A Passport, Pickle, Pretzel & Possibilities

I arrived back in Berlin this week carrying what feels suspiciously like a cheat code: a German passport.

For the first time, the idea of splitting my life between Berlin and New York feels less like a fantasy and more like an administrative possibility. The purpose of this trip has been simple: explore neighborhoods, eat well, see a little art, and figure out where – if anywhere – I can imagine putting down a second set of roots.

Unfortunately, Berlin had other plans.

Specifically, Berlin decided to become the surface of the sun.

This is now the second time I've visited during a serious heat wave. The real-feel temperature hit 105°F, creating the peculiar experience of neighborhood exploration while cosplaying a rotisserie chicken (albeit not one that costs $40 for a half a bird).

Thankfully, my hotel had air conditioning. Had it not, this post would be considerably shorter because I would have melted.

After the run of good fortune from the dinner party I wrote about in my last post, I began to wonder whether my luck had finally run out.

And yet.

The city still managed to charm me.

My first day of neighborhood scouting took me to Kreuzberg, specifically the bar at Hotel Orania, where one of my favorite bartenders, Julian Berger, was working. Every city worth returning to has a handful of people who become unofficial landmarks, and Julian is one of mine.

There, I encountered a cocktail called The Big Dill.

Reader, it was.

Pictured above, it is made with dill aquavit, Sauvignon Blanc, verjus, green apple, and La Gauloise. It was a revelation: herbal, bright, savory, sweet, and deeply refreshing without sacrificing complexity.

It also introduced what would become the accidental theme of the trip.

Dill.

That's a tasty theme I can get behind.

Despite my affection for Kreuzberg – and the temptation to spend the afternoon and evening parked at Julian's bar – I knew it wasn't where I saw myself living.

The next morning, I made my way to Schöneberg on Julian's recommendation. Wandering its leafy streets, I was repeatedly reminded of New York's West Village: handsome buildings, a human scale, and the kind of charm that makes you start mentally drafting apartment applications you have no business drafting.

There was also a strawberry stand designed to resemble an enormous strawberry.

Cities need more giant fruit architecture.

After some wandering, I escaped into the shade at a modern diner called Onette and found myself face-to-face with a magnificent dill pickle.

Yes, another dill-ite.

No, we're not done.

The following day, with Berlin still functioning as a convection oven, I headed to Prenzlauer Berg, beginning at Hacker Bäckerei & Konditerei. Its owner, Thomas Hacker, has become one of my favorite people to follow on Instagram. He possesses that increasingly rare combination of deep expertise and obvious joy. Watching him talk about bread and sweets such as streuselschnecke and käsekuchen reminds you that craftsmanship, at its best, is a form of enthusiasm.

I ordered a pretzel. it was nothing short of extraordinary: impossibly soft, deeply flavorful, and topped with just enough crunchy salt to bring everything into balance. It was the sort of pretzel that forces you to reconsider every previous pretzel.

Nearby, a street stall displayed enormous white asparagus spears that made me desperately wish I had access to a kitchen. The true tragedy of travel isn't missing museums.

It's finding vegetables you want to cook, but can’t.

I continued on to Kollwitzplatz, where the neighborhood farmers market was in full swing.

There were cheeses, meats, vegetables, fruit, breads, and, because the universe is committed to narrative consistency, more dill. And, just take a gander at these white and red currants…

More than any neighborhood I'd visited, Prenzlauer Berg felt immediately comfortable. It felt lived-in. Possible. The sort of place where routines emerge naturally and where you can imagine developing strong opinions about bread.

Which is dangerous.

Because once you start imagining routines, you're halfway to imagining a lease.

So if I do end up dividing my time between Berlin and New York, don't be surprised if Prenzlauer Berg turns out to be the culprit.

As for Charlottenburg, where I've been staying throughout this trip, there was one dinner there that deserves a post all its own.

More on that next time.

Until then – and I mean this – stay cool.