquid the color of a sunset on a summer day. It was time to order our own and try this stunning-looking aperitif. We found a quiet corner in an outdoor café and in no time had our own glasses sitting in front of us. A toast, then a taste, and we knew we had a new favorite in this Aperol spritz.

Although Aperol was first made in 1919 in Padua, it is now produced by Campari. The recipe, which remains secret, most likely includes rhubarb, orange and cinchona, the tropical plant from which quinine is derived. Not only could we enjoy this pre-lunch drink, we could feel positively virtuous because we were building up our resistance to malaria! Plates of bruschetta rounded out this very satisfying lunch. Best of all, we had discovered a way to capture some of the golden sun and bring some sunshine back to our Alpine town.



Aperol Spritzers

2 parts Aperol
2 parts sparkling wine (Prosecco, Sekt, etc.)
1 part soda or seltzer water
ice cubes
slice of orange

Combine all ingredients in a tulip-shaped glass and serve.

Oman in Garmisch

20 June

On my way to the grocery store to buy milk for the weekend, I noticed a sign announcing a concert for this evening by a military band from Oman. A musical program in the park is not unusual—on almost every evening during the summer, some sort of concert is scheduled there: perhaps it’s the local brass band performing Bavarian music or an orchestra playing light classical melodies or Big Band music. But a band from Oman is definitely not usual and a concert, with an orchestra playing in the band shell framed with blossoms on a pleasant summer evening seemed like a perfect way to spend a few hours.

The park, in the center of Garmisch, is a local treasure, a place to relax and recoup one's spirit. Throughout the park, carefully laid-out flower beds always seem to be in full bloom and vistas of manicured green lawns are groomed to perfection. Plenty of comfortable benches and Adirondack chairs under lindens or chestnut trees provide a place to settle in for the afternoon with a book. Small fountains spout water and create gentle gurgling sounds reminiscent of mountain streams; a labyrinth offers meditative opportunities; and a barefoot path lures visitors to shed shoes and walk over pine cones, small pebbles, grass and mud. Nearby, a Kneipp foot bath leading through the ice cold mill stream helps remove the mud accumulated on the barefoot path and stimulate feet until they tingle pleasantly.

As I walked toward Richard-Strauss-Platz and the entrance to the Kurpark, the nasal whine of bagpipes (Dudelsacken--pronounced ‘doodle-zahken’ auf Deutsch) sounded through streets much more accustomed to the oom-pah-pah of brass bands. Who knew the Omanis played Scottish bagpipes? (Well, I suppose it is called O'Man, but that's would be Irish, not Scottish, wouldn't it?) As I found out later, Oman had been heavily influenced by Britain because of its strategic location on trade routes to Asia, although the country had never succumbed to colonialization.

Ten band members stood in formation around the fountain, sounding—and almost looking—like they just came in from Scotland. Like their Scottish counterparts, they wore plaid kilts, but one man was draped in a leopard skin, an animal which I am sure hadn’t seen the glens or lochs of Scotland.

I followed the bagpipers into the Kurpark and was immediately swallowed by a huge, milling crowd. Usually I trot in at the last minute, find a table at the outdoor café, and order a Milchkaffee (café au lait), and happily settle in for the duration—but not tonight. The park was jammed. All the seats in the café were occupied and the benches near the stage were packed with people. I milled around in the crowd and discovered information tables supplied with stacks of books, DVDs, and glossy pamphlets on Oman.

And food alert!! A selection of desserts was being passed out to the concert goers: small bowls of a sweet, marmalade-like dessert with walnuts and a spice, perhaps saffron, accompanied by little spoons, and two kinds of baked sweets, one very sweet and crumbly, and the other with a moister, custard-like texture. During the entire performance, local girls dressed in Dirndls walked through the crowds with trays, offering generous portions of the sweets to everyone in the park.

I eventually found a seat, which was a stroke of luck because the concert lasted an hour and a half. Three bands, all from Oman, performed. Almost all of the music was Western, and a good portion of it was American. And as always happens here, when the opening notes of “In the Mood” and “Moonlight Serenade” were played, the audience murmured its appreciation and approval. It was quite remarkable to sit in a Kurpark in Germany listening to a band from Oman, its members dressed in kilts and playing Glenn Miller’s music, music banned as "degenerate" here during the 1940s.

What occasioned all this effort? It turns out that the sultan of Oman is vacationing at his villa in Garmisch. Well, he certainly announced his presence and made himself very welcome! It was a super PR job, and a very generous gesture. What an amazing world we live in!