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A chef and restaurateur stumbled onto Hitler’s secret Cognac store
A German chef and restaurateur was renovating his gardens when he found Hitler's secret stash of hidden Cognac.
German chef and restaurateur Sylvio Stelzer was lucky enough to be purchasing and renovating a villa in Saxony, but he found an extremely surprising bonus when he uncovered a secret store of Hitler’s cognac that had been buried on the grounds near the end of World War II.
According to The Local, Stelzer’s villa is on the grounds of the Wasserschloss Moritzburg estate, which was the seat of the royal family of Saxony. In 1944, the palace and its grounds were owned by Prince Ernst Heinrich von Sachsen. At the time, airstrikes on Berlin had made the city unsafe, so Hitler arranged to have his precious stores of fine food, Champagne, and Cognac sent to the prince for safekeeping.
The army reportedly sent over hundreds of boxes loaded with cheese, salami, chocolates, cigarettes, and alcohol. All the food is gone by now, of course.
"None of the food is left. After May 8th, 1945, the Russian troops plundered everything,” said Stelzer.
Considering the food would have been at least 76 years old by this point, its loss is not a tragedy. But during a renovation, Stelzer discovered the Champagne and Cognac hidden in a secret cavern in the gardens.
Stelzer has opened a restaurant on the grounds of his villa, but he says he’s still not sure what exactly should be done with Hitler’s Cognac.
Discovering WW1 tunnel of death hidden in France for a century
Not since the 1970s has there been such an important discovery from the Great War in France. In woods on a ridge not far from the city of Reims, the bodies of more than 270 German soldiers have lain for more than a century - after they died the most agonising deaths imaginable.
Forgotten in the confusion of war, their exact location was till now a mystery - one which the French and German authorities were in no hurry to elucidate. But thanks to the work of a father-and-son team of local historians, the entrance to the Winterberg tunnel on the Chemin des Dames battlefront has been found.
The urgent question is what to do next. Should the bodies be brought up quickly and buried in a German war cemetery? Should there be a full-scale archaeological dig so we can learn more about the conduct of the war and the lives of the men who fought it?
Should there be a memorial, or a museum?
The two governments are still deliberating, but time presses. Because if the tunnel's location is in theory still a secret, it is a secret that has been badly kept.
When I visited the spot a few days ago, it was to discover that bounty-hunters had been the night before. A three-metre deep hole had been dug near the entrance, and a collection of wartime artefacts - axes, spades and pit-props as well as unexploded shells - left in a heap.
We also found a human ulna - the fore-arm bone.
The looters had not managed to break into the tunnel - that lies even deeper down - and what they found are bits and pieces thrown up in the shell explosion that sealed it off.
But no-one doubts they will be back, because whoever gets into the Winterberg tunnel first will find a treasure trove.
In the spring of 1917 the French launched a doomed offensive to retake the hills that lie in a west-east line a few miles to the north of the river Aisne. The Germans had held the crest along the Chemin des Dames for more than two years, and they had a complex system of underground defences.
Near the village of Craonne, the Winterberg tunnel ran for 300m from the north side of the crest - invisible to the French - and came out to supply the first line of German trenches on the south-facing slope.
On 4 May 1917 the French launched an artillery bombardment targeting the two ends of the tunnel, sending up an observation balloon to get a sight on the north-facing slope.
For once their accuracy was formidable. A shell fired from a naval gun hit the entrance, triggering more explosions from ammunition that was stored there and sending a cloud of acrid fumes into the shaft. Another shell sealed the exit.
Inside, the men from the 10th and 11th companies of the 111th Reserve Regiment were trapped. Over the next six days, as oxygen ran out, they either suffocated or took their own lives. Some asked comrades to kill them.
By a fluke of physiology, three men survived long enough to be brought out by rescuers, just a day before the crest was abandoned to the French. One of them, Karl Fisser, left an account for the regimental history:
"Everyone was calling for water, but it was in vain. Death laughed at its harvest and Death stood guard on the barricade, so nobody could escape. Some raved about rescue, others for water. One comrade lay on the ground next to me and croaked with a breaking voice for someone to load his pistol for him."
When the French took the ridge, the scene outside would have been of untold chaos and destruction. Digging into the tunnel would hardly have been a priority, so they left it. The Germans retook the Chemin des Dames in a later push, but at that point they had no time either to search for remains.
By the end of the war no-one could say for sure where the Winterberg tunnel had actually been. They weren't French bodies inside, so it was decided to let them lie - as countless other bodies still lie unfound along the Western Front.
The woods grew back and the shell-holes became mere undulations in ground. Today the spot is popular with dog-walkers.
