Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic, who thinks it’s no wonder the economy is f**ked given they put a woman in charge.
TIME for a city break. I’m no lover of the Hun, but I keep hearing good things about Berlin. So not being one to harp on about the fact that we kicked their arses twice at World Wars, I’m giving it a go.
It’s only a two-hour flight and I’m at my hotel in no time. I’m pleasantly surprised to discover they all speak decent English. Although it’d be stupid for us to be speaking Kraut after we won. Twice. Sorry, wasn’t going to mention that again. Still true though.
My hotel boasts of serving a ‘traditional German breakfast’: bread rolls, jam, honey and Bavarian white sausage. You wouldn’t see that advertised in Britain, too offensive for the woke liberati. Maybe the Nazis got a thing or two right after all.
Being a cultural type of guy, I’ve booked a sightseeing tour before lunch. Three hours trudging round in the pissing rain looking at old buildings. The Brandenburg gate, which is supposed to symbolise peace and unity. Pity they didn’t think of that before invading Poland.
Checkpoint Charlie’s a bit pointless now, and then there’s Hitler’s bunker, or rather a muddy, deserted car park. Slightly disappointing because I was hoping for animatronics of Eva Braun and Goebbels.
Cultural bollocks out of the way, I grab a spot of lunch. I try the most famous street food here, currywurst. It’s well named, it’s the worst attempt at a British curry I’ve ever tasted. A roll with a sausage and spicy ketchup? Ron sells those at his breakfast van off the ring road at home. About as authentically German as fish and chips. They even claim Berlin is the birthplace of the doner kebab. F**king cheek. What’s more traditionally English than a doner from the chippie?
A trip to the Berlin Icebar follows. It tells the story of a German Arctic exploration that became marooned in ice in 1869. You’d never see British explorers bollocksing things up like that. It’s f**king freezing and the included shots are tiny.
But it’s dinner I’m really here for. I find a nearby wirtshaus, or ‘inn’ if you don’t speak Teutonic. I peruse the menu. More bloody sausages.
There’s Konigsberger klopse, which is meatballs in a cream sauce with capers. Sounds disgusting. And sauerkraut, haha! Still sour over losing the Battle of Britain, no doubt. Sorry, there I go again.
I opt for the eisbein, or pork knuckle with pea puree. Not good. The pork knuckle has more blubber than Diane Abbott and the puree is like baby food. No match for British mushy peas.
I leave most of it, grudgingly pay up then head for the nearest kneipe, or ‘bar’ to us. Six pints later and now starving I try one of their so-called authentic German doners. Tastes exactly the same as the ones back home. Told you they’d nicked the idea off us.
Now I’m flying home and it’ll be a relief to set my feet down in good old Blighty again. Would I return to Germany for the food? Who do you think you are kidding, Mr Hitler?
