German Tales: Hamburger Haffen

By the banks of the river Elbe, Hamburg was colder than a snow cloud. The sky was gray, the seagulls more numerous than the boats, and the smell of fish and brackish water held fast even in the cold. I had boarded my first submarine a few hours previous, the U-434; a rather young Russian submarine that the Germans converted into a museum. It was still partly submerged, and it was like crawling through an entirely metal McDonald's playground except there was a torpedo room, a gajillion controls, pipes, and the creepiest looking mannequins dressed in sailor uniforms I've ever seen. One was lying on a bunk looking like a dead body save for its painted-on features. I suppose they were simply trying to show how small everything was in comparison to a human, but as I am human and was standing right there, I think I got the picture without the eternally grinning Ensign beckoning me into his chamber. Creeptastic. Walking through a submersible, sneaky, Cold War weapon? Very cool.

Afterwards, since we were on the docks, it seemed only fitting that we would try Fischbrotchen, which directly translates to "fish bread." Envisioning a Captain D's style fried fish sandwich, my stomach thought that a grand idea. I ordered, set my things down with the guys, and went to use the toilet. When I came back, the side piece of what looked to have been caught two minutes before was sitting on my plate (no seriously, I swear the fisherman came in and emptied his net on the counter while the waitress grabbed a specimen, sliced off its flanks, plopped it on a bun with a whole mess of raw onions, then served me my sandwich). The guys looked at me expectantly between snickers. "You'll be awesome if you eat that," JC smirked. To which I replied, "I don't have to eat that to be awesome." Nevertheless, the challenge had been issued, and since usually I am of the 'when in Rome' mentality and was so close to the salty river I could have rollerbladed out the door and been submerged in two seconds, I put on my game face, cut off the scaly flank hanging over the edge of my bun, and bit in. My first thought - raw fish, Raw Fish, RAW FISH. Second thought - hmm, a bit sour. Third thought - without these onions, I'd be throwing up right now. Fourth thought - I may be able to do this.

In the midst of my mastications, I watched JC gag a little, but I kept charging through. Round about bite five, I'd had enough. As much as I wanted to reign triumphant over my Fischbrotchen, my mouth no longer wanted to set the taste of raw flesh from the sea and creamy, sugary latte at war. I tossed the entire mess back on my plate and ceded my defeat. JC still looked slightly green, but gave me props nonetheless, and really, what more can you ask for? Further evidence that women are still ruling the world, one chunk of raw fish at a time.