Table of contents
Rolf Henniges
to travel
Germany from the gut
Germany from the gut
Motorcycle life
Four days, 2500 kilometers, six stations ?? with your best friend across Germany. And don’t just eat kilometers.
Rolf Henniges
03/01/2006
The tour was a crazy idea. Or, let’s say: beer idea. Back then, after a case of beer in Mattes garage, between chain spray and engine oil, one word led to another. All of the boys had discovered a culinary highlight somewhere in the republic and when their mills died they swore that this was truly the very best of Germany: the best cappuccino in Stuttgart, the best sausage at Zella-Mehlis, the best rhubarb cake in Dangast and so on . And so on.
So go away. Because Matte and I have four days off. The tanks of the Ducati 999 and the Kawasaki ZX-10R are full of that
first gears in the gearing and the engine oil is preheated. We turn onto the street in the direction of downtown, meander through the traffic, through the glass void of the office palaces. And stop in front of Herbert’s cafe, gray stone, three panes. Here, in the south of Stuttgart, the best cappuccino in Germany is brewed. Says Cappu-Rainer. And he has to know. The shop once housed a tattoo studio, in front of it a butcher’s shop: Biedermeier interiors, metal advertising panels from the fifties and black and white photos from the flower power era surround hip people in their mid-thirties.
In the center of coolness: a one-pot Elektra that keeps the secret of the cappuccino. It runs 24 hours a day, 365 days a year, and delivers Crema to melt away. Kevin, the Cappu-Schenk, says succinctly: the finer the ingredients, the more carefully they are used, the better the taste. Do we know. Matte only uses Castrol RS, fills up with at least 100 octane and cleans his Duc with toothbrushes from Dr. Best. The one with the oscillating head. His 999 is 45,000 kilometers down, can be displayed in a shop window and runs like an animal.
Outside there is a threat of gray cloud cover. We ignore them. Secure the packing roll, check the visor, thumbs up and load.
A81, Heilbronn – Wurzburg. No speed limit. Left side, everything
what works. The wind presses its paws against the helmets,
Rigid Neck. Complete emptiness behind us. Matte doesn’t care anyway. The manufacturer’s logo of his station wagon is emblazoned in his rear-view mirrors. Apart from his forearm, Matte sees absolutely nothing in it. Our friend Boxer-Bernd had recently criticized this after a test drive with the 999. “Quite right,” said Matte. “You can’t run in high heels either. But they look crazy, don’t they? ”An answer Bernd understood. He often hangs out in a bar, dim light, open until five in the morning.
A lack of fuel and a hunger for country roads drive us off the autobahn north of Wurzburg. 200 kilometers are behind us. At an Aral spigot we meet Jochen, a Honda SP2 driver. Judging by the openings of his trumpets, every officer knows him within 300 kilometers. We refuel together, then we let it go. Rolling thunder, clinking windows. To accelerate our machines with their completely legal bags next to Jochen’s Honda is damned reminiscent of a man’s primal fear: You stand in front of the basin on the toilet, two degrees below zero, and the guy next door rolls out a cobra. It doesn’t have to be.
Continue on the B19. Munnerstadt, Mellrichstadt, Meiningen, new federal states. In front of us is a VW transporter with an eloquent rear sticker: “Each of us needs a bit of freedom”. A little bit? Where even enough is never enough. The streets are getting narrower, the signs more informative: Gasthof Zum Schotten, Zorn beverage trade, Frickel brothers’ tire trade.
Elbertshausen, 20 kilometers before Zella-Mehlis, take the path
Shattered work of art in gray, black on the left on the steep slope
Goats, handicapped, all houses for sale on the right. That changes between Zella-Mehlis and Obersdorf. Best asphalt, bombastic curves, felt two degrees more sloping than Rossi. Here, in the middle of a forest, is the second destination of the tour: the parking lot next to curve no.7.
