Bloody Shame

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That great American cure for the hangover, the perfect accompaniment to brunch, the Sunday afternoon cocktail, the Bloody Mary. If you’ve ever thought to order a Bloody Mary in Berlin, I would advise you against it. It is but a shadow of itself in the country of beer. I arrived confounded by why so many Berliners wrinkled their noses at me when I offered up my favorite drink but after ordering a few Bloodies at local bars, I am clear. Warm tomato juice, pepper, a sad little lemon on the side and the obligatory vodka. I agree, there is no reason to like that drink at all.

Part of solving the mystery of the bad Bloody goes to the local pallet. Germans have very little tolerance of hot spices. Just a hint of heat and you will find your table running to the kitchen for water. Consequently, my home was host to several unsuccessful dinners at which such things as jambalaya and jalapeno bean dip were served. Having learned my lesson, I’m now sticking to less offensive American cuisine like Mac & Cheese. It’s a big hit.

But I will not bend where Bloodies are concerned. To even think to differ from the classic recipe without at minimum including horseradish, Worcestershire sauce, Tabasco, lemon, vodka and tomato juice is unthinkable. Add to it, yes, in many and wonderful ways but start without any of the aforementioned? Impossible!

Olga is my latest convert. I convinced her to come work on the canal today by promising good weather, a blanket, beautiful views, my handsome dog, and Blood Marys. The last was apparently not the clincher as she has now admitted to not being a fan. But after trying The Classic, she has changed her tune.

“I never knew a Bloody Mary could taste this way!”

Granted, her Russian taste buds can withstand the hotter spices but I still maintain that made correctly and with care, the Germans could be converted and if not them, Berlin’s largest immigrant populations, the Turkish and the Vietnamese, their tongues already trained for the flavors.

So I will execute a grassroots effort to educate Berlin about this particular American pastime. They’ve already got Brunch. They’ve got better coffee. All they need is courage and a little Tabasco sauce.

History of the Bloody Mary:

The Bloody Mary was either created in Paris by and American expatriate in 1920 or in New York City in 1939. Your guess is as good as mine as to which story to believe. Because I want Ernest Hemingway to have drunk them, I’m going with Paris. The name comes either from Queen Mary the 1st or from the Hollywood starlet Mary Pickford. I again choose what I find more interesting so I’m going to say Queen Mary the 1st. Bloody she was.

The Classic:

Ingredients:

1 1/2 oz Vodka

3 ea Drops Tabasco sauce

3 oz Tomato juice 1 x Pepper;

to taste 1 ea Lemon;

juiced 1 x Salt;

to taste 1/2 ts Worcestershire sauce

Preparation: Shake with ice and strain into old-fashioned glass over ice cubes. A wedge of lime may be added.

Serves: 1

Welcome

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Shpree by Olga Prudnikova

Sitting in an Adirondack chair in an abandoned parking lot behind a car dealership and a warehouse, I find myself sipping a Bloody Mary, looking across muddy brown water to a dilapidated shack hosting a giant, naked baby on the roof and gaggle of grungely attired people, all but the young man in metallic sliver leggings that is, dancing in the mid-day gray. The Kiki Blofeld, singularly German, singularly Berlin. Surrounded by a language I don’t understand amidst a culture that, for all its being Western, may as well be Martian, I quietly try to assimilate, trying not to let my American-ness show too much. Not surprisingly, it doesn’t work. I could be head to toe blue and not stand out more than I do now.

Ten months gone and still I am jolted daily out of my expat reverie and reminded that I don’t belong, that I will never belong, that I don’t want to belong. It doesn’t look so different here. Coming from New York City I am used to maybe a little more cultural diversity in the minority populations but still, Berlin has all the colors, shapes and sizes I’m used to. The food is recognizable, if not quite the same. The music is mostly that of my own country and is a grounding factor. But never the less, even during conversations in which I understand every word, a rarity, I am confounded by behavior and social practices that make so little sense as to be yellow rather than purple. I am Fremd, literally translated, Strange. Actual use, Foreign. Either way it amounts to the same thing. I am a stranger in a strange land.

So what is an alien to do then to adjust, to assimilate? We are told to make German friends. Find people of the culture willing to guide us through our day to day. And yet we cling together as those on a life raft occasionally dipping a toe in the water but rarely seriously unless sex is involved. That universal language seems to be the same at least. Most of the people I call friend here are Fremd. We’re not all Americans. We are also Russian, Spanish, Armenian, Scottish, Irish, Mexican, Italian, African, Iraqi, Persian, Indian, Korean, French, Japanese. And while each of our own countries is just as foreign to the others in our group as this one, we are joined together by the experience of being other. It is a special alienation one feels, unrelatable except to other Fremd and by this we are joined like the Goths in high school or the Medieval Associations in college. Set apart and drawn together by our strangeness.

So welcome to our Berlin. It is not Berlin as it exists for Berliners or even for Germans, it is as it exists for Aliens only, no matter which planet they hail from. It is other and it is strange and no matter how long we remain, it is how it will be for us. Welcome. We invite you. You can’t be stranger than us.