Danke. Dankeverymuch.

A donut donation from The Honourable Husband at Deutschland über Elvis caused the Dunkin’ Berliner to buy a whole box of donuts, dress up like Elvis and stuff those tasty puppies into his Viva Las Vegas face.*  Buh-huh huh.

Achtung!  The following blog post contains excessive food porn. And Elvis impersonation.
You have been warned.

A well my hands are shaky
and my knees are weak,
I can't seem to stand on my own two feet,
Who do you thank when you have such luck?
Thanks, Honourable Husband (burp),
I’m all sugared up.

Buh-huh huh. Ooh. Yay-uh-yeeaaaaah, yeah!

I created a donate donut button (TOP RIGHT. Can you see it? Dontcha wanna press that puppy RIGHT NOW?) on this site.  That little hound dog takes PayPal and/or credit cards.  In the blog post introducing my donation button (called Blog Whore or something), I stated that “If you send me some donut money (like a buck or two), I promise to stuff it in my face and start a fresh fury of feverishly fluff filled blogging that only a man with hypoglycemia and too much time on his hands can unleash.”  Or something like that.  I have received a few donut donations (mostly from my mommy, Thanks, ma!) over the years and I am very thankful that people care enough to reward this barely employed writer/photographer.

I’d like to up the ante and state here and now and for all to see:

Any and all blog donations will be met not only with the aforementioned fresh fury of feverish fluffery, but in addition, you, your name and your website will be named, thanked and linked.  Maybe even in that order.  And I will take photos of me stuffing the very donuts that YOU BOUGHT for me into my face.  I might even wear a costume.

Today’s thank you goes out to:

The Honourable Husband, whose blog Deutschland über Elvis is not really a blog about Elvis at all, much in the same way that my blog (JFKFC for the Masses) is not about Kentucky Fried chicken or JFK conspiracy theories.  I just like the mashup of JFK and KFC.  Waitaminit.  I started this paragraph thanking someone.  How did it get back to me?

Anywho, I’d like to thank the Honourable Husband for his kind blog donation of exactly enough money to buy a whole box of donuts.  You are a gentleman, a scholar and a cunning linguist.   (Ahem. At least when he talks about tits. ;)

 

In the immortal words of Private Elvis Presley stationed in Munich:

“Danke.  Dankeverymuch.”

Buy a sad Elvis impersonator a donut today; save an old lady from a purse snatching tomorrow.

-----

Elvis impersonator:  Me, aka Dunkin’ Berliner, aka Melvis.  Melvis is my karaoke stage name.  Buh-huh huh.

Costume:  Some Czech chick; probably named Jana or Petra (Hey, it was along time ago, man.  I forgot).

Photography:  Gabriela Sarževská

*Ok, I didn’t eat the whole box at once; whaddaya, nuts?  That could kill a Bull Moose elephant.  I divided the box into two 3-donut dances.  Oh yeah!

Every superhero has his origin story.

See my other blog, Wide Body Jetsetter for more Melvis action.

DUNKIPEDIA

 

(My 100th post!  So, please, for the love of God, somebody BUY ME A DONUT!)

 

The Dunkin’ Berliner Glossary of Zee Deutsch  

 

Have you ever read one of those Paris expat writers’ books where they drop a French sentence on every page, expecting us to know what the fuck they are parlez-vous-ing about?  Maddening, isn’t it?

Well, I realized that I may have taken for granted that some of my gentle readers don’t live in Germany and/or have just arrived and wouldn’t know a Deutschbag from donut hole.  So I’ve put together a Dunkipedia, a glossary of sorts—not just for the occasional Deutsch bomb I may drop; but for any and all of the local slang I may resort to or even make up when I’m soaking in beer.

So grab a donut, a bratwurst or a beer (or all three if you live on the edge), and dip/dunk right on in…

 

- Altbau flat:  ‘old building’ apartment, usually built pre-war (both).  Thick bricks and wood floors, oh yeah.  Preferable to the soulless, Soviet-style housing blocks with concrete floors and cardboard walls (see Plattenbau).

- Ausländer:  'outlander' or 'foreigner.'  The single word that goes through every German's mind when they encounter you--even if Berlin is the most liberal city in Germany.  I've heard catcalls of 'DEUTSCH!' uttered and even shouted when walking by groups of feckless German yoots while speaking English with a friend.  Some of these Deutschbags have even got t-shirts proclaiming 'You are NICHT ein Berliner!'

