Asian Tiger (Greifswalder Str 208)

If you find yourself wandering down Greifswalder Strasse on a Sunday, hungry and irritable due to the supermarket closing before your untimely arrival, don’t go to Asian Tiger. I ordered vegetable spring rolls and a tofu Phad Thai ('ve eaten too much chicken lately, I'm not turning into Moby).

When the spring rolls arrived, a realisation dawned that countless bad Asian restaurant experiences could have previously been avoided, if I'd used the spring roll starter as a litmus test to whether I should even bother ordering a main. Bad Asian restaurants create spring rolls like these I thought, as oil from the deep fat fryer slithered down my chin. I was relieved the sun had just disappeared, sitting at my kerb side table, the spring roll left me feeling vulnerable of being fried from the inside out - my innards spitting in hot grease, until they melted through my skin and dropped into daylight.

Unforyunately I had already ordered the main. The 'Pad Thai' arrived with me being typically British and nodding my approval at the departing half eaten spring rolls as the waitress removed my plate. The Pad Thai was limp, bland and did nothing to dispel my spring roll theory. The tofu, deep fried, overcooked, and almost as foul to the tastebuds as Moby is to the ears. Thoroughly depressing.

I've heard the Miso soup is good.

Cafe Maibach (Wörther Straße 28)

My first eating experience at Maibach was, well...cheesy. I ordered the 'Fromage antipasti' and during occasional breaks from swatting gingerly at wasps, I admired my surroundings. From the restaurants south-facing corner, I could see every cobble that lined the quintessential Prenzlauer Berg street, Rykestrasse. The window boxes look like statement-making colourful handkerchiefs in the pocket square of a suit, as they overflow from the wonderful townhouses that define this part of Berlin. The barrel chested, stoic, water tower announced the streets end; while the extra-terrestrial TV tower hovered in the blue sky of Berlin in the distance.

My 'Fromage Antipasti' arrived. It looked like someone had prepared a stockpile of cheese, but forgot to buy the mousetraps. Nothing, but cheese. Five mountains of inch sized cubes: A very mild cheddar - although, given that it was so mild it was nearly tasteless, it may well have been a deutsche bastard child of cheddar. Hellumi - unless its been grilled, I just don't see the attraction. A strong blue cheese - creamy and sharp, but I had eaten too much cheese before we encountered each other. Another mild yellow cheese and, finally, I think there was feta.

I was even more surprised when I realised I'd eaten everything, than by it's arrival. One-by-one I had soldiered through the cheese cubes, nearly to the point of having to check with the back of my hand that my mouth hadn't evolved into four corners.

Perfect location, strong cappuccino, smiley staff, wifi. And cheese.

*23/8 Returned and had an excellent late brunch. Pan mottled Scrambled eggs with crispy bacon. Interesting to learn the Germans follow the Turks with a salad side - an odd assortment of lettuce, tinned sweetcorn and olives.

Anyabella (Kirchstrasse)

Baked buckwheat Peirogi, wink at me from a bath of bubbling, Deutsche cheese. Topped with a sprinkling of chives.

I 'vill be back.

Food in Berlin

Berlin's restaurants can occasionally deliver a delight, yet the city lacks the impetus and creativity of London's kitchens. I've had a few memorable experiences, but the variety, passion, expectation and interest in food, is not so apparent.

Let me start with the positives. The breads here are wonderful, notably, the infinite variety of rich rye breads . The street food is very good, everywhere and cheap. Highlights being of Turkish origin -who with their street markets and numbers, are often compared to the Indian influence in Britain.

Below, I've outlined a few reasons, which if an already disgruntled German Foodie or indeed anyone ever reads this blog, I do not adhere to be gospel.

Despite overflowing allotments suggesting otherwise, the soil that surrounds the city is apparently very poor. The couple of exceptions that thrive are conspicuous in their engulfing presence, the staples of a potatoes and sauerkraut.

The second reason is late immigration. In the 1950s and 1960s, London was blessed with the benefits of Indian, Pakistan and West Indian immigration, who brought with them a rich heritage of food. Berlin, at that time had many refugees who used the city as a base camp, before planning the expedition into western Europe. This quickly changed with the 'moving of the goal posts', well, actually that should read, the "obliteration of the goalposts, bringing with it utter disillusionment in humanity' - the building of the Berlin wall. The economic crisis that ensued meant that Berlin's biggest immigrant population, the Turkish, didn't arrive till the early seventies, when shortage of labour led to policies to integrate Greek, Yugoslavian and Turkish workers.

The third, fourth and fifth reason, is Currywurst. If smoking is detrimental to your palette, Currywurst must be like crude oil to the feathers of a seabird.

