Currywurst: The Story of Berlin’s Beloved Spicy Sausage
‘Biste dann richtig blau
Wird dir ganz schön flau
Von currywurst’
‘Then when you’re really drunk
You’ll be gettin’ rather queasy
From currywurst’
Herbert Grönemeyer’s 1982 slurring rock ode to one of Germany’s most beloved famous fast foods is less a celebration of the actual meal, and more the drinking culture which has propelled into the hearts of inebriates across the nation, from business people celebrating the end of the work day to students celebrating nothing in particular. Such hearty fodder is best consumed under the influence – occupying the stomach with Teutonic stubbornness until something, eventually, gives. Unfortunately, I visited Berlin before my drinking days, and a sober tasting of this amalgamation of bratwurst, curried ketchup and fries does not seem to be a true currywurst experience. Like most drunk food, it's cheap and cheerful stodge, as widely celebrated as the late night/early morning kebab in Britain, though the German capital also boasts of the best döner kebabs, a consequence of Germany’s substantial population of Turkish descent.
Even without a belly full of beer and a light head, I did find currywurst pleasing – sometimes, even when with all of my faculties intact, I do crave something greasy, tangy and made of anonymous meats. Of course, it’s not to everyone’s tastes. The historian, gastronomer and devourer of all things Germanic, Giles MacDonogh, informs me that he’s not sold on this street food staple, and that he’d probably prefer it if the eponymous curry powder were integrated into the sausage, rather than into the accompanying sauce, indeed, some sausage makers have done just that, though it is against tradition. He does cite one joint on the high end Kurfürstendamm avenue, not far from the most widely recognised birthplace for the dish, where the sauce slathered sausage is paired with a half bottle of Krug champagne. As appealingly decadent as the juxtaposition of fine wine with pedigree junk food is, most boozing Berliners favour a robust stein of frothy pilsner to dainty glasses of sparkling wine.
The dish itself has largely resisted refinement, though I note that the German-themed two Michelin-starred establishment Sühring in Bangkok serves a playful (and petite) portion of sliced sausage napped with sauce for what can only be too much money. Perhaps it has to be eaten to be believed. Classic renditions, involving a mound of chips and chopped up sausage smothered in a spiced tomato sauce, served on a crinkle-edged paper plate, can be bought with spare change, and, on a cold night out, it doubles up as a hand warmer.
Of course, as with most iconic foods, the circumstances surrounding its creation are debated. The person most typically credited is Herta Heuwer, whose legendary status has outlived her more than two decades after her passing, with the Berlin State Mint creating a commemorative coin depicting her and two abnormally large sausages, marking the platinum anniversary of her devising the dish. Perhaps surprising, for a dish so synonymous with modern German, it was supposedly the product of foreign convenience foods. Berlin in 1949 was a city divided, each zone occupied by a different army from a different country with different rations. Heuwer somehow managed to get hold of curry powder and Worcestershire from the British troops, and tomato ketchup from the Americans, merging them and serving them with a boiled pork sausage, selling them from her Charlottenburg stand, where they proved to be a hit, and not just for drunks. Two years later she even patented her signature sauce as chillup, though by then the secret was out. The divide between capitalist West Berlin and communist East Berlin was almost as severe as that which still endures: skin-on sausages in the West versus skinless in the East.
Konnopke’s Imbiss
The skinless variety was invented in 1960, one year before the Berlin Wall was erected, being served from the hatch of Konnopke’s Imbiss, an institution which still serves Ossis (an occasionally derogatory term for former citizens of the DDR) to this day. Despite political divisions within Germany, currywurst unified the country, like a bratwurst Bismarck. Or at least, that’s as the myth goes.
There are other schools of thought. Some suggest that its true origins lie in a dish involving a ‘Hungarian’ sauce spiced with paprika, whilst Uwe Timm’s 1993 novel Die Entdeckung der Currywurst alleges that it was invented in Hamburg, and, whilst a work of fiction, Timm claims to have had a saucy sausage in the ‘Free and Hanseatic City’ two years before Heuwer first cooked it up. It may have even been devised to feed the miners of the Ruhr Valley, the Westphalian equivalent of the Cornish pasty. There are also suggestions that it was not an overnight success in Berlin, with Heuwer taking months to perfect her recipe. It’s difficult to accurately ascertain any of this, particularly with the closure of Heuwer’s original spot almost half a century ago. Now currywurst is ubiquitous, in no small part thanks to the industrialised efforts of the Volkswagen factory in Wolfsburg, which churns out millions upon millions of copies of part number 199 398 500 A, AKA a sausage, to feed workers and customers alike. On the international stage it’s not just Bangkok which has succumbed; any city where there might be an appetite for it, the currywurst has reached.
But, in spite of the uncertainty of its inception, it is undeniable that Berlin is the spiritual homeland of currywurst, where it is a staple of city life. Even Humboldt University, one of the most prestigious German educational establishments, factors in the cost of a portion of currywurst in their page on student finance – stating that, on average, it should cost around three euros. The truth is that, even if Herta Heuwer was not the first person to unite curry spices with ketchup and serve it with a sausage and fries, it’s a good story, part of the myth of the modern nation. The symbolic value of creating a new national dish using international products, a dish which arose from the rubble of war and the ravages of dictatorship, and has acquired a global cult following, cannot be overestimated. Although it was only three decades ago that the nation was finally united under capitalism and democracy, beer and fast food can overcome many divisions. Currywurst is a culinary emblem for the new Germany. Ironically, Herbert Grönemeyer, singer of the unofficial anthem for this jubilant nation, isn’t actually fond of currywurst, indeed, his brother, Dietrich, a physician, suggests that people should reduce their meat and alcohol consumption in the name of health. But, so long as there are impoverished students in Berlin, I think the future of this particular provender is secure.
Louis Thomas
Louis is fascinated by Italian cuisine and culture, particularly regarding the expression of regional identity through food. Whilst Italy is his greatest passion, he is interested in gastronomic history wherever he travels, believing that you can learn a great deal about a place from what's eaten there.