Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Cologne Part 4: In which the author casts aside the previous chronological account of the trip to talk about beer, beer and, um, beer.

Any time people ask about Chris and Kelly's time in Deutchland, they immediately jump to beer.

"Oh and they must love all that beer," someone would say, as I imagine Chris and Kelly face-down on their apartment floor surrounded by empty brown bottles covered in text with dotted and accented vowels.

But when people say these things, I feel obliged disenchant the fantasy. One trip to London and I was disenchanted, seeing on the taps of the first bar we entered: a bitter, another bitter, one more bitter, Stella Artois and Guinness. It was this way at most of the bars I visited.

For those people who think landing on European soil means surrounding themselves in every kind of ale you could imagine, think again.

I'm not saying the beer is bad — it's excellent — but if anyone's searching for some kind of malty-hopped mecca, they need look no further than right here in the Northwest. We're living in it people.

Just last week at Hale's I had an a Cream HSB and a seasonal Imperial Stout. I could have also indulged in a Blonde, a Pale, a Porter, an amber, a Kölsch-style (emphasis explained later) and a double-hopped IPA, and most of those are off the year-round list.

In Europe selection is limited by region and season – mostly by region in Cologne. But what they lack in all-you-can-drink selection, they more than make up with their direct cask offerings (I'm talking straight out of oak barrels people).

So take a stroll down the main street a block away from our fine hosts and you'll find a bar that serves Kölsch, but only one kind of Kölsch. A few doors down, it's the same. All over town, it's restaurants and bars serving one single kind of Kölsch.

But if you're in one bar drinking a so-so Kölsch, rest assured there's a better one just a few doors down.

Our first one, and probably my second favorite of the trip is the Sion Kölsch, selected by our hosts after I suggested trying a Dom Kölsch, just because the logo was snazzy.

Kölsch is pale, lightly hopped, crisp and refreshing, like an American lager, with less alcohol. I've heard people describe the Kölsch style as having a slight minty flavor to it, which makes sense to me, though that's now what I'd call it. But as far as beers go, it's not unlike biting into a crisp, juicy fruit or vegetable as far as flavor is concerned. This stuff is fresh.

It's served in a thin glass, and handed off from a "wreath" as pictured here. The roaming bartender will take your empty glass, give you a full one from the wreath and mark a dash on your coaster to keep a tab. If you don't want any more, plop the coaster on top of your empty glass.

And the Kölners guard their beer fiercely. I'm told Chris was met with spite and malice when he indicated his fondness for the alt-style ales found in abundance in Dusseldorf. This could be the case because Kölsch is also the adjective meaning "of Cologne."

And it truly is "of Cologne," vehemently so. There's rules, folks. Hales' Kölsch-style ale (brewed in Seattle) is called thus because the only way to be a real Kölsch is to brew it within sight of the Dom. Larger brew sites can (and do) sit outside of the city, but at least one brew site of each brand must be able to see the Cathedral, the only exception being those who were brewing before the rule went into place (in 1986 according to the wiki article).

There's a tale that years back men stole the Kölsch recipe from the women who brewed it, and though it's a "tale" of sorts, it's probably more or less true. At one time women did most of the brewing, and eventually men took over the industry, I imagine because they saw that they could make some money at it.

I had three other Kölschs around town, including a Reisdorf and a Ganaser, both kegged.

But the best drinks I had came from Helios. Their Kölsch was the freshest I tasted, but they also had a good variety of other ales, including one infused with rosemary. ROSEMARY

We took a few sips to figure that out. It was the seasonal, and the words "ginger" were thrown out before we were able to accurately ID the spice. But "ginger" was still descriptive because of the ales amber-color and spicy bite. But once you realize it's rosemary, there's really nothing else to say. While I have trouble distinguishing certain ingredients in a brew, this one stood out.

I don't really have a spiffy way of wrapping this up, but suffice to say I enjoyed each sip of ale I had. I'm writing about Bacharach next, where we found NO BEER, but I took a liking to the local wines.

Friday, April 18, 2008

A Visit to Cologne Part 3: In which the author learns that cardinals have little to no power regarding their own Cathedral in Cologne.

Day two in Cologne, we head off to the city’s pride and joy: The Dom (pronounced "dome"). A large cathedral within the Catholic Church and one of the city’s most important structures that survived World War II.

