German Beer: Past, Present and Future (Part 2)

Ludger Berges' Hopfen & Malz shop in Berlin-Wedding.
(Photo: Philip Husemann)

"Berlin was waiting for good beer" – this was shop owner Ludger Berges' reply upon being asked why he decided to open his Berlin-Wedding beer shop Hopfen & Malz in February 2012. Before exiting the pharmaceutical industry that was failing to float Berges proverbial boat, he began researching the German beer market and sifting out the best brews across the country (see Aktion Gutes Bier). Today, his shop carries about 300 different brews, and his selection mainly comes from within Germany, but he also stocks beers from the U.S., Belgium and a few other countries. I think the above quote from Mr. Berges – and the success of his shop – is symbolic of a nascent change going on in Berlin's (and maybe Germany's) beer world. I think it's also a development that has the potential to affect all stages of the life cycle of German beer – how it's produced, distributed, sold and consumed. Much like the United States during the mid-20th century, the German beer market has seen a consolidation and monopolization of the beer production, distribution and sales processes, resulting in less variety, less choice, and less quality in a country where beer is a cultural – and of course a nutritional – staple. The question: Can Germany reverse this development and rediscover the great variety that's always been present in its beer culture? And perhaps more importantly, how?  

The U.S. Beer Renaissance

I'd like to start by having a look at how America's beer world has changed, and is changing. The number of breweries in the U.S. steadily declined well into the 1980s as conglomerates swallowed up smaller brewers, which resulted in a boring beer "monoculture" – beer drinkers basically had the choice between regular or light lagers (Miller/Miller Lite; Bud/Bud Light; Coors/Coors Light, Busch/Busch Light etc.). A more apt description of this choice: high-calorie dishwater versus low-calorie dishwater. In the late 1970s, the number of breweries bottomed out at 89 nationwide, which had a number of fundamental effects on beer culture and business in the U.S., many of which persist today:

1. The business of brewing is only about the bottom line, and quality inevitably suffers:
For example, Anheuser-Busch InBev (A-B InBev) brews with cheaper grains (such as rice) to save money, and fewer or poor quality hops are used because the plant is expensive. Much more recently, A-B InBev has been fighting claims they've been watering down their beer to save money. The way I see it, it makes zero difference whether they watered their beer down or not; their beer still tastes like rubbish (or in the best case, nothing) to anyone who knows anything about beer, and it's because all they really care about is a better bottom line and a growing market share.

2. Brewing conglomerates move to control distribution and shelf space in stores:

The American brewery 'pinch' in the 70s, and the subsequent
explosion of microbrews. (Graphic: Brewer's Association)

This issue is crucial, and as we shall see, it's also crucial in Germany's beer market. As in any business, more market share means more control over the means of distribution, and it also means you can impose more pressure on the retailers to prominently display your product. In Beer Wars, a 2009 documentary about the beer business in the U.S., we learn about the so-called three-tier system in the U.S. (Brewers, Distributors, Retailers), which successfully helps to curb vertical integration, which allows the corporation to control all stages of production. But in doing so, the three-tier system actually encourages horizontal integration (acquisition of, and/or merging with competitors to form huge conglomerates). In short, the big boys can muscle out the runts by: a.) getting distributors to not deliver for the competitor, and b.) providing retailers with dozens of 'brands', thus occupying more and more shelf space (Check out this fantastic overview from the Washingtonian).

3. An ignorant consumer is a good consumer for the brewing juggernauts:
In creating a beer market where there is little difference between competitors' products, the battle is shifted away from the arena of product quality toward the marketing arena, and this is exactly where the big fellas want to fight their war (A-B InBev spent $1.42 billion in 2011). If consumers spend their lives in a market dominated by boring swill, they'll be less likely to notice or develop a taste for a higher quality product if it does manage to enter the market.

All the pesky little flies in AB-InBev's soup (Graphic: Aleheads.com)

Here's the good news: Americans are developing a taste for higher quality beers and a more diverse product; the result is more choice for the consumer, the emergence of American brewers as some of the best in the world, and a "democratization" of the beer-brewing market. As Herr Berges at Hopfen und Malz informed me, home-brewing was actually not even legal in the U.S. until Jimmy Carter legalized it in 1979 (it still isn't legal in Alabama, and will finally be legal in Mississippi as of this summer), and if you cast another glance up to the Brewer's Association chart, it's no coincidence that this legalization lines up nicely with the explosion of craft breweries after 1980. Today, there are over a million homebrewers in the U.S. and over a thousand homebrew clubs. In the past decade, new U.S. breweries have consistently competed at the World Beer Awards, and often won, against the "traditional" country of origin for a given beer type. Since 1980, over 2,000 new craft breweries have been established, and although the U.S. beer market overall is declining – a development that is now mirrored in Germany – craft breweries producing fewer than 700,000 L per year saw a robust 13% increase in sales (U.S. Brewer's Association). As shown in this NPR piece, they continue to chip away at their total share of the market. All stats aside, I think the development of the American beer market is part of a more general and growing movement of buying local, avoiding chains and conglomerates, and being more aware of the source of one's food and drink. Although craft brewers still only account for a small fraction of the overall market, they've succeeded in greatly widening the horizons of beer drinkers in the states and reminding people what beer can and should taste like.

(Update: I was unaware of this recent story from BBC about how the British beer scene has been influenced by America's craft beer boom.
 
A Similar Story in Germany – with a similar outcome?

