La Bastille, Saarbrücken

La Bastille, Saarbrücken

Yesterday, my companion and I traveled to the city of Saarbrücken, of which I have written a time or two.  For those who don’t know, this glorious city is near the French border (or what used to be the border).  Drive twenty minutes further west and suddenly people say Bonjour, instead of Guten Tag.

It was shopping that took us to Saarbrücken’s long, wide pedestrian street, from the immense Karstadt department store (located in so many large German cities) to long clusters of smaller shops selling everything imaginable, from the inexpensive and mundane to premier fashions that cause you to pause and reflect on whether to buy a suit and shoes or a new car. 

Wonderful shopping is what we found, but also a gem of a French restaurant, La Bastille.  But before we get to the glory of French cuisine, allow me to give you a thumbnail sketch of Saarbrücken’s heritage.   

This city dates back to Roman times and has seen any number of wars and conquerors.  It’s a list too lengthy to go into here.  But, even in modern times, this city lived through a bouncing ball of hand offs from German to French to German, changing hands more often than a nervous square dancer, most recently in 1920 -1925 as the capital of the Saar Basin (Treaty of Versailles, giving control to France) and 1947-1956 as the Saar Protectorate (French Zone of Occupation, only nominally independent of France).  In 1957, it once again became German.

But, enough about Saarbrücken….the word meaning bridges over the River Saar.  Suffice to say, there are a lot of nice restaurants in this vibrant city and on our trip, we found one to remember.

Down a side street of the main shopping square, sits La Bastille, a French restaurant that lives up to the French fame for wonderful, glorious, fantastical food.  We’ll come to that, but first, your education is important to me, so let’s get a thumbnail of the name, La Bastille.  I’m sure you remember from your Modern European History in high school, there was an unpleasantness in France, better known as The French Revolution, a decade long struggle from May 5, 1789 to November 9, 1799, which dethroned and decapitated a king, while revolutionaries ran wild with a guillotine, known as ‘the people’s avenger.’  You may not know it was France’s official method of execution until capital punishment was abolished in 1981, and was last used to decapitate a murderer in 1977.

La Bastille was a castle, used as a prison in downtown Paris.   It became the symbol of all that was wrong with France’s royal, autocratic government.  The revolutionists attacked it on 14 July 1789 (now a national holiday) releasing seven prisoners, four forgers, two lunatics, and one sexual deviate.  But hey, it’s the thought that counts.  Later torn down, the site is now a traffic circle known as La Place de la Bastille.  In fact, since La Bastille was expensive to run, the government had already decided to tear it down, but if they had, the French would be lacking a holiday.

Place de la Bastille today

But, back (at last) to La Bastille, the restaurant, which on the other hand, was never a prison and I didn’t see any forgers, lunatics, or close friends of mine. It also was not a focus of revolutionaries, and by the way, it serves exceptional food, with exceptional service.  It’s not roomy, but small size cleverly gives it the air of an authentic French bistro.

We opt for an aperitif of Crémont, with a peach flavor and crowned with a speared Mirabella plum. Soon mixed olives and thick slices of baguette arrived.  You know Crémont, right?  I’ve written about this sparkling wine of Alsace, too.  Mirabella plums?  Yellow, sweet, and only the size of large grapes.

the spots are reflections from the polished metal bowl. 

I ordered spaghetti with shrimp, knowing the French would put their own spell on this Italian staple, and my companion ordered potato pancakes with applesauce.  

My dish came with a splendid salad, enhanced with light vinaigrette. The spaghetti had the creamy taste of the French cooks preference for butter.  Delicious!  The shrimp were politely cooked and wonderfully juicy.

As for the potato pancakes and homemade apple sauce….sublime.  They’re not what we Americans think of as pancakes.  More like hash-browns, festooned with fragrant bits of vegetables. 

Halfway through the meal we exchanged plates briefly, a good way to get to know your neighbor.  The woman across from me, whom I had never met……only kidding. And, I’m only a bit ashamed to say my companion and I traded a few more bites after the ceremony of the exchanging of plates.

The meal ended with double espressos and the young woman waiting the table came by with an offer of delicious chocolates.  A perfect accompaniment to the delightfully bitter coffee.

And now, I offer a few photos to give you the mood, the décor, and to let you know exactly why I will soon return to try more of the menu in this exceptional and historically named restaurant in the heart of Saarbrücken’s shopping district.

https://www.restaurant-labastille.de

Snow

A soft white blanket smooths each path,

And fills the blacked faults of trees,

Their limbs so high and stark above

Now share the wealth of winter’s love.