The sixth reason. the loosest of the half dozen arguments is Lidl. I haven’t got a problem with Lidl itself; it obviously has has its place in the market. My problem is that every Tom, Dick and Harry, or should I say, Klaus, Gunter and Dietmar of the German supermarket business, have opened supermarkets based on the notion Lidl is a universal brand of fod retailing excellence. Three examples being Netto, Aldi and PennyMarket, the latter being so horrendous, that in the throes of hunger I thought about smashing a glass jar containing grey Frankfurters and 'glassing' my own jugular.

Fifteen-topping Spud in Turkish Berlin

A fifteen topping house speciality baked potato.  I knew on ordering it was going to be disgusting. But who could turn down a potato carrying tikka massala, raw mushrooms, jalapenos, coronation chicken, sweetcorn, tuna, red cabbage, sourcream, sauerkraut, olives, couscous,  aubergines.....three short. "Didn't he do well?"

Cafe Buchwald

This traditional German tearoom has thrived on the leafy neighbourhood corner, since 1852. Located north of the Tiergarten, just over Moabit bridge, Cafe Buchwald earned its reputation from delivering cakes to the courthouse.

The conventional feel of the tearoom is maintained both by the furniture and the cafe's loyal regulars. The number of blue rinses (although, in Berlin the popular rinse choice appears to be more akin to the shade of tan leather car seat) on show was staggering. When I walked in to order, it looked like the queue I joined had been waiting in line since the cafe first opened its doors.

A work of art

The cafe is famous for it's Baumkuchen, which due to my poor German we failed to order, instead a chocolate encrusted, wafer cake and a light, spongy, strawberry slice came our way.

Both were delicious, however the chocolate cake - despite it's wonderful appearence - had that slightly tired, lingering cardboard-wafer after taste. A sensation that reminds me of long boring afternoons listening to uncomprehensible Polish , eating chocolate cake that to a seven year old tasted like it was in disguise, while visiting relatives in towerblocks in Warsaw or Sopot.

However, as we made our departure, the beaked locals seemed unanimous in their choice for best cake. They obviously didn't have Polish relatives.

Henne (Leuschnerdamm 25)

Tucked away, at the end of one of the leafy, graffiti scrawled side streets that form gratin like grids around eastern Kreuzberg - perches Henne. I arrived without a reservation, and was first placed awkwardly on a stool on tall bar table.  My elbows, being British, overcompensating polite tucked in at my sides, yet still only a beer mat in distance from that of a newlywed bride on a Chinese honeymoon. Luckily, the waitress soon found me a nook, a tartan clothed table the size of a pizza box, that I could just about fit my cricket legs under.

 

I had a perfect panorama of the restaurant,  my table gave me the discretion a hide affords a twitcher. The timber interior, unchanged since 1907, is equally grand to the customer a century on from its creation. My attention however, was soon drawn to the chickens coming out of the kitchen at methodic intervals,  When one was placed in front of me, it became immediately apparent why the restaurant is such an institution.

                                                                                                                                                                

How the organic chicken is cooked so perfectly remains hotly debated. Some claim it is fried, while others adhere the delightfully crisp - almost like the torched brown sugar of a crème Brule - exterior, to a more complex milk roasting technique (similar to the buttermilk chicken roasting tradition in the deep south according to a Californian work collegue). The chicken arrives with just a slice of bread for company, so, being greedy, I ordered the karttofelsalate - thinly sliced potatoes in an effortless, yet tasty cream sauce.

Cleaning every bit of flesh from the bones of the succulent chicken, I felt a little like Obelix as I did so.

Gleefully I observed a wealthy looking German family- complete with face lifts and family rings - chatting and flattering over mugs I at first assumed, nievely given its lack of alcohol content-compote (A mix of winter fruits, stewed to liquid and served cold in mugs. It's popular in Poland), but later discovered was in fact Landbier.

I also watched in embarrassment as a clearly sozzled Munich tourist in his sixties, approached the Chinese newlyweds and gave a very German two thumbs up twice. Announcing, "I love Shanghai," and "I love Beijing!"- gesticulating both "I's", with a slap of his portly, pink golf t-shirt swathed chest - before stumbling after his wife to a table.

On returning to the bar to settle up, I admired the letter from JFK that sits proudly at eye-level. It offers his sincerest apologies for not being able to dine at the restaurant, as originally planned on his state visit. I felt sympathy for the president, given the meal I had just delighted over. But, I mused and consoled - although the odds are slim, he might  have been returning to Broadway to spend an evening with Marilyn. Swings and roundabouts.