Sunday, January 21, 2007
This is my favorite meal on planet earth. This is German Soul Food. This is Pfutchens and Wine Soup. Waistlines be damned, clogged arteries be damned, when the call goes out in my family that my beloved Oma is making the meal of meals you can bet your life I will show up at her dining room table. You can bet your life I have eaten very little else beforehand to allow for proper gorging. If I have a date with you, if your goldfish is dying, if you think you need me to help you through some crisis in your life, rest assured, if pfutchens and wine soup are suddenly on the menu, you and your date, you and your flushable goldfish, you and your crisis will be unceremoniously dropped like a hot potato. With no apologies. I'm that selfish about soul food.
The meal is ingenious. You get to eat dessert first. Trans-fats, white sugar and alcohol make up the better part of the first course. Hot wine soup is made up of a bottle of white wine and loads of dried fruit. It is the nectar of the Gods and the cure-all for constipation. Pfutchens (the "p" is silent) are deep fried balls of dough. Fried in Crisco. Here's the beautiful part: you eat the wine soup and pfutchens at the same time, both piping hot. Load a pile of sugar on your little plate and dip each hot dough ball into the pile, being sure to over-coat it, and bite off as much as you can chew. Swallow. Smile. Dip your spoon into the bowl of alcohol and slurp it down. Swoon. Repeat process until your pants must be unbuttoned.
The second course is equally ingenious. It's salty breakfast. Fried potatoes, onions, turkey bacon and eggs all scrambled together to perfectly balance out the sugar-rush in your system. This is cholesterol heaven. At this point, zippers are becoming an issue on your pants.
If this meal is being served up by an old-school German, there will be a third course. Traditional dessert. Likely some outrageously sinful torte with whipped cream topping. Despite difficulty in breathing and muffled groans being uttered at the table, I recommend soldiering onward and finishing the last morsel. Only then can you claim to have spent an evening at the Gastronome's Paradise Diner. Only then will you understand why I left you crying on the phone and waiting in the rain at the show.