In April I made an expedition to two locations which, while notable destinations in their own right, are not particularly famous for their food. Yet far from providing a shortage of gustatory stimulation, I've learned that trips like this often allow for a finer focus, both on specific local pleasures, and less likely ones that have filtered in from abroad. The second stop (saved for the next post) was the Netherlands, whose national cuisine benefits from fresh produce and dairy (thanks to ultra-modern farming practices) but whose flavors seem wan next to that of its former colonial holdings. The first is Berlin, a banner city for the famously rich gastronomic quilt that is Germany, but also one that sits on its fringes, marked by the staid cold-weather fare of the former Prussian empire. The city’s biggest culinary champion is probably currywurst, the rare dish that somehow manages a decrease in the quality of the run-of-the-mill German sausage.
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At some point recently (likely while sipping a digestif) I realized that these murky, viscous brews are actually just medicine, or at least sprung from the same fundamental tradition stretching from salutatory medieval herb concoctions to modern cough syrup. Both ends of this historical continuum seek to treat bodily ills through bracing infusions of boozy goo; one is natural, packed with plants and herbs, while the other has departed from the proud historical practice of healing-through-inebriation by embracing chemical compounds aimed exclusively at treating specific ailments. Yet just as these antique brews were/are often used for things other than strict healing, these modern-day equivalents can still be easily tipped over into the realm of pure intoxication.
My journey here starts with the above-pictured Underberg, a favored digestive aid since 1846, sprung from this same medicinal tradition. It's also part of the larger general family known as Kräuterlikör, a class of after-dinner drinks which, thanks to the work of herbalists like Hildegard of Bingen, allows you to quaff deep drafts of what’s essentially condensed forest juice, locally sourced from some of Europe’s most interesting old-growth woods. You can also settle for blindly downing too many shots of Jagermeister (the most famous, if not greatest, contemporary Kräuterlikör) and giving yourself a massive sugar-induced hangover the next day. I’ve spent some timely lately digging through the 1930 NYC Dining Guide, an invaluable document for illuminating a time period whose dining mores are now pretty hard to envision, far removed as they are from our current views of what constitutes gourmandizing. An especially archaic section is the one detailing drink recipes, which hearkens back to the rosy days of the cocktail party era, when home bars were routinely well stocked enough to support the construction of everyone’s pet cocktails. Beyond this, the very concept of a dining guide with a drinks section (labeled “What to do Until the Taxi Comes”), serves as an important reminder of Prohibition-era restrictions. While media depicting this time period is rightly obsessed with detailing the cavalier party atmosphere of speakeasies, I imagine there was also a large segment of the populace that felt marginally or less than comfortable with flouting the law, and didn’t routinely frequent these subterranean dens of iniquity. Intended perhaps for this homebody set, the primary purpose of these concoctions is clearly to get readers loaded enough to be able to enjoy a dinner without further need of alcoholic sustenance, aside from a few clandestine nips from a hip flask perhaps.
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The coded language of snacks, sandwiches and seasonings, in NYC and beyond.
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