Stainless steel grill, extractor hood, a log cabin style kiosk. The Gasthaus Sterngrund is just a stone’s throw away. This is the place where the best sausages in Germany roast, Grill-Gunni claims. Siegrid Spath, 56, turns things around and proves to be competent: The unmilled sausage meat ?? secret seasoning mix, no cutter, so no chemistry ?? is pressed into the natural casing in the morning and must be eaten in the evening at the latest. There is also 1.40 euros per sausage, roll and mustard. Tasted 140 euros ?? this is how the belt feels in your mouth, a completely new feeling of addiction. Gunni is right: definitely the best bratwurst in the country.
The weather god knows mercy. We experience the Thuringian Forest on sweeping, dry curves that you would have to take at 180 km / h.
From Ohrdruf ?? who gave the place this name? ?? receives us
unexpected expanse. Wind power plants, individual farms, forest fragments, unobstructed view of Russia. In addition, a sky that looks as if remnants of cloud had been poured through a sieve. Time for the night rest.
We sit in silence next to a six-pack on the bench in front of our boarding house and indulge in the leanings of life. Matte and I are sandpit buddies. Together they blew up neighbors’ mailboxes with firecrackers, buried the class register with the sixes, had a crush on the same girl. Our silence is worth a thousand words.
“Sometimes,” says Matte, lost in thought, “sometimes I wish for a different life.” “You just have to learn to say no more often,” I grumble. The landlady comes out: “Another beer?”
Matte turns to me: “You can see how difficult it is.” The sun hits the horizon with blood red.
The next morning, 10.30 a.m., 120 kilometers northwest, the former border area near Heiligenstadt: the streets are narrow, scarred, cracked, full of holes, and repaired a dozen times. But damn curvy. The Kawa and I stagger. With joy. Or is it the 190 that shakes the load through as if someone at the back was steering with the crowbar? Two hours later we reach Lauenberg, a small town between Northeim and Einbeck in Lower Saxony. Here ex-ship captain Heiner Heise, 59, makes the best ice cream in Germany. The ice-cream counter is in his living room and attracts with 24 flavors in midsummer. He has 100 up his sleeve. The repertoire ranges from smarties or gummy bear ice cream for garden gnomes to frozen foods with rum or egg liqueur for fur seals. A confectioner’s recipe, 100 years old, no flavor enhancers. Heise doesn’t take motorcyclists who eat less than five bullets seriously. So what’s left for us??
Fourteen balls later we are approaching the Harz Mountains and its alternating curves. A liter of melted milk with raisins, pineapple, cherries, cinnamon and the like sloshes in my stomach whenever I tilt it. I wonder when the can will turn into butter.
Our next stop is in Neuenkirchen near Zarrentin, 60 kilometers east of Hamburg as the crow flies. Years ago, Mett-Manni had an orgasm there with a few simple fried potatoes.
Purely culinary, of course. Hundreds of kilometers for chopped potatoes ?? how could I sell this to my mother? As a worthwhile goal? Matte always says: If the journey is the goal, you could actually sit down on the street with a case of beer…
The Harz Mountains, the mountain pearl of Northern Germany, with tons of curves, served on a hill platter. In addition, the state-recognized venue for the world championship in fuel saving, category silver Opel Vectra. 40 km / h. When things are going well. But that never does with them. Our motto: no prisoners. Throttle valve open, brake calliper closed. As hard as it gets. At Bad Harzburg we turn onto the A 395 towards Braunschweig. From all the brisk braking
the baggage roll has slipped very far forward, it presses me
The back. What to do? Stop, reclamp? Actually, the wind pressure should…
The A 395 has many advantages. And on 30 kilometers between Schladen and Wolfenbuttel there are no bends and practically no traffic … 220 km / h, the packing roll presses, mat sticks in the slipstream … 270, packing roll in place, mat embryonic in a red dress and just about on it, fights visibly. Load through, 290, 299, finally! Effective neck and biceps training, no more pressure in the back, the 999 only as a tiny, flickering point of light in my rearview mirror. Which would answer the question of what you need 175 horses for. Push back to the packing roll without stopping. I really have to tell Boxer-Bernd. He likes such wisdom.