When I sat down to talk with Hopfen und Malz owner Mr. Berges last month, I was curious if the state or development of the German beer market in any way resembled that of the U.S. I was vaguely aware of a similar consolidation of brewers in Germany (i.e. that Becks, Spaten and several other big German names had been snapped up by InBev back in the day, and German companies responded in kind), but I had no idea how similar the picture actually looked...

I was probably one hill-climb away from the
Schwarzer Keller in this photo.

Mr. Berges discovered the true variety of German beer in the same place I did: in the rolling hills of the east central region of Franken (Franconia). This area boasts the densest collection of breweries in the world, with nearly 300 of Germany's 1,400 or so breweries. Berges assured me when I listed the breweries we had visited on our beer/bike tour that we had missed the best place in all of Germany to drink a beer: the Schwarzer Keller in Weigelshofen. Most of Franconia's breweries are located in small towns, and are small-production Privatbrauereien with long histories. Helles, Dunkles, Kellerbier, and Rauchbier are the leading varieties in Franken. But Germany's beer diversity isn't just robust in Franconia: there are hundreds more small breweries from Bavaria in the south, to the Danish border in the north, where some of the world's best pilseners, Weizens, and Kölschs in the world are made. So why is it that so many of us beer-lovers – despite our appreciation for the superiority of the German Pils and Weizen – find ourselves growing bored in a country with so much good beer? Three words, according to Mr. Berges: "Distribution, distribution, distribution"...

Why German Beer is so Damned Cheap

Much like the U.S. companies, German brewing companies began swallowing up smaller breweries one by one in order to gain more market share. The largest brewery in Germany, the Radeberger Group, owns some 40 different brands and controls about 15% of the beer market by itself. A company called Brau Holdings International (BHI) and AB-InBev round out the top three. Though it's perhaps not as extreme as in the U.S. in the 1980s, the top 8 companies in Germany controlled 52% of the market in 2009 (see Aktion Gutes Bier).

Some of the names you'll see in Getränkeläden and Spätis.

But here's the real kicker: Germany doesn't have a three-tier system to stop these conglomerates from vertically integrating, and thus controlling all steps in the process. For example, the Radeberger Group brews the beer from its 35+ brands, distributes them, and then sells them in warehouse-like Getränkeläden or Märkte (drink stores – see also my earlier post "Into the Drink"). This kind of vertical and horizontal integration has the positive effect of reduced production and distribution costs, such that beer is quite a bit cheaper than most water in Germany. I always thought it was just because Germany likes beer more than a friend, but it's really all about capitalism: the conglomerates can produce, distribute and sell beer extremely cheaply while still profiting, and want to keep it cheap, but not too cheap (either legally, or illegally by means of price collusion) to maintain their dominance.  The end result, as Mr. Berges put it: "If you go to Getraenke Hoffmann (owned by Radeberger Group), they have 200 Getränkemärkte in Berlin and Brandenburg. And they all belong to this [Radeberger] Group. So if you go there and look at the variety, 50% comes from the same brewery. You do not see it because of all the different labels, the colors of the boxes, but it's all the same company...that is why people think it all tastes the same." The real clever bit on the part of the conglomerates was keeping all the regional labels they had swallowed up so that the vast majority of consumers would remain ignorant to the fact that all the variety is in fact illusory. I imagine most have no idea that their beloved local brand they grew up with has been bought out by a multinational corporation. In cities like Berlin, this means that the hundreds of small Spätis (convenience stores) can source all of their beer from two or three distributors (i.e. Radeberger, AB-InBev and BHI) and still offer what appears to be a wide selection of beers for rock-bottom prices. And the same goes for the supermarkets.

The Plight of the Beer-Lover's Beer Shop in Germany, and the Light at the End of the Tunnel

You'll have a clear sense of Germany's
beer variety at Hopfen und Malz. (Photo: Philip Husemann)

So because of all of this, as Mr. Berges explained, "Germans have only three major sources from which to buy beer: the Getränkemarkt, Supermarkt, and the Kiosk/Späti, and none of them focus on small-production brewers." This of course was the impetus for Berges' Hopfen und Malz, but unlike liquor stores in the States, he has no easy method of getting beer to his store. He had to laboriously establish personal contact with dozens of breweries and distributors one by one, and currently works with 30 (!) different distributors in order to maintain his current stock. He focuses only on the top-rated smaller suppliers and displays them clearly by beer type, the best of the best residing at eye level. It's a refreshing new way to experience and shop the Vielfalt (diversity) of German beers. But Berges doesn't just carry the traditional German beer types from Franconia and Bavaria: he also stocks the newest pilsners, porters, and yes, IPAs, APAs, and XPAs (!) from Germany's newest microbrews, which are popping up at an increasing rate all over Germany.

An IPA and a Märzen from Pax Bräu, one
of Germany's new promising microbrews.
(Photo: Philip Husemann)

So despite all of the aforementioned factors working against them, these new microbrews and brewpubs are beginning to breathe new life into the German beer market. Berlin now has 20 breweries and brew pubs, only 1 of which is large-production (unsurprisingly owned by Radeberger Group). Berges believes this number will grow to 30-40 in a few years, including the first American-owned brewery to open in 2013, called Vagabund-Brauerei. Founders Tom, Matt and David started as humble home-brewers, but are now crafting a set of ambitious beers in hopes of broadening German beer taste and bringing some much-needed variety to Berlin's beer market. It's interesting that the homebrewing craze that helped kick-start the U.S. microbrew market is not quite as prominent in Germany (Berges reckons there are somewhere in the neighborhood of 10,000 people who are homebrewing in Germany); one of my theories is that even the mass-produced pilseners are still top-quality products compared to the Buds and Millers of the U.S., so perhaps there was less impetus for exploration. But maybe it was also just that something that was long forbidden in the U.S. had suddenly become legal, so people went hog-wild on it.

