A Culinary Walk in the Country: But Not All Walks Are Equal!

Last Sunday, I joined friends on a culinary walk near a small town in the German countryside.   Here’s the setup:  six kilometers, up and down hills, with a station every kilometer or so, serving delightfully tasteful specialties, and local wines.   Drink fab wine and walk for a stretch, with a series of nosh palaces along the way?  Hell yes, thought I.  Where’s the downside?

It’s a sunny day, with temps in the mid-50s.  We drive about an hour to get there.

In Germany, parking is always an afterthought.  Germans build sleek, fast automobiles their automotive engineers rightfully point to with pride.  But, parking?  You vish parking?  Hier?  Phere a couple of Tho-sand people komm zu essen und trinken? Have you lost your Nudeln?

Well, yes, ra-ther.  Drive around.  Finally guide the car up a hill where wild sheep get nosebleeds.  Park .  Slalom down to the center of the village.

Now for wine and food.  I rub my hands together in anticipation.

We pay our tribute, grab our empty wine glasses and step forward, where the line of hopeful eaters weaves and bulges and keeps us away from the food.  The day grows slowly more chilly, as I begin to notice while the line creeps forward at the pace of a pensive sloth.  But, oh, well, the day is sunny even with the now piercing chill turning my fingers to something normally thrown in a whiskey tumbler with Scotch and soda.  Not to complain too much.  The crowd is friendly.  And, when we search for a place to sit and eat our wurst and pommes frites and steak-on-a-stick, people smile and accordion together to make room.  I sense this will remain a happy crowd unless the wine gives out.  Judging from the expansive vineyards, there’s no chance of that.

Steak on a Stick

 I’m on my second glass and afternoon is still only a whisper past morning.  I down the last fragrant drops.

Time to begin the hike.  Thankfully, the next stop is only a short distance, on level ground.  More sausages.  More wine.  Still sunny.  No sweat.

 Then the slope changes for the worse.  Radically. Uphill. Steeply.  My wine is beginning to slosh.  I soon regret my last cigarette from forty years ago.  The thighs are getting a little tight, but stalwart that I am…

 More uphill.  If it gets any steeper, I expect Sherpas to lead the way.  And, now the sun it seems has something else to do.  Disappears faster than a virgin at an orgy.  Also, the wind picks up.  Oh, well, I’ve reached another wine and food comfort station.  This time it’s planked salmon roasting around an open fire.  The seductive aroma wisps through the crowd.

 But, at this point, the unpleasant chill transforms itself into a vicious wind with icy intent.  The lines for salmon are longish, as in a thirty-minute wait longish.  But, the fire is mercifully open, so I find a spot and thaw my fingers.  Right before the sleet begins.

Then wind picks up to gale force.  Tents flap and babies cry as the multitudes huddle together.  My companions and I plot an escape from this madness that the Germans call spring.

Then the sun comes out.  Should we go or stay?  While we dither, the sun’s fire dims again and the wind runs rampant, with accompanying sleet.  Decision made.  Downhill.  Fast.

Some brave souls stagger on.  I silently wish them luck and wonder at their stoic determination not to die a frozen death.

We make it back to the car and terminate the day’s outing a few hours sooner than expected.  No planked salmon either.

However, there is some recompense to this dreadful day of man versus weather.  Through sleet-blinded eyes, I manage to notice the scenery is gorgeous.  Get your mind out of the gutter.  Nobody’s going topless on a day like this!  I’m talking about the grassy, emerald hills, the graceful lines of winding trees, and white bushy blooms that signal a faint hope of spring.

 The day is far from wasted.  In short order I’ve grown to once more appreciate sunshine’s golden blessing, and to reacquaint myself with delicious wine and roasted sausage.

But the real star of the show today is the spectacularly beautiful German countryside. 

No more wine?  Don’t be foolish.  A well-stocked wine cellar awaits.  Also a roaring fire.

Culinary hikes are shelved for another day, and next time a German tells me spring is here, I’ll know he’s either a wild eyed optimist, or the same guy who told me parking was no problem.

Let’s Git Necked! The Friedrichsbad Spa in Baden-Baden

The imposing Friedrichsbad, dating from 1877.  (Photos are not permitted inside, so all photos are shamelessly stollen from around the internet.)

Toss off those clothes and get your warm, pink body in a pool with strangers?  If you’re American, you’re thinking, sure!  Just as soon as Sports Illustrated asks me to be in the swimsuit issue, or The Chippendales call me to audition.  Poor body image or just unbelievably modest? I think it boils down to mindset.

