Background: Although I remained otherwise (very) busy and decidedly freelance, Plasterstrand, Daniel Cohn-Bendit’s magazine, for some reason used to run whatever crazy jive I gave them. This piece, however, was an assignment. I was pulled in to pinch-hit for Big John Hannah, who had once again drunk up his expense advance and got the yips so bad he had no material as the deadline approached. Pflasterstrand was publishing a book-length ‘alternative’ guide to Frankfurt, and because I wanted to bail Big John out I inherited his section reviewing hamburgers and fast foods. -I was furious because I detest hamburgers and the editors had appropriated all the better gigs for themselves, like Asian and Mexican restaurants, which were very new then in Germany and whose food I alone (the San Fran Kid) was qualified to review. I slammed the finished article on the desk and awaited my check while the horrified editors were freaking out over getting sued, and I suspect it was Danny (who once boasted of being ‘the Groucho kind of Marxist’) who made the final decision to print it just as I’d written it.
HAMBURGER HELL
c 1983 Tristan Winter
I.
PRAELUDEUM
It was a black and howling night. The children ran to their beds screaming with pain. There are certain things -I mused to myself- which are better left unmused upon; certain things within the grasp of an arcane and intrepid elite, which are but reeling nightmares to the fragile mind of the average gourmand. -To those accustomed to dining by chandelier, or even the flickering candles of a boite, the demonic flames of the gastronomic underworld are simply too horrible to imagine.
My musing were interrupted by the wrenching open of the front door and a sudden gust of wind and rain which, bursting through the baronial portment, assailed the fire with a blood-curdling hiss. By the light of the expiring flame I could barely distinguish a tall shrouded figure standing over me.
“HIYA, VIRGE!” I said -somewhat loudly, because he was dead- “HOW ABOUT A LITTLE RED STURGEON CANAPE’ BEFORE WE GO?”
He answered in a thunderous voice which emanated from somewhere deep within his cowl: “No thanks. Prepare yourself! It is time to go.”
This was Virgil: my guide to the depths of Hamburger Hell
__________________________
In the true land of hamburgers -the original garden of creation- things were still in the state of innocence and blind rejoicing in the pleasures of life. A hamburger could be purchased in a multi-colored skating rink, where your desires are relayed by one passing Minnie Mouse to another, who reels up behind you and delivers the assemblage in passing; a taco could be procured simply by entering an artificial Mexican pueblo, where cokes come capped with plastic sombreros; a corndog can be fried into shape by a dachshund sporting a large chef’s hat. At one particularly enterprising drive-in there is an enormous, leering, plastic clown who’s cheerfull banter consists of: “Welcome to Jack in the Box! May I take your order please?” -the inevitable response from a carload of kids being: “FUCK YOU, JACK!”
One did not merely select a meal, one ordered up an entire cartoon. Not so, here across the black waters of the Atlantic; and here arises the question: Hamburger Culture: nightmare or cartoon?
II.
PURGATORIO
The first circle of Hamburger Purgatory is the most reknown. The very mention of McDONALDS is enough to incite writhings of appoplexy in any atheist; those of the faith are subject to breaking out in grusome sores across the nether regions of the face and dancing down the streets lacerating themselves to the tune of “You Deserve a Break Today.“
I was quaking with trepidation as we approached the point of no return, but Virgil is an experienced guide, so we made a slight detour on the way in order to fortify ourselves with beverage. To ensure our safety against the occasionally vengeful penitents we infiltrated the corporate headquarters downtown and absconded with the door plate reading McDonalds Personnel Büro (the sign was later donated to a prestigious charity organization[i]). I adhere the sign to the inside of my mantel and, flashing it quickly, announce our immunity with a shout of “INSPECTION!”
Marching up and down before the assembled staff, I am pleased to note a generous conformity in their appearance; not including the manager, they are almost exclusively foreign waifs, crooked under the weight of a plague of boils and uniforms with the golden gates of purgatory seering through to their already mortified flesh. The victims of McDonalds -those twisted souls condemned to dine there- are generally selected from the stagnant middle classes. The vengeful hand of God was mercifull with them. Although the weekday traffic is considerably bolstered by weak and easily tempted students of all gradations, it is perhaps the Sunday penitents who provide the most genuine selection, for there is no sabbath in McDonalds. Students, Poppers, gnomish footballers and G.I. families twist their mouths in eternal agony as the back-room Syssiphi shovel heaps of glowing hamburgers into the ultraviolet furnace, and await their turn amongst the infra-red apfeltaschen on the fearful revolving ‘rack.’
