9
Hans Mueller grabbed the sharpest knife he could find and plunged it into the sausage. It hissed when its skin was pierced, grease oozing like lava onto the hot grill.
Watching closely, the man across the kitchen winced.
He knew this was a message, not a meal.
Born in India but a recent resident of Berlin, Asif Kapur had been invited to dinner through unconventional means. Two thugs had kicked in his front door and dragged him out of his shower. At first, he had screamed and tried to fight back, but a swift kick to his groin and several layers of duct tape round his hands and mouth had put an end to that. Dripping wet and completely naked, Kapur had been thrown into the trunk of a Mercedes and driven round the city for more than an hour. By the time they were done, he was shivering with fear.
That’s when he was delivered to the restaurant.
Recently purchased by Mueller as a way to launder money, the complex was still being renovated. Over the past few decades, the entire neighbourhood had received an extensive facelift. Formerly a part of East Berlin, the borough of Mitte had been surrounded by the Berlin Wall on three sides. Although there had been some crossing points between East and West Berlin during the Cold War – the most famous being Checkpoint Charlie – Mitte hadn’t been a popular tourist destination until the wall came tumbling down in 1989. Since then, the area had experienced a renaissance. Galleries had been built, cafes opened, derelict houses destroyed. After so many years of being an embarrassment, Mitte has re-established itself as the heart of Berlin.
And Mueller hoped to take advantage of the influx of visitors.
‘Tell me,’ he said without turning away from the grill, ‘do you know who I am?’
Kapur, still naked but no longer gagged, nodded in fear. ‘Yes, sir.’
Mueller stabbed another sausage with the tip of the knife. ‘Do you know why you’re here?’
Kapur gulped, his heart pounding in his throat. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘One more question,’ Mueller said as he turned off the flame and faced his guest for the very first time. ‘Do you enjoy curry?’
The topic caught Kapur off guard. ‘Excuse me?’
Wearing a white apron over his dress shirt and tie, Mueller carried the platter of sausages across the kitchen and set it on a large butcher’s block. Made of maple, it sat in the centre of the workspace and was partially covered with kitchen equipment. ‘It’s a simple question, really. One I thought you could answer without much difficulty – especially considering your heritage. You are Indian, correct?’
Kapur nodded from the opposite side of the wood.
Mueller, a fit German in his forties with a military haircut and eyes as black as coal, glared at his guest. ‘I believe I asked you a question. If you’re unwilling to answer me verbally, my men will gag you once again. Is that what you’d prefer?’
Kapur shook his head. ‘No, sir.’
A smile returned to Mueller’s face. ‘Good. You are Indian, correct?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Mueller stared at him, sizing him up. ‘Do you enjoy curry?’
Kapur nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Very much, sir.’
Mueller leaned closer. ‘Do you like it …
‘Yes, sir. Very spicy.’
Mueller considered Kapur’s answer, then nodded his approval. ‘This restaurant, once the renovations are finished, will serve the finest currywurst in all of Germany. Are you familiar with the dish?’
‘No, sir.’
Mueller gasped in surprise. ‘You are an Indian living in Berlin, and you are not familiar with currywurst? How can this be?’
Kapur swallowed hard. ‘I haven’t been here long. Only a month.’
‘A month,’ Mueller echoed, letting the words hang in the air like smoke from the grill. ‘You are correct. You have been here a month. One month exactly. One month to this very day.’
Kapur nodded. He was very aware of the date. ‘Yes, sir.’
Mueller took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, trying to control his rage. ‘Even so, you cannot go anywhere in this city without passing a currywurst stand every fifty feet. I am surprised that an Indian, such as yourself, did not smell the spice and stop for a taste of your homeland. To me, that’s inconceivable. Tell me, are you a vegetarian?’
Kapur shook his head. ‘No, sir.’
‘Wonderful!’ Mueller exclaimed as he jabbed one of the sausages with his knife. ‘Then allow me to make you a plate. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but you are the only Indian I know. Personally, I feel it would be a wasted opportunity if I didn’t get your opinion.’
‘Of course, sir. Whatever you want, sir.’
Mueller reached to his right and grabbed a metal contraption that Kapur had never seen. It had a wide opening on top, a handle on the side, and several blades in the middle. ‘A woman named Herta Heuwer invented this dish way back in 1949. As you probably know, Berlin was in horrible shape after the war, and supplies were at a minimum. Herta had a street stand in the Charlottenburg district where she grilled pork wurst for construction workers rebuilding the city. One day she was given some ketchup, Worcestershire sauce, and curry powder by British soldiers and decided to make a sauce to pour over her wurst.’
After sliding the sausage into the top of the machine, Mueller placed a dish underneath the contraption, and then pulled the handle with a loud
Mueller grinned with delight. ‘Currywurst was so popular with the workers that word spread round the city. Within two years, she was selling over ten thousand servings a week. Her recipe was so beloved she had it patented. To this day, there is still a plaque in Charlottenburg that marks the spot where her stand once stood.’
Mueller momentarily turned his back in order to get his sauce from the stove. Kapur, who was still completely naked, eyed the knife on the butcher’s block but thought better of it. Even if he managed to stab Mueller, there was no way he’d get past the guards, who were watching him from the far side of the kitchen.
‘Obviously,’ Mueller said as he grabbed the saucepan from the stove, ‘many chefs have tweaked Herta’s recipe over the years. Nowadays there are all kinds of variations. Some are made with paprika. Some are made with onions. Some are made with tomato paste. As hard as this is to believe, over eight hundred million servings of currywurst are sold in Germany every year. Can you believe that number? Eight hundred million!’
‘That’s hard to believe, sir.’
Mueller laughed. ‘But it’s true! I read that fact at the Currywurst Museum that opened last year. Can you believe that? Currywurst is so popular in Berlin it has its own museum. As soon as I heard about it, I knew I had to open a restaurant, using my grandmother’s secret recipe. Everyone who has eaten it swears it’s the best they’ve ever had.’
Kapur watched as Mueller drizzled some curry onto the sausage. Steam rose off the pieces as he did. ‘It smells delicious, sir.’
Mueller set the plate in front of him. ‘Wait until you taste it! I’m telling you, your taste buds will dance and your sinuses will clear – if they haven’t already.’
Kapur eyed the meal sceptically. Even if it was the worst thing he had ever tasted, he planned on gushing over it as if it had been the best. But much to his surprise, the currywurst was wonderful. Somehow the sausage and the curry, which seemed to have nothing in common, actually complimented each other. ‘Sir, it’s excellent! Truly excellent!’
Mueller beamed with pride. ‘See, I knew you would like it. Some people are hesitant to try new things, but not me. I’m always looking for something new.’
Mueller walked around the butcher’s block and patted Kapur on his shoulder. The flesh-on-flesh contact sent a tremor through Kapur’s body. ‘Take you, for example. A lot of people told me