Europeans simply do not look at nudity the way we Yanks do.  No judgment, just differences in outlooks.  A European says nude and an American’s eyes pop wide, while the mind screams SEX!

The phobia spills over into every aspect of our culture.  Nobody in Germany would consider putting fig leaves over statues, or hesitate before stepping into a mixed-sex sauna.  People don’t protest outside art shows, or insist that unclothed painting be kept in a back room.  Natural to Europeans means natural.  Sex means sex, which to them is entirely different from nudity.

Immediately the question pops like a firecracker:  Can’t I have both?  See, now that’s the disconnect.  You’re still stuck on sex.

I’m not saying that people who also think Italian cars are dependable, dogs belong in restaurants, and 19% tax should be added to every damn purchase are always right in their points of view. But, when it comes to nudity, we need to rethink our outlook.

For Americans, who internalize and dwell on their every bodily imperfection and “should be ashamed of themselves” for parading around au naturel, the very idea of going to the huge Friedrichsbad Roman-Irish spa in the Black Forest city of Baden-Baden becomes a paralyzing hurricane of ethics, morality, childhood fears, cultural mores, and puritanical religious values.  It’s from the “My mother would be ashamed of me” school.

The entryway to the spa.

So how, as an American, do you weather that perfect storm of doubt and fear?  Exactly the same way you overcome anything else that prevents you from trying something new.  You close your mind and simply do it.  You know exactly what I mean.  It’s what you do when you make your first trip to the gym.  Your heart races, you’re out of shape and won’t be able to do the exercises like an Olympic gymnist.  Damn, you’re fat and everyone else is perfect. Everybody’s going to stare at you and laugh.  Shame smothers you!

Then you get to the gym and the concentrated effort on meaningful exercise leaps over the irrational walls.  Even if you don’t notice, your brain figures it out.  Nobody, but nobody has a perfect body  (without Photoshop and an air brush), and everybody in the gym feels just as you do and is concentrating on exercise.

Your next thought:  You lying bastard!  Don’t tell me you go in a nude sauna and don’t notice the tits!  Yep, you do notice, just as you notice the tits on the Venus de Milo at the Louvre, but I doubt you remember what her tits look like, only that she’s a very graceful woman missing both arms.

I spent over three hours in the Friedrichsbad with my traveling companion.  I didn’t notice people staring and neither did she.  Matter of fact, the main thing on your mind is hot, very hot, or cold, very cold water temps.

First off, this spa, which dates from 1877, is family friendly, but children don’t go in the baths.  Drop them off in the Kinderpradies (Children’s Paradise), and your child will be cared for by trained adults and offered any number of amusements.  Open to children from 18 mos old.  Next door is the huge Caracalla Therme, which is a separate building, and offers a full family experience, with bathing attire required.

Why is the spa listed as Roman-Irish?  Because it is a combination of the traditional Roman bathing pools, with steam room features from traditional Irish baths.

For the Friedrichsbad, here’s the adult regimen (recommended times are posted on the wall of each stage): You start with a shower, in a roomful of a mixture of men and women, all naked and all taking showers. Then it’s time for the warm-air room, then the HOT air-room. Take your time, let your body adjust.  You find yourself pleasantly melting. From there, another quick shower before getting a full body, soapy scrub by a masseuse.  Hard or soft brush?  Your choice.  Either way, you end up pink and re-invigorated.

Here’s a clip of the scrub brush massage: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yPDHwQFyMcY

Hey, get that soap off with another shower and then, as in the style of the Ancient Romans, you move to a series of warmer baths and steam rooms.

Following that it’s the cool-down phase that take your body in stages of water temp, from overheated to comfortable to the tooth-chatter pool.  

The huge and elaborately domed 'freezing pool'

After the dental check….just kidding, but I had to throw that in…you savor a warm shower, and finish with a relaxing cream-lotion massage.  Did I say finish?  I almost left out the best part, the relaxing room.

Your masseuse wraps you in an oversized towel, about as thin as a bed sheet, and leads you to a darkened room that has maybe room for fifty.  You lay down on a comfortably raised cot, the towel wrapped around you, and she further wraps you in a blanket.  You lay in the dark, so relaxed you’ll probably take a nap, while the lotion sinks in to leave your skin buttery soft.  

The resting room:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t5cFsD8PeMA

Need more rest?  There’s a large, airy, window filled, second story reading room, where sunlight recharges you.  Don’t ask me how the hell you ended up with a book in hand.

Three or three and a half hours have silently slipped away during the 17 stages of the spa.  You’re still not thinking about sex.  Matter of fact, just getting into your clothes is an effort, with bones that have turned to rubber and such a feeling of blissful relaxation you’d prefer to stay au naturel for another day or two.