“The time has come,” says Virgil, sweeping his hand across a menu board illustrated with airbrushed ‘photos’ on illuminated plexiglass. “For, those who dare enter must choose from one of these tortures!”
We perch our coccyxi on the half-sized bench and begin to unravel the mysteries before us. I shriek in utter repulsion despite myself; a Big Mac looms before me. I submerge my teeth into its depths. My scalp puckers, my pelvis shrivels, my gums recede at least four inches. At 3.95 per burger this is blasphemy! Every other available hamburger variation in the place suffers from the same basic failing: despite whatever size or whatever garnishing, despite whatever food standards might exist in Germany, despite the fact that it might truly have been a cow in some former life, this…hamburger tastes like carrions’ carrion. The other offerings are as awe-inspiring as the names they go by. FishMac is a savory breaded coagulation which truly does make one think of fish, especially those kind with four legs and that molten metal effect bubbling out all over their skin. I suspect somebody must have been foolish enough to go fishing down by the atomic power plant. MacRib must be one of those classic accidental discoveries one reads about; pig or hippopotamus, once you’ve finished picking the gristle out from those difficult-to-reach spots that require herbal toothpaste, you will swear off animals for the rest of your life. Sunny Drink looks like it sounds, but I wonder whose son made it. Happy MacShake is excellent for smearing on the stairway, if only so that a soldier will slip on it and then I would get to see if they had Happy MacPlasma as well.
After grinding our way through this mountain of misery, I discover at the bottom of the tray a McDonalds Spar-Preise-Karte, generously offering one free Big Mac on the condition that I make seven purchases of 6 DM within a month (I am still in possesion of this karte and am willing to let it go for 87 marks). Other demonic temptations are: Kindergeburtstag Parties[ii], Restaurantbesichtgung, Oragensaft-Spender, and miniature flags and visors featuring that impish icon, Ronald Somebody.
At the Hauptwache, Virgil leads me down the escalator to the next circle of the underworld. Down, down, down to the gaping cavern known as WENDYS. Wendys is a purgatory for people with more time to spare, a large-scale investment in lost souls. A slightly higher grade of German families and High-School natives are sentenced to Wendys, and the staff is by now half German, and unfettered by all but the scantest uniform: tie or scarf, in case they might try the easy way out and lynch themselves.
As Virgil begins to order one of everything displayed on the illustrated menu, the man whom he is addressing repeats what he orders into a microphone blaring into the face of another man standing one meter behind him. This in itself proves such a temptation that I step up and say “A pleaseburger, cheese!” which is relayed in the same tone of the dead. I say a prayer before we face our fate, but I fear that not even the Pope could hear me from down here.
The castigation is of a luxurious bent. Our punishment here commences with a Bacon & Cheese Wendy (i.e., the aforementioned threat emblazoned atop a hamburger at a mere 4.95), and runs the gamut through Wendy Jr. Hamburger -with and without cheese; Big Wendy Hamburger -with and without cheese; Double Wendy Hamburger -with and without the damned cheese; and the Wendy Wunderpaket, whose miraculous relics consist of one (1) Wendy Jr. Hamburger, one (1) shroud of fries, and one (1) Frostie or Cola -with and without the piece of vinyl swimming pool they insist on calling cheese. For recalcitrant heretics and parricides is reserved the agonies of Chile -with and without something I’m sure you don’t care to be reminded of, and Taco Salat. Regarding the galleys of the Salat Bar, I recommend that future rowers eat up their 5.95 in ice and garbonzos. -I don’t recall seeing any cheese at the salat bar, but then it’s not much of a bar anyway.
Though the fries are a decent facsimile of the scrofulous root, and the vegetables (not the ones sitting at the neighboring tables) are beaten into near freshness, the meat of the hamburgers is as tragic as that of McDonalds. -After all, standards are standards. Families condemned to Wendys are liable to remain there for some time, as the flourescent Art Nouveau wall panelling and the piped in elevator music are designed to produce catatonia. This, then, might account for the extortionary prices at Wendys, where the most expensive hamburger in all the seven circles of hell can be yours for no less that 6.95. With fries and drinks added to that…well, you can buy yourself a lot of absolutions for that kind of moola.
“The next, and final, circle of purgatory,” Virgil whispers to me in a quavering voice, “Is reserved for those whose sins surpass those of their ancestors. -And yet, do we not see them every day? Look around you, my son. Here, in BURGER KING we see the subjugation of nearly all types above the 40% income bracket. Come! Let us enter, and observe their drudgeries.”