But now my footsteps, every tread,

Blemish nature’s perfect way

And leave the scars of beauty lost

No crossing comes without a cost.

But soon will dawn another day

And blanket once again the land

‘Till winter’s beauty is a ghost

And Spring’s green song again will boast.

Oh, that our taste of winters cease,

The whitened hair, the wilted brow,

And once more our Spring begin,

And our sweet youth to bloom again.

Although I yearn for flowers bright

And sun that burns a golden path,

I shan’t be blind to winter’s fare

But savor beauty while it’s here.

Bavaria: A Quick Glance

Zugspitze

Bavaria:  A Quick Glance

As I write this, I’m in the heart of Bavaria, and for those of you who don’t know, Bavaria is the deep south of Germany, but unlike the deep south of the United States, Bavaria is snow country, the place you come to shovel snow and scrape your windshield and participate in every winter sport imaginable.

Dress warmly, or suffer in the presence of a temperature gauge that hovers below freezing and tumbles down a few degrees when the sun goes down.

Alpine summers can also be a wonderland, with mountain caps still blessed with white, while scantily clad walkers and hikers and bicyclers suck in the mountain air and sweat the trails, high and low.

Even in winter, the natives are outdoor people who thrive on ski slopes and also flat, Nordic (cross country) ski trails.  Not unusual to see eighty year olds coming off the slopes, stacking their skis and doffing their ski parkas to stand in ankle deep snow in steaming t-shirts and sipping liter mugs of ice cold beer.  Saying ‘hardy’ barely covers the territory.

Let’s talk about the world famous mountain range, the Alps.  Check out this map and save me the trouble of writing several thousand words. But, verbose fellow that I am, I will add some comments.  Note there are French Alps and Italian Alps and German Alps and Austrian Alps and of course the Swiss Alps.  The area is home to about fourteen million people, with yearly visitors numbering over 120 million.

Being a curious soul (just ask anyone who’s seen me crouch down and watch meandering ants until my joints ached) I wondered where the name Alps came from.  Well, take your pick!  Latin, albus means white.  In modern languages, alp or alpe refers to grazing pastures and there are plenty of cows here.  Or maybe you prefer the Celtic or Italo-Celtic derivation:  alp, meaning mountains of snow where the mentally deranged grab flat boards and speed down steep slopes in search of death.  Unable to complete their quest on the first try, they do it again and again, slaking their thirst with kegs of brew.

But, you can’t mention Bavaria and The Alps without mentioned the Zugspitze, at a bit over 2900 m (9700 ft), it’s the highest mountain in the Wetterstein Mountains, the portion of the Alps that goes from Garmisch-Partenkirchen into the Austrian Tyrol. The Zugspitze is also the highest mountain in Germany.  Three cable cars will get you to the top. 

Have a yen to ski Austria? Slopes are only 30 minutes away.

Ettal Abby

Anything other than ski and snowboard around here? Yes, of course.  Near Garmisch-Partenkirchen sits the Ettal Abby, a huge, high walled community, where the monks still brew beer and other potables, while tourists stand and marvel.   Then there’s the famous Neuschwanstein Castle, which inspired the Disneyland Castle, and the jewel-like Linderhof Palace, both of which were built by King Ludwig II of Bavaria (1845-1886)

Linderhof Palace

One interesting thing about Ludwig was his quest for privacy.  At the Linderhof Palace (in many ways modeled after Louis XIV’s Palace at Versaille) the dining room is special.  The dining table can be lowered through the floor to the kitchen, where the staff loaded the meal, then  raised the table up to the dining room again.  Yes ‘dining alone’ was taken to extremes, but Ludwig had many quirks.  He never married, had no children, and preferred the company of men. Homosexuality was not a crime in Bavaria at the time, but Ludwig was also a strong Roman Catholic and apparently for his whole life he fought the battle of personal urges versus religious piety.

King Ludwig II of Bavaria

Another wonderful place to visit is the nearby Partnachlamm, a deep and narrow gorge spanning the Partnach River.  Pay your entry fee and stroll a narrow stone path through short hewn caves.  The river winds through a mouthain crevace.  Along the way you’ll see magical ice formations you’ve never imagined that rise in massive splendor from the shallow, flowing river up the vertical cliffs.