But, for the cowards, there are also days when bathing suits are worn and men and women bathe in separate sections.  As if I care!  I came here to purge mind and body.

Time to wander slowly, but deliberately back to the comfort of the hotel and another nap.  Sex?  Who needs it?  Sleep…I need sleep.

If you want more details, just select the English option at Friedrichsbad  : http://www.carasana.de/de/friedrichsbad/

Rizzi: A restaurant and more in Baden Baden

When I say restaurant, I don’t mean barbecue or fast food.   A BBQ joint is a joint, not a restaurant.  Too snobbish?  Not at all.  I sometimes go a hundred miles out of my way to sample fall-off-the-bone smoked meat.  But, it’s still not a restaurant.  Fast food?  All you can eat buffets?  Abominations!  Cavemen ate better, even on a bad hunting day.

A restaurant worthy of the name has an almost indefinable aura of sophisticated comfort, with well-conceived dishes, where art and flavor come together in a heavenly amalgamation of culinary splendor.  As a close friend of mine says, “If you come away thinking I could have done better, you may have just eaten, but it wasn’t in a restaurant.”

A restaurant makes you feel so comfortable you know right away you’d like to come back, even before you sample the cuisine.  My perfect restaurant is dimmed, but not dark.  The wait staff wears starched shirts, clean waist aprons, and is professional enough to know you don’t EVER stack plates on a diner’s table.

 The silverware and crystal gleams.  There may be a single flower in a vase, or a small candle, and the only condiments are salt and pepper grinders.  If there are table cloths, they are starched and white. The waiter politely hands you an opened menu, he doesn’t toss it on the table as someone would scraps to hungry dogs.  He’s friendly, but not overly familiar.  With a hint of a smile, he easily recites the chef’s evening selections.  I found such a hideaway in Baden Baden.  Rizzi.

 Rizzi inhabits a sizeable faded pink, stucco and brick building on the Lichtentaler Allee. (http://stroudallover.blogspot.de/2016/04/in-baden-baden-on-lichtentaler-allee.html) You could walk right by it, sandwiched as it is between two huge and fabulously fabulous hotels where the rich and famous have gathered for more than a hundred years.  But, do stop, if only for a drink.

 Stepping under the canopied entryway, we head for the elegant bar. The bar of a restaurant adds to the atmosphere and offers a quiet place to sip and reflect on whether the waitress that just floated past with a full tray was also carrying food. 

Igor at work

The barman is smilingly attentive and builds drinks with a flourish, just as you like them.  No silly gimmicks of burning cinnamon sticks, or artificial syrups. 

 “Use Lillet instead of vermouth for my martini, please, with a twist of lemon.” Bond, James Bond...or rather Ian Fleming has taught me a thing or two.

“Of course, sir, and do you have a preferred gin?  If not, may I suggest a German gin?  Monkey 47.”  He knows every libation on his bottle-lined back counter. Igor is as smoothly efficient as an English butler.  Politely deferential without being obsequious.  You only need whisper your desires.  By the way, the martini is fabulous and that comes from a man who has been under the spell of Martinis in the very best of places. My companion has a delicious Moscow Mule, with just the right kick from freshly cut ginger root.

A few tidbits to nibble?  Of course.  Salted peanuts and flavored chips appear in dainty dishes.  “Just a moment,” Igor says, and returns with chunks of crusty Italian bread.  He comes around the bar and adds virgin olive oil, balsamic, Parmesan, and black pepper to our small plates.

We discover with our first sips that it is here we want to linger and dine.   We mention it to Igor. “Do you have reservations?” he asks.  We tell him, no.  “Just a moment,” he says and in a short while he has worked his magic and we’re escorted to our table.  We came at the right time.  When we first climbed onto bar stools, the restaurant was meagerly populated, but after being seated for dinner, the place fills up.  The hum of conversation and laughter float past.  Waiters and waitresses do a delicate ballet, avoiding each other and the crowd of patrons, while balancing full trays.

Ok, you say, but you come to a restaurant for food, right?  Correct.  And we are not disappointed.  Delighted in fact.  My date’s primavera salad with succulently grilled shrimp and my pasta with scampi quiets our conversation, even before the first bites.  Heavenly aromas envelope us.  The house white wine is sensationally smooth and fruity on the nose.  A meal to remember. I could not have done better!

 So, what is it that really makes Rizzi so special?  Easy.  The atmosphere is elegantly comfortable, the food delicious, but in the end, the whole dining experience is special because the staff made us as feel special as A-listers.

Salut! Prost! Cheers!  And if you get to Baden, drop in to Rizzi and say hello to Igor.