But a local man called Alain Malinowski could not get the tunnel out of his head. It was out there somewhere on the ridge.
Working on the Paris metro in the 1990s, he travelled daily to the capital and used his spare time to visit military archives in the Château de Vincennes. For 15 years he accumulated descriptions, maps and prisoner interrogations - but to no avail. The landscape had been too badly disfigured by bombardment to make any meaningful comparison.
But then in 2009 he chanced on a contemporary map showing not just the tunnel but also a meeting of two paths that had survived till today. With painstaking care, he measured out the angle and distance and arrived at the spot, now just an anonymous bit of woodland.
"I felt it. I knew I was near. I knew the tunnel was there somewhere beneath my feet," Alain Malinowski told Le Monde.
For 10 years nothing happened. He told the authorities of his find but they refused to follow it up, either because they did not believe him or because they had no desire to open up a mass war-grave.
Into the story stepped his son Pierre Malinowski, at 34 years old a maverick ex-soldier who once worked for Jean-Marie Le Pen and now runs a foundation in Moscow dedicated to tracing war-dead from the Napoleonic and other eras.
Angered by official obfuscation, Pierre decided to force the hand of the French and German governments by opening up the tunnel himself. This was illegal, but he thought it was worth the punishment.
One night in January last year he led a team that brought a mechanical digger to the spot his father had identified. They dug down four metres, and what they found proved they were indeed at the entrance to the tunnel.
There was the bell that was used to sound the alarm hundreds of gas-mask canisters rails for transporting munitions two machine-guns a rifle bayonets and the remains of two bodies.
"It was like Pompeii. Nothing had moved," said one of the team.
Pierre Malinowski then covered up the hole, leaving the place as anonymous as he had found it, and he contacted the authorities. Ten months later, again frustrated by the slowness of the official response, he went public and told the story to Le Monde.
It is fair to say that Pierre Malinowski is not a popular figure in the archaeological and historical establishments.
They believe he has not only broken the law. Without any authority of his own, and overriding the argument that the dead are best off resting where they are, he has also twisted the arm of government, forcing it either to open the tunnel or at least protect it.
And by his example he has encouraged other go-it-alone excavations - most of which will be conducted for purely mercenary motives.
Official reluctance to proceed with an investigation is clear. Diane Tempel-Barnett, spokeswoman for the German War Graves Commission (VDK), told German radio "to be honest we are not very excited about the discovery. In fact we find it all most unfortunate".
It is hard to imagine the Commonwealth War Graves Commission taking a similar line if the bodies of 270 UK troops were found. But then World War One is often described in Germany as its "forgotten war".
In fact efforts are under way now to track descendants of those who died in the tunnel - and with some success. The 111th Regiment recruited men in the Baden region of the Swabian Alps, and nine soldiers have now been identified who died on 4 and 5 May 1917.
"If I can help just one family to trace an ancestor who died in the tunnel, it will have been worth it," says Mark Beirnaert, a genealogist and Great War researcher.
"What I hope is that the bodies can be brought out and identified by their dog-tags. Then what would be fitting is that they leave this cold eerie tomb and be buried together as comrades."
That is what happened to the more than 400 German soldiers who were found in 1973, having died in a similar tunnel at Mont Cornillet east of Reims.
Welcome to Wallyworld
CARIN II News this week of the German reporter, Gerd Heidemann - who claimed to have discovered Hitler's Diaries - is now 76, living alone and on welfare.
The former Stern magazine journalist is living in poverty in Hamburg. He has debts exceeding €700,000 and exists on a pension.
His debts includes €150,000 in shipyard bills dating back to when he owned Hermann Goering's yacht, Carin II.
Heidemann with CARIN II
The yacht was a gift to Hermann Goering, supreme commander of the Luftwaffe, from the German motor industry in 1937 to mark Goering’s marriage to his second wife, Emmy, but was named after his first spouse, Carin, who died of TB six years earlier.
The 90ft-long (27.5 Metres) 70 ton Carin II was described by one contemporary newspaper as "a symbol of German shipbuilding supremacy, a floating embassy for the state". The construction and presentation attracted great public interest as it was the first vessel of its type and size to be built. For a private vessel it had an astronomical price tag - 1.3 Million Reichsmarks.
Hitler was a frequent visitor, as was Nazi propaganda minister Josef Goebbels, SS chief Heinrich Himmler, and his security police leader, Reinhard Heydrich.
Goering stored the finest wines and cognac aboard, hosted lavish dinners and shot ducks from a specially constructed platform on the bow.
"Where's my boat?" During the summer of 1940 Goering would sit on the green leather sofa in the boat’s splendid wood panelled salon and study Battle of Britain operational maps on the burr walnut table.