In the end, it's clear to me that there are two big keys to Germany (re)discovering the quality and variety of it's brewers: until shop owners like Berges have a less burdensome method of stocking products from quality, small-production breweries, they will remain needles in the haystack of Spätis, Getränkemärkte, and Supermärkte. The big players will definitely fight this tooth and nail, but I think craft brewers in the States and the new ones cropping up in Germany have shown that if you brew it, they will come. However, I think the demand side might be even more important: The German consumer must wake up, smell the hops, and realize that they've been duped by the beer behemoths. Nobody expects the majority to drop everything and never buy an AB-InBev beer again, but some of the energy Germans put into buying organic foods can certainly be shifted over to more conscientious beer shopping. Hopefully they can also overcome their often rigidly traditional mindsets to explore some of the plethora of wonderful beer types that didn't originate in or near Germany. I, for one, am optimistic.

Germans are still serious about brewing:
give it a few years and Germany will also be
crafting top-notch pales. (Photo: P. Husemann)

(If you'd like to travel back in time to beer's past, have a look at Part 1. Also, another big thanks to Ludger Berges and Hopfen und Malz for his insight into this blog post. Also, if you're interested in getting updates on the newest promising pilsners, pale ales, and porters in Germany and beyond, the Hopfen und Malz Facebook feed is a great resource!)

Notes from the German Underground

The Chermans love David Hasslehoff...and Alf.
(Photo: Notes of Berlin)

There are many fascinating written genres in the German language, but one of the most fleeting and briefest also happens to be the most amusing and informative of them all: the Zettel, or Zettelbotschaft – in English, the posted note, announcement or sign. These little notes appear in countless different places ranging from an apartment building foyer to the walls of a shared flat to street lampposts. If you take a moment to consider their content, they actually say a lot about German culture, and I have come to discover that the Zettel serves as a rare outlet for an even rarer form of expression in Germany: sarcasm. I'd venture to say that I've read more sarcastic commentary in the several hundred notes I've seen than I've heard in my 15 or so years of German conversation. Needless to say, the sarcasm often comes in the form of passive-aggression, but that's beside the point.

Classic passive-aggression: "You know, that I know, that you
know, that I know, that you took the thing once again...
so cough it up!!" (Photo: Oonagh O'Hagan)

So without further ado, I'd like to take a little journey through Berlin's "World of Notes", paying particular attention to what they might tell us about German interpersonal interaction (notable in this case is the fact that the interaction is not face-to-face) but also just appreciating the hilarity of the subject matter and style of language. Like many other things in Berlin, the world of notes here has taken on a life of its own to become the most interesting and colorful in all of Germany. This reality is evident in the rising popularity of a newish website with the goal of spotting these fleeting little notes in the wild and recording them for posterity. It's called "Notes of Berlin" (also on my "All Links Cherman" list to the right), and has recently eclipsed 5 million page views; the site founder was also kind enough to let me use some of his content, so thanks to Notes of Berlin!

The classic WG kitchen note with art
accompaniment: "You swine! Clean up
your shit already!...(small print: "Thank you")
(Photo: Oonagh O'Hagen)

The WG  note:

The Wohngemeinschaft, or WG (shared flat), is fertile ground for posted notes. Place a group of 5-10 students or young people in close quarters with a shared kitchen area and you're bound to have some good old fashioned aggression; but often, this aggression is not expressed in person, either because the aggressor cannot find the aggressee at that moment, the aggressor wishes to express his/her thoughts to the whole Gemeinschaft (community) and is unable to arrange an all-hands-on-deck WG meeting on short notice, or because the author opts in this case for the 'passive-aggressive' note. Our first example (see photo) comes from a wonderful book by Oonagh O'Hagan called "Ich brauch den Schinken. Wirklich! – Ein Bilderbuch aus dem ganz normalen WG-Wahnsinn" (I need that ham. Really! – A picture book from the totally normal world of shared-flat insanity), and is a great example of the avoidance of face-to-face confrontation. I couldn't be more for it in this case, though, because I think we can all agree that a simple "Hey, can you give me that thing back, thanks" would have been a lot more boring than this. I'm also quite curious as to what "that thing" was, and why they couldn't just name it in the note. One wonders...

Any current or former WG resident also certainly knows the kitchen note, and they're very rarely about something positive. I didn't live in a WG when I studied abroad, but I remember seeing the exceedingly complex charts of scheduled tasks and regular duties to be done in the flat, with each resident neatly penciled in for each area in successive weeks. I also remember that those charts were almost never obeyed, and that conflict and hijinks ensued. The composer of example 2 (photo) has obviously taken some time to include artwork along with his/her aggression. After just two examples, it's also already patently clear that nearly all Zettel contain at least a few exclamation points, often in a row (which, incidentally, are exceedingly rare in other written genres of German). Another favorite of mine from O'Hagan's book: "Warum ist mein Bett so feucht?"

