I will always have a soft spot for Frankfurt, even though the Staedel Museum was closed for renovation during my visit, and I first saw the city in the middle of the euro crisis, when the city was filled with dour bankers. My affection for Frankfurt, I suspect, has something to do with the fact that strangers reached out and shared their favorite food experiences.
Frankfurt is a shockingly modern city, all concrete and glass. Little remains of medieval Frankfurt–for Frankfurt, as for so many German cities, World War II was a transformative experience. But even in the middle of so much modernity–and even postmodernity, as the European Central Bank is headquartered in Frankfurt–the city has its bastions of tradition. Apfelwein continues to occupy a prominent space in Frankfurt’s culinary landscape, and it was at an apfelwein restaurant that we received our first taste–quite literally–of the city’s hospitality. We sat next to a table of racuous, cheerful German women, who must have taken pity on us, two Asian girls sampling goulasch and wurst. When they left, they sent over plates of pickles and rye bread, a tureen of “green sauce” (Grüne Soße), and another pungent dish of Handkäse, or sour milk quark cheese. They lingered a bit over their apfelwein and watched us taste their gifts, exchanging small pleasantries in our broken German (Danke! Schmekt’s!).
Nightfall over the Main
The old Frankfurt Opera House
But I really fell for Frankfurt over an evening in a French restaurant. We’d spent the afternoon wandering through the magical Liebieghaus, a sculpture gallery installed in an old mansion on the banks of the Main. Though it was only August, the Frankfurt nights were already cold, and we wandered, hungry and chilled, through the posh neighborhood behind the Liebieghaus, searching for a likely dinner spot.
We spotted a cheerful painting of a rooster on a side street. Beneath the sign, a French bistro. The tables on the sidewalk were all full. We stood on the sidewalk, wavering over our decision, and one of the diners spotted us and waved us over. “Eat here!” Her voice was full of enthusiasm. “We live just across the street and I swear this is our second kitchen.” The other diners nodded and concurred.
The food was simple, but rich, classic French bistro food made just a little heartier to please the German palate. For an amuse-bouche, we had a smoked trout mousse, which we spread, liberally, on little baguette rounds. We had a wonderful venison terrine with tart red currants embedded, like gems, in a sweet/salty matrix. The terrine came with perfect cornichons, as well as an entire palette of little pickled/preserved vegetables. We had lamb and coq au vin for our main courses, and creme brulee and chocolate mousse for dessert. Course by course, everything was fresh, clean, and classic.
Towards the end of our meal, the woman who recommended the restaurant came to bid us good night. The night ended on a graceful note of warmth and conviviality, a reminder that dining out need not be a cold, exclusive affair, nor does it necessarily have to be about culinary inventiveness, or be about the search for the next “it” restaurant. Sometimes, it is quite enough for the experience to be purely sentimental, a reminder that food, and the pleasure that it brings, serves, in the best way, as a lowest common denominator, a way of reminding us of our common humanity.