In addition, boxers should be sent north anyway. Because contrary to our nightmares, parts of the North German Plain present themselves as an optimal training zone for braking and
Redefine acceleration points. No sooner has the Elbe ferry spat us to the east bank near Neu Darchau than the pelts feast on delicious toppings. The B 195 between Neuhaus and Zarrentin is a phenomenon. As a mix of acceleration lane and exquisite, invisible, wide curved arches, partly roofed over by hundred-year-old oaks. Hard braking, apex insanity à la Nordschleife, then pull up tight? Workout for the tire flanks. My heart is pounding like under a transport helicopter.
One refueling later, our bikes bump over cobblestones around the Schalsee. Pink clouds color the water, in the distance a hint of the sea. The end of the day is waiting in the »Gasthaus zum See«, Neuenkirchen. Cook Sieglinde Schroder, 53, dishes up, we chew, marvel and listen to the mystery of Germany’s best fried potatoes. Type Zilena, handpicked, no middlemen, peeled the day before, rested overnight, married with fresh herbs and: “Just roast at full speed and never let your eyes go.” Full throttle, eye contact? We know from the racetrack. So it’s that simple … plus a roast honey pork plus a room with mega breakfast.
6:10 am, next morning, wide balcony, first floor: the light as clear as ice-cold Bommerlunder, the air fragrant, the landscape untamed. It seems as if we have discovered the birthplace of distant vision in a place with 27 inhabitants. In a place that is connected to the rest of the world through adventurous streets: cobblestones, the size of motorcycle helmets, alternating with asphalt tracks, a maximum of three meters wide and undulating like the ribbons of rhythmic gymnasts, bordered by wide edges of sand. Tiny towns with no sidewalks, zebra crossings or even traffic lights. Our heating planes are out of place here like fish on land, but somehow you feel something that you can otherwise only read about in a good book.
We still have a day and a half until we return home
Conditions. Northern Germany rushes by. A 24, A1, A 28, A 29. Lubeck, Hamburg, Bremen, Oldenburg, Varel. After 360 kilometers we stand with ticking engines in front of the old Kurhaus in Dangast. According to Mattes father-in-law, the Tapken family will serve Germany’s best rhubarb cake there. A motorcycle couple from Hanover is hanging around in front of the entrance. Silver Honda Varadero, sticker contaminated, blue top case, oversize. Driver Dieter is a blond in his late fifties with a deep voice and dark sunglasses, who must have heard somewhere that masculinity is defined by the handshake. His wife Irene was successful at Douglas before leaving … Matte always says: “Women do things for their appearance that every used car dealer goes to jail for …” The Varaderos have been touring Dangast for years because of the baked goods. A rhubarb cake that Irene firmly claims the recipe is on page so and so in the Dr. Oetker baking book. “It could be,” mumbles Matte and looks the brightly painted lady in the eye, “the right mixture is of no use if the ingredients are of no use.”
The ingredients. Exactly! We have learned in the last few days. Mat and I are sitting on Dangast Beach, full of paper. “Dieter, the blond guy, gave me an idea,” says Matte. “Let’s make a stop at Heino’s Cafe and devour one of the telegenic nut corners.” Heino’s Cafe? In Bad Munstereifel? That’s 400 kilometers from here. And only to a limited extent in the flight path home. does not matter.
A gray-mottled gentleman with an estimated seven dioptres serves Heino’s nut corners and Heino’s tomato soup to “Black-brown is the hazelnut”. The former taste more greasy than nutty, the latter in all likelihood comes from Heino’s bag and is
Decorated with a slice of gray bread from Heino’s previous week. During the meal, people with side partings, Heino fan glasses and creased trousers from the mail order business sneak around us at a safe distance. They whisper excitedly, grin rebelliously and take photos of the home of the glasses bard.
We pay. Shoemaker, stick to your last, singer with your grades. It is sunday morning. The sun is shining, and we’re only 450 kilometers from our local beer and garage. Then it occurs to me: At some point, Boxer-Bernd once claimed that the best beer in the republic was in Andechs…
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