The passive-aggressive/formal hybrid note trying to catch the
mystery pooper. (Photo: Notes of Berlin)

The Mehrfamilienhaus note:

The Mehrfamilienhaus (apartment building) note is a relative of the WG note in that it also addresses issues of living together with others; but here, there is even more distance between the writer and the readership. They tend to be pretty harmless (like the carefully-penned one directed at us the other day announcing that somebody had mistakenly received our mail), but now and again you get an interesting one, like two months ago in our apartment, when a neatly handwritten note hung in the hallway with the following bulletin: "Would you all be so kind as to close the front door until it latches so people don't shit in our entryway? Thank you, your neighbors." Amazingly, not more than a month or so later on Notes of Berlin, I spotted the gem to the right: "Which dirty sow is crapping in the entryway? Where are we living, anyway? You dirty pig, clean it up! Just don't get caught while you're doing it...." And then there's this fantastic shift in style on the second sheet: "It would be very nice if the party responsible for the fecal matter lying in the hallway would promptly remove it. This is an imposition on the residents as well as the cleaners." I love this note because you can almost see the process the writer went through: first, the unbridled anger as the hallway stench still lingered in his/her nostrils; and then, as they had a little time to cool down a bit, they taped on the more measured, prudent response using immaculate and sober formal German. The two poles of German-note style captured in one example.

Another Zettel that shows some serious artistic dedication. Note again the use
of multiple exclamation points: "To the doormat-thief: This doormat only
costs 2.99 at the hardware store. Buy one for yourself!!!"
(Photo: Notes of Berlin)

Artistic flourishes can also be found in the apartment complex (after all, WGs are located within apartment complexes when they're not part of exclusive student housing). In this example, I don't hold out too much hope for the artist successfully reacquiring their pilfered doormat – after all, I don't know too many doormat thieves that are likely to return to the Tatort, much less heed the demands of a posted request for the return of the stolen goods. This aside, I'd like to recognize the courtesy of the composer in including the approximate purchase price of a new mat.

One last, and very concise, Mehrfamilienhaus favorite of mine that was posted next to a long, unsightly smear on the wall of the stairwell: "Bitte keine Nahrungsmittel gegen die Wand schmeißen" ("Please refrain from throwing food products against the wall").

Love the detail in the right-hand panel.

The "so-was-tut-man-nicht" note:

This particular Zettel species isn't defined by the place in which it's posted, but rather by its purpose. The "so-was-tut-man-nicht" note (or the "we-just-don't-do-that" note) makes a statement about appropriate behavior – and more importantly, it's about imploring others to follow suit. Being a culture where orderliness and stability is a highly valued thing, this is one of the most common types of Zettel in Germany, and of course in many cases these are properly manufactured signs, but they also exist in Zettel format. I think the first SWTMN note I encountered long ago during my first stay in Germany was the infamous "Bitte im Sitzen pinkeln" (Please potty while sitting) note, which in the ensuing years has become so popular that myriad commercially produced signs can now be purchased and posted (just google 'im sitzen pinkeln' and enjoy the ride). This behavioral nudge of course is necessitated by the ubiquitous German shelf toilet, which requires precision accuracy in the standing position to avoid unsightly spray on your clothes and all bathroom surfaces. This note is understandable enough I guess, though I personally don't feel the need to post a sign above our own trusty shelf toilet. I figure if my guests feel they've got sharpshooter aim, then have at it, and hopefully they'll be mortified enough to clean up their own mess in the event of a misfire (I'm beginning to reconsider my words even as I type, though, because precise aim and Party machen don't exactly go hand in hand). The Chermans don't risk this eventuality though.

In the restaurant sign on the right, the SWTMN takes aim at the widespread pet peeve of food photos in public. I love this one for a variety of reasons: first, 'instagrammen' as a verb. Verbing nouns is twice the fun in your second language as far as I'm concerned. Then of course there's the irony of the closing remark forbidding the instagramming of the sign itself. Admittedly, I don't know where the creator of this note came from, but if they are in fact German, this is about as good as German humor gets.

"Please don't instagram the food...or this note."
(Photo: Notes of Berlin)

My other favorite in this category is far too long to post a picture of on here, but it's a tome left near the mailboxes lamenting the fact that postal package traffic has increased exponentially of late because everyone shops on Amazon and the Net these days. A quick side note for context: if someone isn't around to receive their delivery, the package is usually delivered to a neighbor who's home. So clearly, this person works from home or doesn't work, and is constantly receiving and doling out packages to his/her neighbors. Though I sympathize to some extent with this person, I can't really imagine feeling the urge/need to post all of these thoughts in the hallway, much less wax philosophical about the evils of online shopping and my own personal hostility toward modernity.

So what's with all the notes?

To some extent, all cultures post hand-written announcements, notes, signs, etc., but in my experience, the German note is particularly prolific and a lot more interesting. More art, more creativity, and more exclamation points in more situations. When I sat down to think about it, it seemed to break one of my primary preconceptions of the Germans; namely, that they are quite direct and honest, often to a fault. In the case of the note, they seem to be eschewing face-to-face contact and directness in favor of the impersonal request or expression of disfavor. I think a German friend of mine put it best: "The Germans are direct, but they also tend to avoid face-to-face contact..." (think here about dead-silent U-Bahn cars and the utter lack of smiles or greetings among strangers on the street) "...so in this case, they avoid face-to-face contact to prevent conflict." In sum, they can fulfil their desire to express their innermost thoughts and preferences without all of the discomfort and possibility for intense argument and conflict that come with face-to-face interaction with strangers or semi-strangers. Maybe German directness applies primarily to friends and acquaintances?  Lately though, I think they also just enjoy getting a little creative and funny, even when they're angry. At least I like to think so.    

Notes of Berlin's 'note of the month' winner.