Visiting this place, I immediately think of They Might Be Giants' “The Bells Are Ringing,” a song that shows doctrine and liturgy giving its constituents strict marching orders. What surprises me is that within a sect of tumultuous theology and politics, rooted deeply in tradition, this building is a wildly dynamic and changing structure, constantly morphing to reflect the times.

We took the English tour through the Dom with a doctor of art history. Let me tell you, THAT is the way to take a tour. This guy knew what he was talking about, and answered most of my questions before I got to them.

Now, I know the soot covered building shown above looks like something straight out of Gotham City, and not a hub for progressive architecture, art and symbolism. But take this into account: The organization overseeing the art, windows and icons of the building is autonomous and not controlled by the cardinal or the church, leading to snazzy new Gerhard Richter-designed windows like this:

My crude representation of the window's history follows thus: During World War II, the U.S. was getting ready to bomb the living crap out of Germany. European art buffs came along and said to the U.S. "Hey, would you mind not bombing certain aspects of our history and heritage?" And oddly enough, despite what our last big city bombing would indicate, we obliged — the Dom would not be bombed, and the church would take its best windows out and put them away for safe keeping.

Most of those saved windows made it okay. One didn't, and all they had of its design was a few sketchy black and white photos. I'm not sure what happened in the 60 years from the end of the war to the new installation of Richter's window, but at some point they made the wise design decision to not make a copy of something they can't perfectly copy. They wanted something new and interesting — and it's worth noting that the cardinal installed in Cologne is not a fan of new and interesting in this case.

If you look closely at the window, it's essentially pixels. Of the long, verticals columns, the first and third, the fourth and sixth and the second and fifth are mirrors of each other. The pattern follows in some of the smaller rosettes.

As my hand is jumping up in the air, Dr. Art History jumped on the answer. To me, the guy who spray-painted “Power, Corruption and Lies” on a museum with an installation he hated didn't sound like the person who'd even want to design such a window, though he is a local Kölner and even gave up the design at no charge. But given that they did let him do it, and he wanted to do it, what was the religious or spiritual significance to the artist?

The answers to these questions are almost one in the same. Those in charge wanted a window to reflect the world as it is today. Digital, abstract and ambiguous. Richter will tell you (or so I'm told) that if you see religious significance in the abstract design and the color-filtered light, then there is religious meaning there. If you do not see religious significance, and you merely see and interesting abstract design, then there is no religious meaning there. It's up to you.

And really, isn't that where we're at in the world right now? Digitally connected, constantly being fed pixelated information and using these tools to desperately understand people who believe entirely different things from what we believe. As I think about the window, and what it implies, I find myself in a very cyclical set of thinking. My gut reaction is: “It is digital and represents the abstract and pluralistic nature of our world today, and is for the most part void of any specific spiritual meaning.” But even as I think of it, I'm awestruck by that very thought of our widening understanding of the world and our struggle to find peace with the ambiguous and abstract, and suddenly the window becomes spiritually significant in that sense.

I'd like to think that Richter was hoping people would get into that cycle, blurring the lines between what we see as strictly secular and things seen as strictly spiritual.

All of this is incredible, but not new to the church, and that's what amazes me. At every moment, those in charge of the building's structure and art (whether it's the current secular agency that is in charge or the church), they periodically threw tradition aside and took the building in a new direction. Looking at the walls you see examples and changes from every century reflecting the preferences of the time.

Our guide explained, because I pestered him a lot, that often times a generation would arise that said "Bah! I hate this style" and disregard one window or piece of architecture. A few generations later, the same style would be revered and mimicked. He expects the same will happen with the Richter window. Many people already hate it, but there may come a time when people look back and say "Yes, I see what they were doing and why, and I think this is beautiful."

And the end results? You get the window above (I am of the camp that thinks it's beautiful) crammed into the same building holding these:

The alleged skeletal remains of the three Magi. I was especially thankful of our guides balanced but critical take on these, where he explains that archeological study has indicated that the remains were clearly significant, revered people, there are three of them and they come from the time and place that the three Magi would have come from.

He argues, almost like shining the light of Richter's window directly onto these ancient relics, that it's possible these are not the three Magi in ernest (if you believe such a thing could even be found) but asks "Does it matter that they are?" And he admits that he does not think it matters. The items themselves, whoever they are, represent a historical and artistic significance and an important symbolism for the cathedral regardless.

