An essentially south-German dish is the Metzelsuppe—the "bouillabaisse" of Swabia—in which the sausage plays an important role, but which, to be appreciated, requires an essentially German taste as well as a digestion without limit. This consists of several preparations of freshly killed pork, including soup, bacon, and sausages with Sauerkraut, the sausages usually being the Leber and the Blutwurst. It has found its Thackeray in Uhland, whose poem has become a classic, although, with the possible exception of the bacon and Sauerkraut, the alien will find the poem preferable to the dish.
With a choice of a different soup for every day in the year, the German does not lack for variety in the stepping-stone of the dinner. With all of these the stranger may not be in sympathy, and in none of them will he find the equal, as an all-round preface to the principal repast, of a perfect Julienne. But the potato soup, the native pot-au-feu, and even the soup in which beer is an important ingredient, have their merits when well prepared. Nor is the boiled beef with horseradish sauce, which usually follows the soup, to be despised, notably in warm weather, when rich and heavy viands cloy. One would be equally lacking in appreciation were he to lose sight of another dish we owe to Germany, the "marinirte," or sour-spiced herring—that offset to Katzenjammer and noon-restorer of a jaded appetite and a parched tongue. The Schmierkäse, or whey-cheese, when cream is employed in its composition and the green of fresh chives enters as an adjunct to please the eye and the palate, surely requires no praises, whatever may be said to the contrary of the variety whose very name one thinks of in a whisper.
Such dishes as Szegediner Schwein's Goulash mit Sauerkraut, Paprica Schnitzel mit Ungarischem Kraut, and Ungarisches Goulash mit Spätzle—triumphs of the Hungarian and Viennese Kochkunst—seldom turn out satisfactory in alien hands. The Spätzle and Nudel are two farinaceous dishes that also call for a native cook to serve in perfection. The Spätzle is of south-German origin, and tastes best when it flanks a viand with a tart sauce and has a Rhein wine to keep it company. This observation applies more strictly to its native home, the virtues of German dishes and German cigars being most apparent amid their natural atmosphere. Indeed, who shall say that the "Pfarrer von Kirchfeld" or the colourful strains of "Sataniel" would seem the same if transported oversea? Climate, the hour, the environment—all the conditions of the entourage exercise a marked influence on many things, especially on the pleasures of taste. The Zeller that seems so delicious with the chicken in a south-German restaurant is apt to prove a delusion elsewhere; and even the best of Affenthaler and Assmanshäuser, of which one may retain a pleasant remembrance, must fade before a good Bordeaux. The beer of Germany, when properly cared for and when allowed to rush swiftly from the wood, alone preserves a large portion of its delicious tonical freshness wherever partaken of. Like an omelette soufflé, beer has its moment, and once started towards the Seidel or Stein, its flow should be as uninterrupted as the course of a mountain brook that, with music and song and freighted with coolness, comes dancing down from the distant hills to slake the thirst of the vale below.
Of game, the hare and the partridge have always been held in great esteem by the Germans; and while the native Rebhuhn may not compare with our own prince of feathered game-birds, the ruffed grouse, the German hare has unquestionable merits when prepared as the favourite Hasenbraten, Hasenpfeffer, and Hasenrücken gespickt with Sahnen sauce. Even Goethe sounds a "Hoch!" when he thinks of the game he has secured, and smacks his lips in anticipation of its appearance on the table.[26]
The mysteries of the sandwich in all its possibilities are unknown to Germany. But amends are made by the attractions of the Kalter Aufschnitt which takes its place, where slices of veal are surrounded by slices of Cervelat, ham, and tongue, and thin cuts of Leberwurst with pickles and hard-boiled eggs cut in rounds to form a frame, and rye bread and mustard à discretion. As for the Kuchen—light, wholesome, and inviting—its forms are legion, though these belong more strictly to the supper-table or to that phase of feminine entertainment termed "The Coffee." The common and often excessive use of the caraway-seed in cakes and breadstuffs is nevertheless to be deplored, however great its merits as a carminative.
Dumas tells the story of the excellent cake called madeleine, an entremets which all who have been in France will remember. Is it a flower of the Vosges, indigenous to Alsace, that has been transplanted across the border?—it must have been the invention of the German Kuchenkunst. This is the account of the madeleine as it appears in the "Grand Dictionnaire de Cuisine":
"A tourist-friend who was at Strassburg, and who started out on his travels a little late, expecting to reach the next village before dark, was unsuccessful in finding a shelter until nearly midnight, when he perceived the spire of a distant church, and soon afterwards the welcome rays of a light that seemed to emerge from some subterranean abode. Knocking at the door, a gruff voice demanded:
"'Who is it, and what do you want?'
"'I am a traveller, weary and worn, and well-nigh starved. For heaven's sake, let me in.'
"With this the door was unbarred by a man of savage aspect whose hair and beard were covered with flour, and who was naked to the waist.
"'Come in, and make haste,' he said in a cavernous voice; and a large room was disclosed to the traveller the interior of which was lighted by the fires of an immense oven. The door was then re-barred by the forbidding-looking occupant.
"'Pardon, Monsieur,' said the traveller, little at ease. 'I have just completed sixteen or eighteen leagues with scarcely a mouthful; cannot I buy something to appease my hunger, and have a couch to lie on?'
"'I have only my own bed,' replied the man, in his gruff voice; 'as to something to eat, that is not wanting—it remains to be seen if it will please you.'
"And opening a cupboard, he produced a basket containing a dozen or so of oval-shaped cakes of a fine golden hue.
"'Try these,' he said to the traveller, 'and tell me what you think of them.'
"When the basket was emptied, he asked, 'What do you think of my madeleines?'
"'Something to drink first,' muttered the traveller in a strangled voice.
"The cupboard was opened anew, and uncorking a bottle covered with dust, the baker filled two glasses, passing one to the stranger.
"'Drink,' he said; 'I don't wish my cakes to choke you.'
"The glass was emptied at a draught, when the visitor passed it to be refilled,—it was an excellent Bordeaux.
"'Your health, my friend; you have given me one of the most delicious repasts that I have ever had. But tell me what do you call these lovely cakes?'
"'What! don't you know the madeleines of Commercy?'
"'You mean to say I am at Commercy?'
"'Yes, and, without knowing it, you have eaten the best cakes in the world.'"
Se non è vero è ben trovato—the madeleine still remains to gladden the traveller. They bring it now in little boxes of a dozen—flat on the top and grooved like a shell underneath, the colour a rich golden brown—as the train halts for a moment at the town on the Meuse where Cardinal de Retz wrote his memoirs.
One of the earliest of German cook-books, published at Strassburg in 1516, and now of the utmost rarity, bears for its title "Kuchenmeisterey," or the mastery of cake-making. Perchance were one to turn its faded Gothic leaves, some forgotten master-stroke of the baker might reveal itself, to vie with the madeleine in popularity and add to the already endless list of farinaceous Leckerbissen and Frauenessen, wherein the Germans have no superiors.