Garmisch-Partenkirchen, the town where we stayed is a story-book village of giant wood beamed houses and businesses whose fronts display Bavarian hunting and skiing scenes.

Pharmacy, Bavarian Version

Bavaria is a world unto itself.  The mouthains rival anything in Switzerland and the people still wear wool and leader clothing that immiately identify them as Bavarians.  You won’t hear “Guten Tag!” here as you do in the rest of Germany, but “Grüß Gott!”  You’ll also hear this greeting in Austria, but languages evolve and with the younger generations, you’re more than likely to hear a simple “Hallo!”

Bavaria truly is a wonderland, winter or summer, skier or not.  The magestic peaks  rise like ancient gods that own the land.  And Bavarians are a warm and welcoming people.

In the next installment of ‘Follow Stroud Around the Globe,” I’ll tell you a little something about Bavarian cuisine.  But, first a few more photos of this glorious place, where every snapshot is worthy of a travel poster.

Crime & Guilt, by Ferdinand von Schirach

Crime & Guilt, by German author Ferdinand von Schirach (Sheer-rack) is a romp of a book, leaving you caught up in raucous laughter and bitter tears.  Some would call it a collection of stories, but I call it a book of portraits, or a collection of lives, with a peek into family secrets, interwoven with exactly what the title implies.

The diverse characters populate plots exposing every human frailty and strength.  Take the case of The Hedgehog.  “…only Karim, a brother of the accused was still to be heard.  Hmmmm, thought the presiding judge, we all know what to expect from alibies provided by relatives.  He only had one question for this witness…”  But, one question always leads to another and another, until suddenly, what is certain is suddenly uncertain.  Open and shut case, right?  Well, at least open.

Then there is The Key, a tale of crime and hilarity that reads like a Guy Ritchie British gangster movie.  In all there are eleven stores until the title of Crimeand  another fifteen under the title of Guilt and sometimes it’s difficult to tell which should be labeled as which.

Every story has its surprises, decorated with gritty details.  How about the tale of a man who is pestered by a pair of Neo-Nazi thugs on a railway platform and dispatches them with the speed of a man slapping mosquitoes?  Who is he and what happens next?

At 430 pages, some would say this book is long, but I found myself wishing it were twice the length, maybe longer.  Von Schirach writes with such clarity and composure that you find yourself turning page at the speed of heat, not to finish the book or the story, but to smile and laugh and cry over what comes next.

I’ve written of two other of von Schirach’s books, The Collini Caseand The Girl Who Wasn’t There.  You don’t want to miss those either.

https://stroudallover.blogspot.com/2014/09/the-colllini-case.html

https://stroudallover.blogspot.com/2015/09/the-girl-who-wasnt-there-by-ferdinand.html

Clever!  Engaging!  Write faster Herr von Schirach!

Frosty Day in Germany, Eisiger Tag in Deutschland

Frosty Day in Germany, Eisiger Tag in Deutschland

If you live in a warm clime, you may only remember the icy pains of winter, the car that won’t start, the secret prayer for a snow day, and forgetting the beauty of glass-like icicles, or the delicious crunch of frost under your winter boots, and fields so bright with snow you have to shade your eyes.  Maybe you’ve lost the childhood wonder that makes you stomp frost until you can’t find anymore, or the startling crack of icicles when you snap them off the eaves.  Pity you! 

I still have clear memories of playing hockey on dark and icy streets, or fighting through the rough brush of a forest to find ‘Secret Lake,’ for more hockey.  Then there were the early morning stomps through knee deep snow to deliver newspapers.  Too much snow and ice?  Hell, no! Winter was an adventure, a calling, a private place where no adults dared to go.

But, why keep these long held memories of pleasure to myself?

Let me return you to the frosty days of your youth, with fields that beg for a sled and crisp mornings of frosty breath, when your mother dressed you in enough sweaters, jackets and gloves to equip the Russian army.  Have even a vague memory of rosy cheeks, and begging to stay outside with night falling like a dark curtain?  Remember those skate edges you kept sharp as razors?

I don’t care if you call me child-like, or make fun of the Christmas sweater my mommywife made me wear.  My tears will dry…or freeze. 

Nope, don’t have a sled, but when I see frost or snow, I grab my camera, skip breakfast and stroll until my icy toes beg to go home, and my cheeks share the carmine glow of a matron’s rouge. 

I happily snap away….only photos this time, not icicles.  And night is a time for sleeping, but still, I have that child-like yearning for just one more frosty day…