My guide playeth me not false, for, congested around the service counter is a writhing mass of tortured souls from all walks of death, flailing their arms and imploring their evil host for a handful of his charms. Their cries are pitilessly mocked back at them over a microphone to nowhere. The tormentors here are entirely German -at least the counter vanguard- their vanity chastised by the uniforms they must wear -no doubt purchased in blood at McDonalds and then re-painted, though no pants seem to be required. As we await the order we placed ten minutes ago, strange creatures commence their eternal dance of death, heaping fuel into the microwave, then adding blinding flashes of green and red things, stacking them under the crimson coils of the warmer, only to re-heat it all again in the micro.
Faced with another illuminated choice of abominations at a cost just above McDonalds rates, I take my tray of horrors, featuring such enticing names as Whopper; Whopper Jr; Yumbo (a schinkenburger for those of you afraid to guess); Chicken Sucker (or something); and Fish King, and make my way over to the bathrooms.
“See here, Virge,” I said in response to that blank look he had in his eyes, “I may have a sick mind, but I’m not dead yet! I’ve had enough of this crap and I ain’t going to take it any more. An eye for an eye, and all that. I’ve got a better test for these unholy things.” And, so saying, I step over the threshold and up to the toilet. I dump the entire contents of the tray in to the bowl and instruct Virgil to flush on signal. As Virgil eased his fingers over the lever, I recorded the following results on a scale of 1 to 10:
DENSITY…………………………….7
GREASE CONTENT…………….9
BUOYANCY……………………….-5
TOILET CAPACITY……………..9
And then came the flood. We ran out of Burger King with the waves raging up just behind us, passing in our rush such piteous scenes as the contorted face of the mop man, and terrified mothers, clutching screaming primates to their breasts. Oh, well, when the deluge subsides, life will probably begin the slow process of renewing itself in Burger King -beginning, as it usually does, with bacteria.
Before leaving the realm of purgatory, however, Virgil and I retraced our journey just long enough for me to try my new test at the preceding two places. I have included my findings at the end of the article. -The scores, I mean.
III.
INFERNO
We are now irrevocably beyond the subtle distinctions of purgatory, and are slipping soundlessly across the Main, into the maw of Hamburger Hell.
“This,” intones my guide in a voice thick with tortured recognition, “Is the barque of the dead. Those wretched figures moaning and clutching at our sides are souls who have perished under the black tide of gluttony and late-night desperation (Note, if you will, the wild splashes of chromatic condensation upon their limbs, in red, pearl, and green, all painted by the cursed hand of Delacroix). To cross these waters one must pay with one’s life, or at least 1.50 on weekends, and 1.90 during rush hour.”
As we mount the shore, Virgil indicates the gravity of our situation with a single mute gesture towards the gates. The sign on the door reads: Here Is No Hope. A hideous shriek of laughter sets us both to quaking like fragile reeds on the Styx. Virgil points up with a trembling finger to the source of our fright: the risus sardonicus of that bovine beauty, Clarabelle Cow. Clarabelle is the neon logo, the queen of darkness, the undisputed, ruthless mistress of the first circle of Hell known as STEAK POINT.
At Steak Point the slaves of Clarabelle are mostly Hindus, condemned to sell the flesh of their sacred beast, or Semites destined to deep-fry flanks of pork. Microchip explosions of intergalactic holocausts assail our senses between the clanging and wailing of the Wheel of Fate; five marks, three marks, two or one, the gamblers tear their hair and roll their eyes as the slot machines tumble their hopes ever downward. No one wins in Steak Point. The inmates are sucked from the ranks of battered pugilists and foreign workers. The burgers are boiled in the bile of ages, drawn out with pincers and strapped to the grill only when someone is masochistic enough to order one. Clarabelle is somehow fond of her victims however, for the evil flesh is courteously enshrined in pita bread, laid to rest amidst a garland of the freshest vegetables in Hell, and commemorated with a shovelful of garlic or pikant sauce.
For the less culpable, Steak Point also offers a line of oddities such as the Orient Sandwich, which, bereft of the fearsome flesh, consists of pineapple, cheese and salad, in sauce and pita bread. Or the Hawaii Burger, wherein we find a halo of canned pineapple lurking atop the burger; and, at the Steak Point on Eckenheimer/Alleein Ring, a quite palatable Falafel. The fries taste better when they are cooked.