Berlin Water Pipes You Don't Smoke

This is a new-fangled blue pipe!

If you've ever taken a stroll through central Berlin, you've probably noticed the massive blue/purple/pink pipes winding along the sides of streets, over streets, and into the ground. In many cities, these structures would stand out starkly and draw a fair amount of attention from residents and visitors, but in Berlin they sort of blend into the fabric of the often-just-dirty-enough urban landscape. The surrounding graffitied walls and ubiquitous construction sites render the pipes relatively unremarkable. They themselves are often adorned with various tags and street art – just another kind of urban canvas to be utilized.

On the surface, the pipes are mere curiosities, but they actually reveal a pretty interesting and oft-forgotten aspect of Berlin's history; namely, that the entire city was built on top of a swamp. The region around Berlin has historically been referred to sarcastically as the "Streusandbüchse", and presented challenges from day one during the settlement of the area. The term Streusandbüchse translates literally as "sand box", but actually refers to a small box containing fine sand that was used to dry the ink on manuscripts. So what exactly does the Brandenburg-Berlin Streusandbüchse look like?  

The Spree-Havel region in Brandenburg/Mecklenburg.

Berlin is situated right in the armpit of the Spree and Havel Rivers, the latter of which flows into the Elbe about 150 km north of Magdeburg. Berlin sits just 35 meters above sea level on average, and just to give you an idea of just how flat this region is, the River Havel drops only 50 meters in its 325-km trip from the already-quite-flat Mecklenburg to the Elbe (see map, with the Havel in dark blue). A quick glance at the whole region shows that the rivers often bulge out into lakes as they pool up on the flat land. The Wannsee in southwest Berlin and the stretch along the Havel bike trail west of Potsdam are great examples.


Historically, Berlin was a late bloomer on the European landscape. As a backwater trading post on the outer fringes of the Holy Roman Empire, Berlin sat on swampy, primarily nutrient-deficient, loose soil (with the notable exception of the Havelland west of Berlin), and Middle Ages settlements were perched on silt islands that rose out of the lake-like Spree of the 13th century. The settlements were important for east-west trade, but for the most part stagnated. Some 400 years later in the mid-1600s, however, following a few spoonfuls of Black Death, a healthy dose of malnourishment and the death or emigration of half of its population during the 30 Years War, the Hohenzollerns looked to reincarnate Berlin, only this time much bigger and better. They called pretty much everybody to come on over, but perhaps most crucial to the expansion of the city were precisely those people who knew best how to build on swampy silt and sand: the Dutch. As Berlin expanded beyond the silty high ground around the river, engineers and architects from Holland came to the rescue, drained the land, and the rest is history.   

Unter den Linden. Notice the copious
construction cranes.

Today, the colored pipes are most commonly spotted near large construction sites. Together with modern pumps, they are used instead of windmills to lower the water table in order to set building foundations. There are also many problematic spots where the pipes are basically permanent, and on these you're more likely to find ads and/or graffiti, depending on what you call art, of course (see photo and check out Pink Pipes of Berlin!). The latest example of Berlin's high water table causing problems is at the now-notorious, to-be-finished-at-an-as-yet-uncertain-date-for-a-much-higher-price Berlin-Brandenburg Airport (BER) being built on the southeastern outskirts of the city. While the massive public project has been delayed for just about every reason ranging from flaws in the fire safety system to a shortage of check-in counters to the actual size and capacity of the airport, if the thing is actually sinking into the Streusandbüchse as this Focus article says it is, all those problems may be a moot. One would have thought they would have learned from the Dutch engineers in the 17th century, or from the myriad water pipes throughout the rest of the city. Lord knows, we'll probably be able to snap pictures of these above-ground pipes at the construction site for the BER airport five years from now!

Photo by rituffo: 'Pink Pipes of Berlin'

(If you're into early-80s German TV documentaries, this one on the Berlin freeway ring gives a nice idea of the idyllic landscapes that are Brandenburg. They mention the Streusandbüchse at 12:00, and unrelated, but the Fisherman at 27:00 has a pretty solid Brandenburgisch dialect)

Döner mit Allem – und Scharf

The indomitable, delicious Döner. What would a blog about life in Germany be without it? Ah, but first, I must begin with a heartfelt apology, for in case you hadn't noticed, I heartlessly slandered the Döner last week in order to make a point about cuisine in Berlin. I dared mention it in the same sentence with the far inferior Currywurst. Yes – today, I take it all back. This is my "Ode an den Döner"...

The Dürüm-Dönerbürste being put into action in Vienna.
That handsome feller on the right didn't even have time
to put his umbrella down.

Where I live, we don't eat the Döner, we brush our teeth with the Döner (the term Dönerbürste, or Döner-brush, has been bandied about in certain circles). Four out of five dentists do not recommend it, but I personally brush my teeth with Döner approximately as often as I actually floss. Doctors don't recommend them either; a BBC study found that the average Döner in England had around 1,200 calories (if you consider the 5-10 beers you drank beforehand your lookin' at 2 grand or more). You also often must brave less-than-sanitary conditions if you're keen on finding the best Döner in town; "the dirtier the better" is a pretty solid rule here. If you're not just a little bit nervous on your way there, you're probably going to be disappointed. There is also no edible item that I have eaten more of between the hours of 3 a.m. and 7 a.m. The Döner is a loyal friend of sorts; it's flavors and spices will accompany you wherever you may go, for many hours after eating. Don't think that a real toothbrushing will save you, either. Despite all of these things, I continue to thoroughly enjoy and love the Döner, and this keyed my interest in finding out just how a food with Turkish roots has ironically become one of the most iconic symbols of German cuisine.