- Berliner pfannkuchen:  the raw fuel for this here blog, a jelly donut, apparently first made here. Everywhere else in Germany they call them Berliners; in Berlin they simply call them pfannkuchen.

- Berliner Schnauze: the special sense of humor of the average Berliner, characterized by curt, sullen quips, ironic or black humor and an apparent lack of common courtesy in any public place.  In any other language or culture, see ‘Rude Fuck.’

- Bratwurst: a low grade sausage with mostly grease and filler found everywhere beer is sold outdoors.

- Bullscheisse:  Ami-German swearing, Dunkin’ Berliner style.  One Deutschbag even criticized me for writing the word.  Heh.  Loser.

- Currywurst:  the official food of Berlin.  Sadly it is just a garden variety boiled hotdog cut into pieces and soaked in ketchup with a tiny pinch of yellow curry powder.  Like most Central Europeans, Germans are total pussies when it comes to spice.  Or flavor in general.

- Deutschbag: part douchebag, part Deutsch; not all Germans are Deutschbags, just as not all douchebags are German.  A Deutschbag is like a douchebag, with more anal retentiveness and slightly fewer social skills.  And in some cases, sporting a Hitler moustache.

- Friedrichshain:  F’hain, The ‘Hain, etc.  A neighborhood in former East Berlin characterized by gentrification, yuppies, hipsters, groovy punk rock squats and a flat previously occupied by a grumpy old American writer who drinks too much beer and eats too many donuts (I didn’t lose the flat, dammit!  I know where it is!  It’s just that when I go there now some yuppie fuck is living there).

- Gentrification:  not a German word; rather, an international word meaning 'fuck you' from developers and landlords.  A purposely planned and engineered plot for the rich to squeeze the poor out of their very homes.  It is the reason rents went up 900% in the last 10 years in East Berlin.

- Kebab:  the second official food of the average Berliner.  Available anywhere there is a street with people on it.  Sometimes there are even five kebab joints in a row.  Go to the ones which sell beer.  If they don’t sell beer, they are probably strict Muslims who don’t believe in alcohol and are probably sending all their kebab money to Uncle Al (Qaeda).  Why else wouldn’t they sell beer?

- Kiez (keets): a superkuhl way to say 'neighborhood.'  A bit like the way those who speak Ebonics say 'hood for short.  But kiezes (kiezen?) have only the bullets of gentrification ripping through them--and the hip hop is in Deutsch (ouch).

- Kneipe:  an old Berliner pub.  Meaning it's mostly full of old Berliners.  With mullets. And enough smoke to choke a donkey (see RAUCHER KNEIPE).

- Kreuzberg (xberg): the only hip neighborhood in West Berlin, characterized by punk rockers, Middle Eastern hordes, students and the uberhip.  You will never find a flat in Kreuzberg because you are not cool enough.  And by 'you' I probably really mean 'me.'

- Lumberjackoff: Not a Deutsch word, but most certainly a Deutschbag.  A sub-group of Hipsterus Loserus also known as Lumbersexuals.  They dress like lumberjacks with hipster glasses.

- Plattenbau:  Soviet styled concrete housing blocks full of mleh.

- Prenzlauer Berg: The Prenzl, P’berg, Parentslauer Berg, etc.  A neighborhood in former East Berlin characterized by breeders, gentrification, yuppies, hipsters, and for five years, home to one grumpy old American writer who drinks too much beer and eats too many donuts.  Until they gentrified my ass right out of there.

- Raucher Kneipe:  'smokers pub.' A real experience, like a visit to the inside of a coal mine or a factory chimney. They refuse to open the windows, even in summer. Berlin avoided the public smoking ban common in most other German cities by simply saying 'fuck off.'  And putting a sign in the window saying 'Raucher.'

- Scheisse (shit):  the single most common word out of the mouths of Berliners from cradle to grave.  Even more commonly heard than ‘guten tag.’

- Spaetkauf (spaeti):  ‘late shop’ - open late convenience store specializing in the basics:  beer, booze and smokes, often with outdoor bench seating filled with mullets.

Used to Be's Don't Count Anymore...

...they just lie on the floor til we sweep them away.