“You see how it is,” Virgil sighs. “When evil times sway the world above, those below must suffer for all.”
“But why?” I implored. “Why should a god who is capable of creating a Lobster Thermidor or Tournedos Rossini allow such evil to pass -nay, to swell and grow, and inflict such blinding agonies upon its victims?”
“Because,” he answered, “they are sinners. Some are merely guilty of penury, but God has no mercy with the poor. -And so, he has delivered them unto the hands of HAMBURGER DRIVE-IN.”
It is but the work of a minute to see that Virgil is no speculative guide, for, still more than Steak Point, Hamburger Drive-In is the circle of the overalled, the acne-ridden, the sweat-embalmed -the webbed and lacerated hands eternally welded to beer cans- eternally ducking their in-grown follicles to quench some undefined thirst. Two imps in grease-splattered straight jackets gleefully exchange Reconstituted Chicken Parts for coins of the realm. Pubescent garbage collectors struggle with Hamburgers made of vulcanized rubber, their teeth bouncing off the patty at every bite. The imps roar with delight when the quick-steamed buns dissolve in the hands of the penitents. Their eyes burn with fires of fury as they sell me a wrinkled old Hot Dog that looks like my grandmother’s uterus. Virgil draws my attention away from this scene of torment to recount how, upon his first visit to the underworld, he, unfamiliar with either the language or currency, was charged no less than ten marks for a can of cola. We flee the circle of Hamburger Drive-In, the screams of Lucretia Borghia echoing in our ears.
We are nearing the end of our journey. His dead hands pulling mine, his empty eyes reprimanding me to staunch the tearful flow of my own, Virgil drags me down the dank and winding passage to the third circle of Hell. HAMBURGER FARM is not a product of the Great Cultural Revolution, designed to reacquaint the intelligentsia with the pleasures of manual labor; it is a farm to house the souls beyond the pale of physical usefulness, beyond the feel of Lucifer’s whip, beyond the Laocoonian excrutiations of the previous hells. Hamburger Farm is a graveyard littered with already decayed corpses. As we pick our way through the prostrate and half-buried we pass an ancient bag woman with a pair of withered roses for sale; a bloated and ravaged man thoughtfully fingering his empty eye socket, pink and inflamed like the ovens behind him; shaved necks and chicken heads pecking the tables.
A haggard old staff, weak from their daily abortions, lifelessly serve us three-week-old fries soggy with tears, imploded Farm Burgers with somebody’s blood-smeared remains lying pathetically in the middle, wrapped in love letters from frozen soldiers. Plastic foliage dying of thirst, salad for sailors who’ve never been home. Der Neue Farm Krossi, for the man with the artificial heart, is pre-masticated pig, tomato and hot sauce in a German brötchen. Hollow hamburger cartons are strung along the ceiling like Christmas decorations from the Great Depression. And, if you really loathe your children, Hamburger Farm is wearily willing to arrange a Kindergeburtstagsparty to finish them off. One bite of these scintillating delicacies and you will join the legions of the dead.
The bruise of night pales as the violet breath of dawn seeps into the sky. We have seen and experienced the full horror of Hamburger Hell first hand, grown weary and wept, shuddered in transsubstantial remorse for those unfortunate enough to be caught in its infernal mechanism.
“And yet one last circle awaits us,” moans Virgil, “before the end. For everything which has an end must have a visible one. -Open your eyes. Behold the final, the bottommost circle of the gastronomic underworld!”
The marquee before us reads EUROPA FREIZEIT CENTRUM. Tracing the letters to the end of their course, the script alters at the corner of Kaiserstrasse[iii] to herald the presence of the fabled EUROPA SCHNELLIMBISS, an edifice whose nocturnal exploits far exceeds the bounds of its insect encrusted walls.
“I have brought you here with malice aforethought,” Virgil laughs. “You would defy the very depths of the underworld to find your Beatrice -your perfect, not to say edible burger. Does your Beatrice perhaps cater to the whims and perversions of foreign dignitaries in reduced circumstances? Are these pimps her sole protection against the ravages of time? Is that cabbie with the toothpick growing from his lip her charioteer?”
I roam, with swollen eye, over the triple neon tubing which lines the ceiling. The prismatic tufts of painted clouds look somehow insinuating without seraphim. The Chickens turn and baste, obscenely impaled on the grill. Sekt is advertised at the rate of 7 marks a pop. The last ancient mariner buys the last Hamburger in the world for 3 marks, while the syphilitic priest takes 4.50 out of his collection box for a sorely needed Vitamin Burger. People come crawling in and out like sick dogs. No, my Beatrice is not here, unless she’s temporarily lodged in one of the red rooms, and I’ve no heart to order breakfast and wait. Sadly, I take my leave of Virgil and hack my way back to the land of the living, making a note to recommend the Europa especially for Confirmation ceremonies.