The Döner gets its name from the Turkish word for "to turn around", and though its history begins on the shores of the Sea of Marmara in western Turkey, its true glory and worldwide fame wasn't realized until it traveled along with the Turkish Gastarbeiter (literally "guest workers") of the 1960s all the way to the German capital. Only there did it assume its current form as a sandwich, along with that wonderful mix of 'Salat komplett' (or ohne Zwiebeln if that's how you roll, though you're missing out) that we all know and love.

Where it all started: Iskender in Bursa, Turkey

So we first trace the roots of the Döner back to the the very brief capital city of the Ottoman Empire, Bursa (capital from 1326-1365). It's a city whose past glory as the center of a powerful empire – at least for 35 odd years – is today unknown to most. Its reputation certainly suffered from lying directly across the pond from its much bigger brother, Istanbul (or Constantinople, if that's how you roll). Likewise, it's importance as the prime mover in the development of today's Döner Kebab has gone largely ignored. I took a journey in 2009 that began in Istanbul. I crossed the Marmara Sea, and set off toward Bursa on a mission to find the original Döner (also, I had a day to kill on my Turkey trip and Bursa happened to be a quick and convenient ferry ride away, but this doesn't take away from how happy-as-a-clam I was when I found out the original Döner Laden was where I had randomly decided to go). After touring some of the fascinating original medieval villages on the outskirts of the city, my Couchsurfing host guided me to Iskender Kebab, the place where it all began. Yavuz İskenderoğlu, who lived during the latter half of the 19th century, was the first man to take the proverbial Kebab-bull by the horns – he deliberately and confidently turned what was previously a horizontal spit, and tilted it precisely 90 degrees. Just like that, the vertical Spieß was born. Iskender Kebab, as it's called today, is lean lamb, should be sliced thinly but widely, and is served on a plate over pieces of unleavened bread and with yogurt, and if you're lucky, the server will come around with the melted butter and tomato sauce and give you a nice friendly Turkish drizzle. Let me give you a little helpful tip at this point here though: when you're all sated and full of tasty rotated-meat goodness, you've finished your Iskender and are sipping Şıra and are brainstorming about possibly similar foods you've had before that you could compare to Iskender Kebab, don't say this: "Hey, this is basically like a Turkish gyro." Take it from me.

Only Döner is a better incentive than money (Photo from
the always-entertaining Notes of Berlin)

We fast forward to the 1960s in Germany, where work was plentiful, but working-aged men were not. Italians, Greeks, Spaniards, Moroccans, and of course Turks came to Germany as Gastarbeiter to fill the ranks. The full history of the Gastarbeiter is a topic for a different blog, but suffice it to say that – to the chagrin of many a German xenophobe – thousands upon thousands of Turkish men came in large numbers, and their families eventually followed. Somewhere in that mix, some Iskender enthusiasts settled down in Berlin and sought to give their fellow Turkish workers a little 'slice' of home, but this time a slightly more convenient and portable one. As with many of my favorite legendary food and drink inventions (the Reuben, the Martini, sliced bread, etc.), there is some dispute as to who exactly was the first person to take the bread that Iskender was served over, and repurpose it as a vehicle for the turning meat. One of the main claimants to the Döner Throne is now a retiree in Berlin named Kadir Nurman. With his humble stand near Bahnhof Zoo in the early 70s, he was slingin' Döner before it was cool, and it didn't take long before his Turkish clientele was joined by ze hungry Chermans. Let the controversy begin, though, because in 2009, the very reputable Guardian reported the death of the 'man who invented the Döner' in 1971, Mahmut Aygun. Perhaps the world will never know who really created the Döner. I like to think it was the multi-cultural soul of the city of Berlin that birthed such a divine drunk food. In the 40 years hence, Döner Kebab spits of wildly varying quality can be found on every street corner on nearly every town in Germany and increasingly Europe-wide: today, there are well over 1,000 Döner shops in Berlin, and over 16,000 in Germany alone. 

Despite a fair bit of controversy in recent years stemming from questions on the origins of the Pressfleisch-type Döner meat, the Döner continues to be serious business. Over 720 million Döner are sold annually in Germany (!), and even Angela Merkel was recently photographed awkwardly trying her hand with a big slicer. There is now an official certificate issued by the ATDiD (Avrupa Türk Döner Imalatçıları Dernegi, or the Union of Turkish Döner Makers in Europe), who despite piss-poor website design are at the very least pretending to regulate the quality of the turning meat. They even have their own annual conference, so it's gotta be legit, right? I mean, I'm sure at least there's no horse meat hanging out in there.

Mustafa's Kebab in Mitte (also in XBerg).

Yes indeed, the Döner has joined a long line of semi-circular, tasty, practical foods. The Cornish pasty, the calzone, the gyro, the taco – I'd even submit that the semi-circle competes with the beloved cylinder as today's shape of choice for handheld food. For all of its faults, the taste and smell of a nearby Döner Laden will never leave my memory, and I thank Iskender, Nurman, and all of the best shops in Berlin today that I'm still discovering (for me, there's no comparison thus far to Imren or Mustafas – you've gotta check out the latter's website). But in the end, I'm really no expert. To those of you in Berlin or elsewhere, I'm calling out to you: I want to hear where the best (and the worst) Döner is hiding out.

FKK in the DDR (and beyond)

Naked kicker (foosball), anyone?