And anyone refuting their significance to the area: Every sign, logo or ANYTHING in the city either bears a silhouette of the Dom's two towering spires, or an image of three crowns. You can't get a beer without being reminded of this place and what it contains. With that in mind, I'll be writing about the beer next.

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

Andrew Bird's new album

More on Germany later, peeps!

Andrew Bird added another post to the New York Times’ blog Measure For Measure in which he wrote this:

The record I want to make here and now — the one I wish I could find in my local record store — is a gentle, lulling, polyrhythmic, minimalist yet warm tapestry of acoustic instruments. No solos, just interlocking parts. A little Steve Reich, but groovier. A little Ghanaian street music, but more arranged. Thick and creamy vocals like the Zombies’s Colin Blunstone. The bass warm and tubby like Studio One dub.


Words like those right there are why I always keep a spare pare of pants around, for the just in case moments where I get excited and crap myself. Heck, I have to avoid reading that paragraph up there just out of fear of aftershock self-craps.

He went on to explain that he's working with the same producer that hashed out Weather Systems back in 2003. That album was a superb accomplishment, even for Bird's standards. In that short 35 minutes he creates a slow-moving, pastoral, musical landscape that, being honest with myself, he has yet to surpass. Each subsequent album really took on very different atmospheres, but even at his very best he hasn't had as consistent a sound as he did on this one.

And just because Andrew Bird loves me (because what other explanation could there be?) he included a one-minute sample of the song "Oh No" that he's been working on in the studio.

I'm undecided on one matter though. Does this blog sate my appetite for a new album, or does it make the waiting for the new album (I'm guessing it will be out at the beginning of next year) all the more painful?

Monday, April 14, 2008

A Visit to Cologne Part 2: In which the author becomes addicted to pumpkin seed bread and takes way too many close-up photos at a Turkish market.


Whenever people come and visit us in Seattle, we end up taking them to the Pike Place Market. When we lived in Eugene, it was the Saturday Market. That be the pattern we visit people or receive visitors. When in doubt, take them to the market!

All that hit me as we walked through a Turkish market in Köln, tasting eggplant and cheese purees as we went along. Really, what better way to get a look at the local flavor than going to an open lot covered in folding tables and collapsible tents filled with locals selling to locals.

I suppose it's nice economically. I could throw all my money into larger tourist haunts, or (as is most likely) into the H & M's (cuz when I leave Germany, I leave as a fashionista on an idiot's budget!). But it's cheaper for me and better for them if I'm dropping my cold hard cash into the hands of locals.

It was during the day on Wednesday, so we were easily the youngest adults (there were a few children) and the only American-type tourists I could see anywhere. We nabbed a couple containers of the purees and some flatbread. Then some veggies. I got in peoples way as I took close up shots of colorful merchandise.

Then it was around the corner, and I could no longer contain myself. In Seattle we've got a coffee joint every ten feet. In jolly old Deutchland it's bakeries. Bakeries with bread. Tasty, yeasty, chewy, crusty delicious bread.

Chris commented that ingredients for making bread are a bit hard to come by. This is probably because given the choice I'd rather drop half a Euro down for the tasty bakery goodness available than anything I'd make myself (and I do consider myself a reasonably adept baker.)

But while most flour- and yeast-based foodstuffs over there are what you'd expect — variations of whole wheat and white, sourdough and the like in every shape and size imaginable — there was one that stood out. These people love — or at least produce in mass quantities — rolls, rings and loaves of bread covered top to bottom, inch by inch in bitterly delicious pumpkin seeds.

Holy crap for crap, have I ever tasted such seedy, grainy goodness as this before? Suffice to say I have not, and Megan and I were running into every bakery we passed snagging a couple more of those rolls for the rest of the trip. I even had one left over the day after we arrived and ate it while driving to Seattle with a smug smile, knowing that know one within several thousand miles was enjoying bread quite like mine.

After the market run, we stopped by a little, little, LITTLE coffee shop (there's like, one long table in the place for any and all customers to share) for some French-pressed coffee. No espresso to be had here. But you do get to select from something like eight or more different blends of coffee. I'm not sure what they called the kind Megan and I ordered, but it was what they gave us when we asked for a less bitter variety.

Chris and Kelly come here often enough that the woman running the shop held a conversation strictly in German that I can only assume involved inquiring after each other’s health, wishing well to each other’s spouses and explaining who these two stupid non-German-speaking Americans were doing here.

