BERLIN -- Spring has sprung in this vibrant German city. And I'm not just talking about the weather, which has been Southern-California-warm-and-sunny since my arrival 36 hours ago.
I'm talking white asparagus.
They 're everywhere. In tiny cafes, traditional beer halls, fashionable international boites, neighborhood lokals. The giant chalkboard menus in front of every eatery list five or six specialties of the day. They're all asparagus. And they're all white.
Big, fat, tender, sweet and with a just-picked flavor that foodies always talk about but rarely experience.
In the U.S., we all talk big about eating seasonally. But we're often saying that while we're popping raspberries in our mouth in the middle of January. Here, people take seasonal menus seriously. In a couple more weeks, there won't be a white aspargus stalk to be had for love or money. So everyone is snarfing them up now with gusto.
Now, I'd like to tell you that I've tasted lots of new and different preparations of these remarkable veggies. But this IS Germany. And that means that virtually every restaurant offers the same roster of dishes. (Sure, there' s creativity in the kitchens of some young turks. But, for the most part, customers want and get the same dishes everywhere.)
Cream of asparagus soup flecked with bits of crisped ham. Asparagus with shavings of smoked salmon. Asparagus with Wienerschnitzel (thinly cut, breaded veal or pork). Asparagus sprinkled with cheese and run under a broiler. Asparagus with scrambled eggs and herbs.
In a day and a half, I've eaten white asparagus at three meals and relished every bite. My favorite was the simplest. It wasn't pretty. A white plate covered with 7 or 8 stalks of steamed white asparagus sitting in just their own juices tinged with a bit of butter. Next to them were 4 or 5 whole, peeled boiled white potatoes. Again, moistened ever so slightly with a bit of butter and a shower of fresh parsley.
The flavors were spectacular. Pure, fresh and satisfying.
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