In praise of the German pretzel-bun

There are many things the Germans do well. Here are 2 of my particular favourites.

Firstly, the Germans are really good at dubbing American tv shows. The dubbed voice is timed perfectly with the actors lips moving. They somehow manage to squeeze all that German in there as fast as they can so there is not a single millisecond out of sync. And they are pure geniuses at using dubbed voices that sound exactly like the actor in question. From David Caruso to Sean Connery, you would almost believe it’s really them talking German. There’s much fun to be had in flipping through the channels until you see a face you recognize, Bruce Willis perhaps, and waiting to hear what his 'German' voice sounds like. I am always astounded at how they manage to get it perfect every time.

Secondly, the Germans make a fantastic pretzel-bun, pictured above. Part pretzel, part bun.
I cannot express the joy I felt after purchasing my first german pretzel-bun. I feel so foolish for only having admired it from afar after all this time. What stopped me? I wish I could say. It was enough to discover the regular german soft pretzel, twisty and salty and soft. And in Heidelberg, there is high pretzel turnover, so they are always fresh. I guess I just didn’t think anything could be better than the German soft pretzel. I had convinced myself that the pretzel-bun had to be nothing more than an afterthought, a second rate cousin.

Oh how I erred.

I bought my first one the other day late in the afternoon and, to my utter delight, it was still warm. As I walked out of the store with it, in it’s little paper bag, I gave it a squeeze. I could feel it soft in my hands, it was much softer than I had expected it to be. I rushed home as quickly as I could, dizzy with anxious anticipation.

I slowly took it out of it’s bag, careful to mind the salt that I knew would provide a welcome crunch. I set it on the counter top and admired it’s perfectly split top, white and dense and fluffy. It looked almost too perfect. I pressed down on it and it sunk easily under my gentle touch. I could almost hear it sigh as it deflated. I lifted my finger and it sprung immediately back to life. And then it was my turn to sigh. It was beautiful and perfect. I wanted to further adore it, but it begged to be eaten.

But I was torn. I needed some authentic German guidance, but I was alone, and I had to face this on my own. My brain went into overdrive, trying to think of how to eat the German pretzel-bun so as to fully enjoy it’s goodness. This wasn't just a pretzel, I didn't want to eat it plain, did I?
I thought of all my favourite sandwich fillings and rejected them as soon as they came to mind. Too overpowering, too sweet, too boring. Nothing seemed right.

All I could think of was that North American combination of a soft pretzel and French’s mustard. But this is Heidelberg, my friends, and there is no neon yellow mustard to be found.
Finally, my hands started to move while my brain lagged behind and I found myself with a boiled egg, with a firm white and a slightly soft yolk. I watched as my hands gently broke it apart with a fork, a dab of mayonnaise and a dollop of tarragon flavoured dijon. A pinch of salt and some freshly ground pepper. Still warm, I mixed it all up into a lumpy, eggy mixture, reminiscent of childhood lunches. I looked at it and looked back at the pretzel-bun. Would this work? I wasn’t sure. The pressure was too much to bear. I rushed out of the kitchen into the living room, clenching my hands nervously. I paced the hallway. Was I doing the right thing? I went back and stood in the kitchen doorway. The pretzel-bun awaited my decision. I composed myself and strode towards it confidently. I took the bread knife and before I could change my mind I cut it open. Oh my, so very soft. I spooned some of the egg inside, my heart was beating fast. I took the first bite…