IV.
TERRA FIRMA
The sudden shock of daylight is overwhelming. I am on my own again, Virgil, having consolidated all his interests in the underworld, is obliged to remain there for the rest of his digestive life. There is a line from Groucho Marx, referring to a turbulent ocean voyage, which runs: ‘I certainly am glad to set foot on terra firma. Now I know that when I eat my dinner I won’t have to see it again.’ yet the words are appropriate to my surfacing from depths of the Hamburger Underworld.
In the land of the living, fast food has an alternative to hamburgers in the guise of Dönner Kebaps. Nightmare or cartoon is not a valid question in this case, for the fascinating wares of these exotic merchants are simply either poisonous or hearty. A daylight tour of the three most highly recommended Dönner shacks should begin at the end of Schärfengasse, where we find the delightful little cave known as ALI BABA. There are always forty thieves in Ali Baba, propping up the counters and feasting on juicy Dönner Kebaps, or -better yet- the Dönner Burger -a massive and succulent meal in itself, filled with fresh chunks of tomato and onion, loaded into a pita bread like a chestful of gold and jewels. Although one Dönner Burger could fill the caverns of even the most voracious pasha for a paltry 6 marks, full meals can be obtained at various prices up to 12 marks. Ali Baba is lost in a spell all its own.
As evening approaches, similar food and mild entertainment can be had at the ORIENT CAFE on Münchenerstrasse. In addition to the monumental Dönner burger, billed here as a Dönner Sandwich, one might find it amusing to ask for a Falafel and sit back in ripples of hilarity as the poor chap exerts himself for the space of one quarter hour preparing it from scratch. Despite the entertainment value, the falafel here is not as palatable as the Steak Point assemblage. Humus, a rare delicacy this far north of the Mississippi, comes in slightly thin portions at 7 marks. The Dönner and falafel sell for the standard 5 marks. Sparkling fresh river water[iv] comes in a ceramic jug with a mysterious spout to bar the flies. It would be a futile expedition however were one to overlook the large selection of pastries -the true specialty of the Orient Cafe. Kadaif and Burma sit like honey-glazed peacocks atop the fertile roost of kebap.
It is, unfortunately, of the utmost import for the beginner to shy away from any kebap spit on the wane. Insidious bacteria sometimes lurk therein, of such puissance as to send the unsuspecting carnivore rushing for the nearest window, spewing forth a fountain of youth such as DeSota never imagined.
In the dark of night we slip furtively in to the ISTANBUL. The Taunussstrasse den cannot qualify as a Dönner house per se on account of their extensive dinner menu. Strange spreads appear before the uninitiated, most cooked in yogurt. The ambience in Istanbul is rather gruff, to the point of xenophobic. Misogyny sits with its elbows on the table; bring your wife and suffer the service. Bring your harem and eat for free. When food is slammed down on your table a feast is before you. When the food fails to arrive it is a good idea to leave a tip no higher than fifteen percent. The Istanbul is probably great for costume parties, but the martinis might be a little dry.
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Appendice 1.
THE TOILET TEST
DENSITY GREASE CONTENT BUOYANCY TOILET CAPACITY
McDonalds 6 8 -3 12
Wendys 9 10 -13 5
Burger King 7 9 -5 9
Steak Point 10 10 -10 4
Ham. Drive-In 2 11 -1 10
Ham. Farm -5 0 0 25
Europa 12 15 -15 2
Footnotes:
[i] The ‘prestigious charity organization’ was Pflasterstrand -a dig at its fame versus my fee. At the end of my ordeal I did paste this sign above the editors’ door, and all this with the sign is true; in fact I was on an earlier spree with Big John Hannah himself when we stole it, and I then used it when I started my researches at McDonalds. I must admit that sentimentality was wrestling with resentment, and I devised the whole Virgil peg as a tribute to the dying alcoholic John Hannah, who lost and then landed me in this gig in the first place, and to me remained present, though the others had already buried him.
[ii] Kindergerburtstagparty = children’s birthday party.
[iii] After everything else, the most dire of the red-light districts. As is common in Germany, the main street off the central train station; a 24-hour combat zone.
[iv] A reference to the polluted Main river.