The Language of Food

The Language of Food : <German Edition>

If I have to find a beginning to the story, I would say it started with the chicken croquettes. It is French but food (and words) evade boundaries, and sometimes dimensions. Those six golden pieces of croquettes provided a much needed sense of familiarity on that particular day. That was the beginning or day zero of my German classes.

Why did I choose croquettes? Because the language that I had learned last was French. It might not make sense, but that’s how I operate. And I, for some reason, tried to take a peek on the memory lane from those days. I don’t know if we can call it a walk down memory lane, but it definitely sprinkled bits and pieces of nostalgic moments from the days when I was learning French.

With each bite of the croquettes, its crunch invoked the memory of the page-long essays that I wrote based on the different aspects of the French cities, and the soft chicken and cheesy insides brought back a sense of comfort/familiarity that one may seek in an unexpected situation. However, being only six of them there, the croquettes disappeared from the plate sooner than I had expected, and so did the momentary sense of nostalgia. Afterwards, I went to a bookshop. A few more events later, the reins of day zero was taken over by the reign of the dusky skies. And I called it a day.

Day 1 was eventful and uneventful- eventful in terms of the newness and the extreme foreign feeling of a new place and unfamiliar faces, but uneventful otherwise. During the break time, which was around 30 minutes or so, I decided, stupidly enough, to skip food. I can’t stress it enough just how stupid that decision was. I skipped food during the break for pretty much the entire first week. It did not go in vain though, because I acquainted myself with few of my classmates. Additionally, break time was the only time when we could speak in the language common to all of us, English. That time, it felt like a privilege. 

                    It might not make sense, but that’s how I operate.

The second week started on a different note, pleasantly different. Imagine a place laced with the aroma of freshly baked cookies, the earthy smell of roasted coffee beans, and a rich display of multitude of breads and other baked goods. That heavenly smell that wafted as the doors opened, always gave an impression of the Narnia-door, transporting you to a land of magic, even if it was for ten to fifteen minutes, on an average.

There were a few such cafés in the vicinity and I tried a new one each day. Some days, I would just opt for a humble potato bread, or a cinnamon pretzel, or even a sourdough sandwich. But some times, it would be a more time consuming (and rightly so) hot cocoa and croissant, or a delectable slice of cheesecake. Oh that cheesecake! The buttery crust with that sweet vanilla scented cheese cream and a mildly tart and sweet flavour of fresh berries (and sometimes their in-house coulis) …I still remember every bite of it.

With each passing day, I felt a sense of belongingness. The classes had started feeling more familiar, at least we had started understanding what was being taught. The classmates, even though they came from different walks of life, were becoming more of friends than just being acquaintances. We no more had to wait for break hours to communicate. And somehow everything made sense. I think the food had a significant part too, at least for me. And so, I decided to expand my horizon a bit.

For a moment, I wondered why I made that “hasty” decision. What on earth was I thinking?

One day after classes, I think towards the end of the third week, I decided to stay back and try the restaurant that was on the far end of that street. I had never visited it during the break hours because of time constraints. While browsing the menu, I wanted to try at least 10 of their dishes. Sometimes the decision to select your meal feels like a life altering decision. It was one such moment. Frustrated, I opted for the dish that wasn’t even there on my list, mac and cheese. For a moment, I wondered why I made that “hasty” decision. What on earth was I thinking?

The dish came, looking as unassuming as a cheese-laden-dish could look. And the first bite blew my mind. It was the best mac and cheese. EVER. I never knew a dish as simple as that could taste so decadently wonderful. Every morsel of it was an experience that words could never describe. The smooth creamy cheese with just the perfectly cooked macaroni took my mind over the moon. The melted cheese was melting my heart, one spoon at a time. That was probably the moment when happy tears would have made sense. Of all the meals I have had in my lifetime, that would be on my prized-meals list, easily on top ten.

Every morsel of it was an experience that words could never describe.

That was one memorable week. The next weekend offered another surprise. There was this café which I had only heard of till that time, but never visited because it was always crowded during the weekdays (when we had our classes). So, one fine Sunday morning, I went there. If the door to the cafés from before felt like a Narnia-door, the steps to this café felt like a gateway to heaven…a place where dreams are concocted. It gave more of a bistro feel than a regular café. After that Sunday, I visited that café every week. Every week! 

To add a bit of perspective, this café was near the institution. But the place I stayed was not. The institution was more than an hour’s distance from there. In addition, I used public transport for commute, which involved quite a stretch of walking too. But that decision to go there every Sunday was a justified one, a sane one, and most importantly this-is-the-one-that-ties-everything-and-makes-perfect-sense one. Because distance doesn’t matter for certain scenarios, however inexplicable that may feel.

Because distance doesn’t matter for certain scenarios, however inexplicable that may feel.

That café played a very significant role overall, but let’s just focus on the culinary brilliance of it. A wide range of German delicacies, along with some dishes from the neighbouring regions of France, Italy, and others were all encompassed in their menu. I had my first Chicken Schnitzel there. One of my favourites were the Frankfurt-style fish dish. I never knew a lightly cooked fish with a side of potatoes and butter-caper sauce would be this comforting. The fish was soft as the clouds and the potatoes, creamy with whiffs of good old butter, were a perfect match.

The highlight of that place was the off-the-menu bakery. They would have a new selection of cakes and desserts every time. The traditional chocolate cake was the most popular one there and that was why the most difficult one to get. I got to try it on my fifth or sixth visit there. It was the lightest cake with the densest chocolate, if that makes sense. Layered with cream and chocolate shavings, it was scrumptious. I don’t think I could list all the dishes (including the desserts) that I had there, because I visited it every Sunday until I was there, and that… was a lot of Sundays. 

A muggle might have a hard time understanding the brilliance of that. 

To wind up, saving the best for the last, there was this hot chocolate. While I talk about it, very briefly, please forget the hot chocolates that they serve at most other places, which feels like a ruse anyway. This specific hot chocolate was different. It was the quintessential representation of things that add meaning to our entire existence in this vast cosmos. The wonder beverage had melted chocolate, dark and decadent, that had a thick, velvety, and gooey goodness. The depth of its fragrance played a smooth, jazzy, and an almost irresistible tune to entice all your senses. And as you begin to surrender to that delicate yet rich aroma, the fresh whiff of cream in it would give you that sense of calm. Just as you are trying to make sense of your surroundings, the sweet, floral hints of raspberry will take you to greener lands, lands where happiness slow-dances to the rhythm of comfort. A muggle might have a hard time understanding the brilliance of that. Let me pause and savour those flavour notes.

Food, the one that speaks to your soul, has a language of its own. While learning languages and understanding their respective cultures made me travel the world, food of those regions made me feel home. I experienced something similar every time I dove into a new language and a new culture, be it Chinese cuisine while learning Mandarin, or Korean cuisine while learning Korean, or while learning the other languages too. While the traditions, culture, and language widens the scope of our horizon, the food assimilates every fragment of that entire experience into a beautifully-framed and fantastically-written saga.

While learning languages and understanding their respective cultures made me travel the world, food of those regions made me feel home.

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