- Neil Diamond

God dammit, culinary consistency would be nice.  I don’t mean in the giant-chain-Mickey D’s-same-damn-garbage-from-Muskogee-to-Moscow sort of consistency.  I would just like to have the same decent food from the same restaurant more than 3 times.  In a row.  That’s what makes me an American, I suppose.  I like to bitch when something just ain’t right.  I never could understand when one of my Limey cousins, after consuming a four course curry meal, could smile and say, ‘That was a bit crap.’  To me, not the staff.  Bit of the old stiff upper lip, I suppose.  Mustn’t grumble.

Bollox. The squeaky wheel gets the grease, and I intend to do my fair share of squeaking, yessiree.  If you don’t bitch and complain, you wind up shoveling the same shit into your face for all of eternity. And that there is the real bitch.

We can’t expect much from the fast food circuit.  A different relative every other day can’t learn the menu, yada yada yada. I used to think it was kind of okay when my kebab was slightly different each time.  But that there is a slippery slope, my friends.  The next thing you know, you’ve gone from a sandwich with nicely-roasted meat, fresh sauce and vegetables wrapped in a crispy bread crust—to a soggy mush of flavorless, watery sauce, boiled meat and dry bread.  The kind that falls apart all over your nice bowling shirt.  Fuckers.  I’ve killed for less.  In one of the wars.  I can’t remember which.

Don’t go to Babel on Kastanienallee.  They used to be The Shizzle; now they’re not.

Don’t go to Dolores (American style burritos) on Rosa-Lux.  Same story.  I was a regular for my first year in Berlin.  I would tell the manager each and every time I visited that I was more than happy with everything, and not to change a thing.

Fuckers changed a thing.  Or two.  One of them was the product.  It used to be good.  It used to be fanfuckingtastic. I used to cross town to pick up a couple of giant burritos stuffed with the works and bring them home or sit by the fountain at Alex and watch people plummet from the tall building behind the Burger King.  Suddenly the Perfect Burrito became the perfect door stop.  The quality of the ingredients went down; they started putting stupid shit inside, like fajita vegetables instead of the usual perfecto mix.  Then they reduced the size of the thing by nearly half.  For the same price (around 7 EUR for the deluxe burrito).  It’s like Woody Allen said, “The food here is so bad.  And in such small portions.”  I gave them the benefit of the doubt three times.  I brought people there and I was embarrassed by how bad the food was.  These people probably think I’m some kind of fucking earthworm which sucks up any and all dirt into my gullet.  My Berlin gourmet card has been revoked and I’ll never be invited to the gala regatta yacht race and wear a crested smoking jacket with matching Captain’s cap.  Fuck.

Yesterday the schwarma at Babel was so bad that I had to throw it in the garbage can uneaten.  I had just had more than my fill of beer at Prater, so any port in storm would normally do a hungry drunk.  But the shit they served yesterday was suitable only for the bin rats.  On the way home we stopped by our old favorite, the tried and true, trusty standby kebab joint called Tayfun’s Bistro.  I’m rarely disappointed there.  I always get a reasonably good sandwich for a reasonably good price.  Last night I saw a new face behind the counter, one I’d never seen before.  I almost ordered only a bottled beer.  Out of fear.

Eating Berliners in Grand Style

I'm sorry:  2 months since my last blog post.  I blame the total lack of Berliner jelly donuts in my diet.  It really is difficult to get my fix:  wake up with bars of light burning through the slats in the window shades into my red eyes.  Check the clock:  DAMN.  Missed the window.  If you don't hit the window of donut opportunity you are SCREWED.  Nothing worse than walking bleary-eyed and bed-headed several blocks to your donut dealer--only to find they are completely out of Berliners.  This happens sometime between 10am and 11am.  Bastards.  "Would Herr Berlinermunchenmensch like a piece of cake instead?" the nice donut lady might ask.  "Would you like me to rip your lungs out through your NOSE?"  I might reply.  No, really:  if you are hooked on Coca-Cola (or some other evil chemical substance), would you settle for DIET?  Didn't think so, Sunshine.

So without my donut panacea to sooth my violent tendencies, I've fallen into different/normal patterns and rituals.  Like work.  Suddenly, as if getting up before 10am mattered for an Artiste, I suddenly got a pile of photography work.  And by a pile, I mean one of those types of months wherein I work every day without pause for a donut day off.  Hence the lack of my favorite drug.