FKK, or Freikörperkultur (literally 'free body culture'), is a century-old German institution, and it has a very simple philosophy: 'nudity is normal'. Revel in it – in public, in a park, in the water, on a bicycle. Let your bits swing freely when you're sunbathing, sitting in the sauna, swatting a birdie around with some friends, reading a book, or grilling up a juicy bratwurst. So where does this German (and to some extent, European) openness to nudity really come from? I think a quick look at the difference between the U.S. and Europe is a good starting point...

Americans are prudes – at least from the perspective of the Germans and the Europeans. I think my favorite example of this on the continental scale is the fact that American children are vigilantly shielded from exposed nipples and buttocks, sexual innuendo, and the like, but are free to (or implicitly allowed to) bathe themselves in blood, guts, and torture in films and games. Now, the last thing I want to do here is start a debate about guns and violence – it's like arguing with somebody over the existence of god. This article is all about the nudity, folks.

But so the point is, Americans view being naked as something fiercely private, while violence is and was historically a part of everyday (and public) life. I have a hunch that this contrast with Europe can be traced all the way back to America's prudish, Protestant roots, which were combined with an often lawless, vigilante-type justice as the U.S. expanded into an ever-westward-moving frontier with no discernable governmental structures. I've read many theories about Europe's relative lack of a culture of violence (a sort of counter-movement to the long history of wars, the fact that violence was exclusively the instrument of the nation rather than a part of individual volition, etc.); but I think the rise of FKK – in the sense of nudity being a completely normal thing, even in public – could perhaps be connected to Europe's secularization, which is often accompanied or replaced by a certain naturalism.

Two East-Berliners enjoying a little naked time.

In any case, the concept of FKK as a movement ('nudism') really could only come about as a nudity taboo emerged in 18th century Europe. Indeed, when society or the powers that be tell you you can't do something, it only serves to strengthen your resolve. The German FKK movement begins in earnest around the turn of the 20th century, and seems to be at its strongest when it's forbidden or verpönt (frowned upon).

A very quick aside: the birth of the FKK movement in Germany coincided with a nudism movement in the U.S., which never really blossomed into the mass movement seen in Germany.

So in 1954, GDR culture minister Johannes R. Becher declared: 'Schont den Augen der Nation!' (Spare the eyes of the nation!') as he closed down over 50 designated nude bathing spots throughout the country. Too many wrinkles, too much hair, too many body parts where they shouldn't necessarily be, too much...you get the idea. So FKK continued to gain popularity in the East after this declaration, to the point that it became one of the major defining aspects of East German culture. By the time the Wall came down, the Wessi (West German) was amused, and sometimes apalled, by the Ossi's (East German) penchant for not just sunbathing naked, but playing sports and hanging out in the nude. A 'Höschenkrieg' ('War of the Knickers') ensued on Baltic Sea beaches as the knicker-ful Wessis encountered the knicker-less Ossis. But why so popular in the East?? According to an article from NDR, some have blamed the lack of stylish bathing attire, some say Ossis were trying to carve out a bit of freedom in an otherwise oppressive regime. I'll let you decide, but I personally think that without the official ban in 1954, there is no mass movement.

FKK-themed clothing: so itchy, you'll
instantly want to disrobe. (Photo: Amazon.com)

Anyway, this 'Knicker War' has in fact had a strong and long-term detrimental effect on the FKK movement in general. The ranks today are dwindling and aging (check out this video in German – at your own risk – interviewing real live FKK-enthusiasts), and I think we can all see that the latter isn't doing any favors for the former. I mean, let's just say, purely hypothetically, that a 26-year-old American male were to arrive at an Austrian FKK beach in Austria's Salzkammergut for a little skinny dip, in hopes of curing his societally conditioned prudishness, only to find he is the sole swimmer/sunbather/reader/badminton player born after the Berlin Wall was built. Suffice it to say that even if said wrinkly nudists were the hippest, friendliest 55-plussers around, I still wouldn't have felt compelled to return, much less visit the official website and pay to membership fee.

The Sternfahrt: an event for cycling awareness,
or a perfect opportunity for an FKK demonstration?

I had one more recent first-hand encounter with the FKKers that underscores the continuing marginalization of a once-proud mass movement. I spontaneously decided to take part in the largest group cycling event in the world, called the Sternfahrt ('Star Ride'), in 2010 in Berlin. Some 150,000 people meet at 19 different starting points and converge on the Brandenburg Gate, where beer-drinking, sausage-eating, and chaos ensue. The point is to raise awareness for cyclists, despite the fact that Berlin, along with Copenhagen, already has one of the best bike infrastructures in the world. Anyway, I had big designs on the 90-mile Frankfurt/Oder starting point, but had had a long night and slept through the starting time, so Potsdam it was. Little did I know, this meant that I would get a little 'show' (see photo), as about 150 FKKers decided they would hijack the bike demonstration to raise awareness about FKK. A group of some 7,000 clothed bikers were physically blocked by the Polizei for 45 minutes while the FKKers debated with the police about the legitimacy of 'free'-riding. 'Das hier ist eine Familienveranstaltung' ('this is a family event'), said the police. Words were exchanged as meticulously uniformed officers conversed seriously with naked bikers in baseball caps. The FKKers finally relented, dressed (I have no idea where they had the clothes stashed because I didn't see any panniers), and on we rode, family-friendly, toward the Brandenburg Gate.

