Some olives and a Meteor Pils before heading to Ebisu with friends from Tampa.

At the Hotel Utah

So, we’ve been in San Francisco for a week and a day now and are slowly getting back into the swing of things.

Repatriating is a little more challenging than originally expected. Just getting the hang of tipping (since when was 20% the norm) again is a challenge. But it’s worth it – if for no other reason than being able to get the ingredients to cook latin american food: tortillas, black beans, hot peppers, cilantro and avocados. Sure, the amazing salamis for my Italian cooking are gone, but Molinari makes a decent local interpretation of a good northern italian spicy salami.

Magnolia has really evolved as a brewery – making fantastic British-style ales, but surprising me with a Kölsch that any native from Cologne would be proud to drink served in the proper glassware. Speakeasy’s Bootlegger black lager is a slightly sweeter version of a classic Kostritzer Schwarzbier that I’m hoping will be bottled – and 21st Amendment is putting out a fine porter and pale ale less than 2 minutes away from the apartment door.

For everyone who asked – the cats were real troopers – handling: a cab ride to the train station in Cologne, 40 minutes waiting at the station for the train, and hour on the train, 40 minutes stuck in queue at Frankfurt airport where they had to be taken out of their carriers and walked through inspection twice, 11.5 hours to LAX, a walk through customs, another inspection where they needed to be walked through the metal detector, a 2 hour wait for the flight, a one hour flight to San Francisco, 20 minutes walking to baggage claim, 20 minutes waiting for the bags, 2o minutes in a limo from the airport and finally another 10 minutes while we got the litter box ready for them. All of this, and Murat never even meowed, and Odessa quietly complained for only a few minutes. Within a day, they were both back to their abnormal selves, and both seem to like the new apartment (especially the loft area and the stairs for exercise).

The folks at the Toronado have taken us back in – and our first time back as a couple in years, and we got our old seats and enjoyed a few Friday night beers… but we’re also exploring around our neighborhood, finding good local watering holes and places to eat. Having Amici’s pizza two blocks away on one side and 21st Amendment a block away on the other is going to be very dangerous.

15 years ago last week we got married and headed to Pennsylvania to start a new life. From there, we went to Morgantown (West Virginia), Boston, San Francisco, Hartford (Connecticut), back to San Francisco, Munich and Cologne (Germany). But even in Germany, we left our hearts in San Francisco…

… and home is where the heart is.

Ok, humiliating moment number… well, I have lost count over the years.

There are certain things I have learned over the past 31 years. One thing is that when it comes to food, I’ve been pretty lucky. I don’t have lactose intolerance, I have a very high tolerance for spicy food, and I’m not sensitive to any types of nuts, vegetables. Essentially, I’m food allergy free.

Well, almost.

I have learned that I am sensitive to two types of oil: peanut oil and sesame oil. I mean, I can eat peanuts, peanut butter, peanut brittle and any other peanut product. But give me peanut oil and I just can’t digest it. It’s the same with sesame oil, but there is rarely enough of it in any dish where it causes a problem.

So, I know it’s a problem. I know that on occasion, a thai or chinese restaurant will stir fry with peanut oil, and it’s just something I have to live with. However, knowing my limits, I don’t keep any of the offending oils in the house. With this in mind, why am I laying here in pure misery?

Tonight, I made my typical chicken-pesto pasta, which I make at least 3 times a month: fresh pesto, olivo oil, butter, sauteed chicken breast, olive oil, dried oregano and basil, hot pepper flakes, fresh garlic, cubed tomatos, parmasan cheese and cream. Actually, it came out better than usual today. Yet something went wrong.

Horribly wrong.

Today, we went to a different grocery store than usual – a more high end store in downtown Cologne. When shopping, we grabbed our usual store-bought pesto: the fresh stuff in the clear plastic container with the blue and white cardboard label. When I made the sauce, I noticed how the pesto separated a little more than usual, making green flecks in the sauce instead of making the cream it’s usual consistant green. It never occured to me to check the label.

Yep. As is typical in Germany, even though the labels and packaging were almost identical, it was a different brand. Where our usual brand of pesto used only olive oil, parmasan, basil and pine nuts, this brand added in peanut oil and palm oil. Why? To save a few cents during production.

Unfortunately, we didn’t realize this until Janet, trying to figure out why I was laying here in pain, checked the label and saw the first ingredient: erdnuss öl – peanut oil.

Needless to say, it’s not going to be a happy evening.

On June 13, 1999, I declared to the world that we were leaving San Francisco, essentially due to the lack of good rye bread.

Since then, we have traveled the world in search of the perfect, yet elusive loaf. We’ve had corn rye on the East Coast, great rye breads in Munich, and finally ended up in Cologne, whose native roll, the Roggelchen, is – you guessed it – a perfect rye bun. We finally did it. Our quest for rye bread is over.

But now what? Sure, we can eat rye bread and drink kölsch beer for the rest of our life – but what good is that when you can’t express to the people around you how superior this bread is in comparison to the bread in other places? Sure, rye bread is great – and the bagels here are passable, but you know what, all the time I was searching for rye bread, I lost sight of what was truly important in life:

Sandwiches.

Sure, a fantastic rye bread is truly one of the amazing things in life, but what good is it if you can’t find a good turkey breast and a ripe avocado to put on it? As great as the bread out here is, let’s just face it, they just don’t make great sandwiches in Germany.

First of all, they slather butter on them. Sorry, but ham and cheese needs mayo, not butter. Sure, they have subways here, but they’re so pre-processed, it’s like eating mildly flavored calorie-laden air… and they’re American anyway. You can’t get a decent burger, cheesesteak, grinder, sub, hoagie, or even a decent PB&J because for some reason they don’t like peanut butter and the only grape jelly you can find is smuckers for 6 euros a jar that’s imported in from the states.

They have the bread, but don’t know what to do with it.

In San Francisco, a decent rye is still hard to find, but you can’t swing a hippie by his dreadlocks without hitting either a coffee shop or a sandwich place. It makes me think that rye is just isn’t as important as other things in life.

Like sourdough.

Sure, it’s hard to find good rye in San Francisco, but it’s impossible to find sourdough in Germany. Or good freshly baked cookies. Or root beer. Or even a passable attempt at pastrami.

Call me crazy, but all of the rye bread in the world just doesn’t matter when you are eating a nice cheesesteak covered with hot peppers and onions.

So, we are officially declaring the search for rye bread over and you know what?

Sometimes you can go back home.