In a sodden grey traffic jam I find my way to the Bodensee. I had hoped to make it as far as the Black Forest but the day is nearly done. Driving along the shoreline the clouds break to admit angelic fingers of light that catch playfully at the swans floating on the steel grey water. In the tiny village of Sippelingen a happy sign flaps in the breeze “Zimmer frei” this will be bed for the night.
A well rounded granny in starched white apron, with lace all along the edges opens the door, a ferocious German shepherd dog at her side. The double room is a German gemutlichkeit of floral, frill and flowery water colours in shades of pale green and pink and, at 20 € inclusive of breakfast, a bargain.
Setting out to explore the tiny village of wood frame houses and impeccable minute gardens, I get summoned from a dark doorway. “Komm rein, komm rein” beckons a gnarled old man in blue overalls. He flashes me a smile of alarmingly yellow teeth. Not at all reassured, I hesitate at the doorway to his pungent lair. Then, taking a last breath of clean mountain air, step over the threshold into the dark underground world of the German garagista.
The air is liberally laced with alcohol. The ceiling low in this labyrinth of cellars, where walls seem to have been knocked down at random to make more room as the success of his venture grew. The house above supported now only by a few strategically placed pillars. In the gloom, huge plastic vats filled with a brown, unpleasant looking liquid fill the dark corners. Clambering over boxes that spill labels and bottles, and around a tumble of distilling equipment, he shows me his pride and joy with a triumphant flourish. A copper distilling kettle two heads taller than he gleamed smugly in the corner. He knew full well, that without it, this enterprise could not be. Absentmindedly stroking the smooth amber surface, he explains in serious tones how regulated the life of a German garagista is. He is only allowed to distil so many litres per year and his brew gets checked and evaluated at every stage to ensure that he does not sully the reputation of the German schnapps industry.
Shelves line every available wall where bottles, in fancy shapes and a multitude of sizes, are filled with brilliant liquid that concentrates then shatters the light from the bare bulb. Each bottle is neatly labeled; Birne, Pflaume, Kirsch”¦ He slams down a schnapps glass, whips out flavour one and pours a convex tot.
“Moechten Sie kosten?”
I protest.
“Nein nein!”
He waves his hand in dismissal.
“Trink, trink.”
Birne (pear) is very good, the liquid brilliantly clear, the flavour clean yet full summer ripe with a beguiling lingering perfume that teases the nose. Scarce have I appreciated the quality of his art than the next glass is slammed down; Pflaume (plum) oh well, in for a penny in for a round, lots of rounds. Once again the liquor is a triumph of the fruit distiller’s art, clear plumy flavours mix gallantly with the sharp bite of alcohol.
Detecting a warm glow in the pit of my stomach I complemented him on his product and selecting two small bottles, tried to leave. But he knows his business; Kirsch is next, then Himbeergeist, ghost of the raspberry, always my favourite. By now I feel a distinct buzz and, with the lack of actual oxygen in that cosy cellar, I must make a concerted effort to pull myself toward myself. Thanking him profusely I try to gather up my collection of bottles, which seems to grow each time I look at the table.
Suddenly inspiration hits to take photographs. Too late, too late, not a sharp shot amongst them. Note to self – photo shots first, alcohol shots second. I make to leave but he is just as good at selling his brew as he is at making it. He slams down another glass and pours a dark amber tot.
“A medicinal herb for your digestion perhaps?”
Digestion? Food? Good idea! I grab my bottles and flee into the crisp evening air.
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