In the end, I think FKK as a movement will more or less die out with the current generation, but the underlying perspective of Europeans toward sex and nudity remains worlds 'ahead' of the U.S. I at least like to think that I'm not nearly as prude as I was when I first set foot in Germany and had my first FKK experience.

Mudlarks, Dumpster Divers, and Pfand-collectors

A London Mudlark ankle deep in refuse.

As long as the big city has been around, there has existed an underclass of citizens that – out of sheer poverty and necessity – works to recycle the waste of those classes living above it. They create economies and markets in the deepest, darkest and rankest places, making use of the things the super rich, the rich, the middle class, and the 'normal' poor have tossed. The practice is as old as humankind, and it continues in the modern metropolis – even in Germany.

But let's look first at England. Early Modern London had it's proud class of 'Mudlarks', plodding the muddy and silty mouth of the Thames at low tide for anything that could be scavenged and resold. From half-broken corn cob pipes to discarded food to bones, the Mudlarks sifted through garbage, excrement, animal and human remains, and worse to reap their harvest. Most Mudlarks were robust youngsters (which shouldn't surprise us given that most never reached their 20th birthday even if they grew up in luxurious circumstances), often orphaned or deserted, or at least without a skilled trade. Their tales have been told in 19th century novels such as Poor Jack, and more recently in Neal Stephenson's stellar Baroque Cycle, where main character Jack Shaftoe begins his adventurous journey through life as a garbage sifter and general ruffian in and around the Thames River. Amazingly, this job was legitimately seen as having a set of advantages not enjoyed by other professions, such as freedom to set one's own hours, being one's own boss in general, and working outside in the 'fresh' air. Their story also comes up in a book I've already mentioned, Steven Johnson's The Ghost Map. Here, the author talks about the decline of the Mudlark profession as London city planners eventually decided to re-direct human and material waste away from the river. The decision notably had nothing to do with the fact that the planners were concerned that city's river had the consistency of a hearty Hungarian goulash; rather, they simply wished to monetize waste materials. This included collecting and spreading London's massive supply of human excrement over the city's surrounding fields. In doing so, planners vastly improved the health of the city's iconic waterway and it's populace (which drew it's drinking water from the river), but also induced the decline of the Mudlark trade.

So centuries later, the urban waste bins of yesteryear – rivers and canals – have given way to today's rubbish bins, and instead of the Mudlarks, we now have Dumpster Divers. Lucky for them, city-dwellers no longer discard excrement and corpses in the same places they discard their household goods, food and clothing, making dumpster diving a marginally less pungent exercise. "The Local", an expat magazine here in Berlin, recently did a piece on the growing popularity of dumpster diving as a kind of sport. The mission: recover, eat, and yes, enjoy some of the 11 million tons of food discarded annually in Berlin. The interesting development with dumpster diving is that people aren't really doing it because they must, but "because they should", according to the Local's article. They're simply trying to do their part in reducing the massive waste by food service industries and the population at large, and by strict laws guiding product consumption and expiration dates. As long as one doesn't care if his/her fruit is sharing space with egg shells, dirty socks and half-eaten steaks, one can probably live solely off dumpster-dived rations.

A Pfand-collectors wet dream.

This brings me to my final example of the modern-day urban recycling economy, and it surrounds the Pfand system I describe in my previous post. Nearly all glass or plastic products are sold with a return fee, which can be redeemed by using Automaten in every grocery store. Now, most true Germans among the Berliners obediently return their own bottles on a schedule as timely as the Deutsche Bahn used to be. However, being a city with an enormous number of tourists, non-Germans and party-goers, many of these Pfandflaschen get discarded in bins or on the ground all over the city (there is no open-bottle ban in Germany!). The result: an extremely robust and efficient bottle-recycling program headed by those in need, but increasingly by not-so-poor hobbyists. These two groups are joined by many of Berlin's seniors, who have recently borne the brunt of fundamental changes in the German social security programs, and are thus left trying to supplement their insufficient retirement support from the state (the viability and effectiveness of the Hartz reforms are the subject for another blog post).

This brings me to my personal experiences with the Pfand Collectors: The last time I was at the ever-popular Görlitzer Park having a beer with a friend, the packed public park felt like a full-service outdoor bar, where empty beer bottles were promptly cleared by roaming collectors toting their bags on rollers. It even began to border on the overly attentive service one often gets in U.S. restaurants; collectors began to pester you for your bottles despite the fact you were in mid-swallow. I would venture to guess that any Pfand bottle in Berlin really only spends around 10-20 minutes in the garbage, on the ground, or in one's hand before the next collector comes along to swipe it. The best place to observe the sheer scope of the Pfand industry in Berlin, though, is to go to one of the few supermarkets that are open on Sunday (e.g. at the Hauptbahnhof or Friedrichstrasse) – following a long night (and morning) of revelry at the myriad clubs. Like trick-or-treaters with garbage bags full of candy, collectors wait in the queue to cash in their haul.

Treasure hunting in Wedding.

In the end, regardless of the motivations behind those participating, the recycling economies of big cities will certainly continue on. As long as there are rich and wasteful people who have more than they need, there will be those to swoop in, happy to make use of discarded goods. I don't see this changing anytime soon. Though the poorest cities in the world doubtless have much more complex and elaborate underground recycling markets, I find Berlin's particularly interesting if for no other reason than – despite having an ample population of people living in poverty – so many seem to be engaging in it purely for sport.

Update: it seems that New York has also become a popular spot for can collecting, in this case due to job losses in the industrial sector. Listen to this interesting and sad story at NPR.