So you can imagine my surprise when, upon finishing the morning sessions of a Berlin conference in a fancy-shmancy hotel (Grand Westin), I saw a beam of light pierce the hotel skylight, miss my bleary red eyes and light up the biggest slice of Heaven a donut muncher can behold:  pristine plates FULL of little mini-Berliners.  Sure, this was a French company holding the conference, but NO, the hotel wasn't going to give them croissants.  When in Berlin, do as the Berliners do:  roll up them there sleeves and dig into the donuts.  Yes, in the photo you may see some OTD (other than donuts), some kinda Fancee Frawnch FrittAIRS or something, but fret not:  the Berliners outnumbered the fritters 2 to 1.

While these hotel mini-drugs weren't the same as the lard peddled by my local pusher at Siebert (There are no better jelly donuts on the planet.  Really), at least I could take as many as I wanted for free and not be forced to stand in a queue and be told that there was No Joy in Donutville and have to be jailed for ripping a nice woman's lungs out through her nose.

I'll try to get back to y'all soon with more violent, drug-and-donuts-addled stories soon.  In the meantime, I also got paid to write about Berlin beach bars.  Well ain't that a hoot?

Famous Donut Munchers

I believe the Secret to Life(tm) is to find some little unimportant thing that you love, then proceed to love it absolutely.  I loves me my berliner jelly donuts.  I gotsta have them at least once per week or I would not go on living.  Shit, I'd eat them every damn DAY, but if I did, I would not go on living.

Here are some of my favorite donut quotes of all time.  One of them I just heard last night:

"Personally, I think some things are our own choice and some things are predetermined.  Let me give you an example: if I walk into a donut shop I do so out of free will. But once I am there, it is my destiny to eat every single jelly donut they have."

- Craig Ferguson, late night talk show host

"Donuts.  Is there anything they CAN'T do?"

- Matt Groening, The Simpsons

"I owe it all to the little chocolate donuts."

- John Belushi

Breakfast of Champions

Sometimes a picture is worth (at least) a dozen words.

DUNKIN' BERLINER

CAPTION CONTEST !!!

Which of the following captions works BEST for the picture?

A)  Fruhstuck Weltmeister
B)  The girlfriend is on vacation and I'll eat whatever I want to goddamit
C)  Punk rock breakfast in Berlin
D)  Dude needs some SERIOUS help
E)  Other (pick your own)

The winner of the Dunkin' Berliner caption contest will win donuts.  Or accolades.  Or mention on this blog.

Add your caption in the comment section below to WIN WIN WIN !!!!

I KNEW Angie Was a Donut Muncher...

A picture of Chancellor Angela Merkel munching carpet a donut.
I always thought the lady was a bit 'special.'
Her first American donut.  I'm sure she's old enough to remember Kennedy's donut speech and I'm glad it made an impression on her.  It was especially diplomatic of her to realize that Amerikaner donuts beat the SCHEISE out of Berliners. I'm coming to grips with that, slowly.

I will wax poetic (non faggy) when I've gone out and munched a Berliner on Monday morning.

"Always start yer fucking week with a donut."
--Dunkin' Berliner

Currywurst uber alles?

Normally I’m not the kind of guy to go to another country, live there, and then tell the natives how to cook. I just accept the global cornucopia of culinary goodness in whatever country I lay my head. I revel in the vast diversity of the worldwide palate. If I’m in Prague, I am a smazeny syr (fried cheese) addict. When in Mexico, give me carne asada in a fresh, warm corn tortilla. And when I’m in London, I bask in fish and chips, Guvna. That and curry.

But then there’s the Berliner Currywurst. Good God. When I wasn’t basking in fish and chips in London, I did curry. A lot. I think I can say with reasonable certainty that I know what a proper curry tastes like (don’t say India, please. I’m sure theirs is full of worms, field mice and dysentery or something. Give me a London curry any day). Then I heard that in Berlin they eat something called currywurst. Hmmm, I thought. In Munich I’d had the obligatory Bavarian sausage feast with pretzels, mustard and beer. Beer in very large mugs. I thought maybe the Berliner variety of sausage would combine the best of Indian culture and German culture. Y’know, like, sausages in (perhaps) a spicy curry sauce. Cuz in Berlin they say ‘multi-kulti’ a lot. Good GOTT no. They take a hot dog—not even a decent sausage, mind you—and smother it in (wait for it….) KETCHUP. With about 20 flakes of curry powder sprinkled on top. And these people eat this sheise.

Once again, talk amongst yerselves, feeling a little verklempt ovah heah.