I was fully impressed by Chris' conversational skill in this case. I don't speak the language, so I probably can't judge, but the conversation was long enough to get past the typical "Hello, my name is Karl. I like beer, pretzels and American football"-type conversations you'd find in your year-one language book.

Kelly came a few minutes later. Add another conversation with the woman running the joint between those two, add me saying "danke" every ten seconds so as to seem appreciative as possible and you've basically got that first morning.

Kudos to that establishment for broadening my coffee-drinking palate to non-espresso type fair. I'm typically used to drinking things with tons of steamed milk and shots of flavoring. I took mine with cream (real cream) and some sugar.

Tomorrow I'll write about the Cathedral a bit, which was WAY rad.

A Visit to Cologne Part 1: In which the author idiotically bounces through his brother's bathroom leaving a trail of destruction behind him.

Arriving in any new city I enter a state of delirious fascination coupled with unending stupidity.

It's a state of mind I actually inherited from my mother, who once right after crossing the Canadian border, said in a drunken and dreamy voice "I don't feel like I'm in a different country," and then later shouted out "Oh look! They have Subway here too!"

My reign of idiotic American terror hit at Chris' apartment when, upon the invitation, I said I would very much enjoy taking a shower after what amounted to 24 hours of transit.

In the bathroom I looked up rotated myself a few times, taking in the odd wall-mounted water heater in the shower (about the size of a large dictionary or coffee table book), the various aquatic decorations (they came with the apartment) and then began to search for a way to turn on the light.

"Oh how fascinating!" I would say to myself in my head. "It's a cord pull to turn on the light."

This was followed by tugging the cord several times to turn the light on and off, as if this was some great revelation of technology the German's discovered. Who knew that one could turn lights on and off with things other than switches?

I close the door, rotate again, this time looking for the toilet, remembering that perhaps there was a reason Chris showed us a second bathroom.

In the next room (or WC if we want to do as the Germans do) I search for the light, this time prepared for the pull cord. I see no immediate switch or cord, but then notice a plastic fish dangling before me, suspended in the air by a silver ribbon. Aha!

I pull it, hear a ripping sound, and gasp. This cord, it appears, is merely for decoration, and I should probably not tug on it.

But it was also in this bathroom that I would face my week-long nemesis. The toilet. It is, to describe it in the single word Chris used, "confrontational."

I would include a picture here to back my findings, but the thought of snapping a photo of it made my spine shudder, so I'll have to rely on the extent of my mastery over the written word.

The bowl itself is like any found in any home here in the U.S. Instead of a little knob or lever to flush, there's a large square button. But within the bowl lies my bane.

Instead of a smooth cone leading down to the exit point for your, *ahem*, deposits, there's a clear out-box on the opposite end you'd expect, nearest you. But the water does not fill up halfway like we do here stateside.

In the center, there's a small tray-shape molded into the bowl, allowing your, *ahem*, deposits to sit in a small, extremely shallow puddle of water, mostly exposed to the elements before being washed into the aforementioned outbox upon flushing.

My words may not fully describe what this is like, but the result is being faced eye-to-eye with your No. 2s before they're washed away. I mean eye-to-eye. They're straight up there, standing and staring at you, not under water, but just sitting there, as the smell slowly fills the room.

The flushing process is not a casual affair, but done in desperate fear of the unsightly terror you've cast upon this earth. It's as though the designers wanted to say to you "Look, foul beast, upon your excrement, and fear it!"

But fortunately, bowel movements being what they are, we were only forced to endure this unpleasantness a few times throughout the week. But, as exhibited here, future toilets were equally confrontational, such as this one found at a castle in St. Goar. That's a guillotine by the way.

Other domestic rituals were much more pleasant, and actually quite tasty. It's a rare site to see your typical bowl of sugary cereal drenched in milk. Chris and Kelly have taken to a local breakfast of chopped fruit, yogurt and granola all in a bowl. This cuisine was so appealing to my palate that we went straight to Costco the day after we got back to get some flax granola, yogurt and plums.

I found this, I should say, much tastier than the array of sliced cold meats we found at a buffet breakfast at our hostel, each one looking like another strange variation on bologna.

More stories of adventure and intrigue to come in the following days. I promise this is the only one involving bowel movements.