The boat was first renamed the Royal Albert and then Prince Charles and for 15 years it provided a holiday home for the Royal Family.
But eventually the Royals decided it wasn't a good look to be cavorting on Goering's old luxury yacht in a period of post-war austerity and it was handed over to the Goering family in 1960.
The family sold the yacht to a Bonn printer, who renamed it Theresia and kept the boat for 12 years before selling it to Heidemann.
Goering on Carin II, Denmark Heidemann restored the name Carin II and entertained Goering's daughter Edda and numerous prominent Nazis on board. Including Karl Wolff, former head of the SS in Italy and Himmler’s liaison officer with Hitler, and SS General Wilhelm Mohnke, the last commander of the garrison defending the Reich Chancellery in 1945.
As the yacht became increasingly expensive to maintain, Heidmann needed to sell the boat. In 1980 he visited the Stuttgart home of Fritz Steifel, a wealthy collector of Nazi memorabilia, hoping to persuade him to buy the Carin II. Steifel wasn’t interested, but while Heidemann was there, Steifel showed him an unusual and very rare item he had recently acquired. It was a single, black-bound volume of Hitler’s diary, covering the period from January to June, 1935.
Heidemann persuaded his employers, Stern magazine, to advance him cash to acquire instalments of more than 50 volumes. And then went on spending sprees buying first-class cruises, new cars, apartments, and large amounts of Nazi memorabilia (most of it fake). At one point he even inquired about the possibility of buying Hitler’s childhood home.
Heidemann aboard Carin II Turned out all the diaries were forgeries, but ones which managed to fool both the Sunday Times and the British historian Hugh Trevor-Roper. The diaries were bound in black, and about 1.5 centimeters thick. Konrad Kujau, the forger, scuffed them up and stained them with tea to give them an old, battered appearance.
He glued initials on to the front cover of each diary. Kujau thought that the initials, which were in a gothic script, were the letters “AH” for “Adolf Hitler.” In fact, they were “FH”. No one noticed this mistake.
Eventually, chemical analysis indicated the diaries were fake.
The content of the journals had also been sexed up. The entries contained historical inaccuracies and many of them had been plagiarized from Domarus’s Hitler’s Speeches and Proclamations and showed the same typos and grammatical mistakes.
The announcement that the Hitler Diaries were fake made front-page news around the world. Heidemann spilled the beans but insisted he had believed the diaries were real. Kujau fled to Austria. But when he learned that Stern had paid nine million marks for the diaries but Heidemann had paid him only two million he spat the dummy and gave himself up - just to spite Heidemann. To prove his guilt, he wrote out part of his confession in Hitler’s handwriting. He also claimed that Heidemann had known all along that the diaries were fake.
In August 1984 Heidemann and Kujau were put on trial. Heidemann was accused of stealing 1.7 million marks from Stern, and Kujau of receiving 1.5 million for the diaries. This left over five million marks unaccounted for. Both men were convicted of fraud and sentenced to over four years in prison each.
After being released from prison in 1988, Kujau opened a gallery in Stuttgart where he sold “authentic fakes". Authentic fakes - don't you love it? These included not only forgeries of Hitler’s paintings, but also reproductions of Dalis, Monets, Rembrandts, and Van Goghs. He signed each painting with both his own name and that of the original artist. Many of these “authentic fakes” sold for tens of thousands of marks. In fact, his work became so popular that other forgers began to create forged copies of Kujau’s forgeries. Ha ha.
It gets better. When Kujau died in 2000, his great-niece, Petra Kujau, was subsequently charged with selling hundreds of fakes of his fakes. She would buy oil paintings from Asia for as little as 10 euros apiece, write Kujau’s signature on them, and flog them off for up to 3,500 euros!
Goerings old yacht Carin II was put up for auction, eventually being sold to Egyptian-born Mostafa Karim and his wife, Sandra Simpson attracting more controversy when it was once impounded by Libya's Colonel Gaddafi.
Postscript: Did you know Goering was shot in the groin during the Beer Hall Putsch with Herr Hitler and ended up with a raging morphine addiction? He was certified a dangerous drug addict and placed in a straitjacket in the violent ward of a Swedish asylum on 1 September 1925.
The psychiatrist's reports claimed -
CARIN II Lying in the Red Sea 2003
I found these pics on a Russian photo site. But they are from Rex Features and were taken by Michael Dunlea. The old girl's in a pretty sad state. God only knows what she looks like now. Anyone recognise the engines? Update: she's powered by Mercedes-Benz diesels that were fitted in the early eighties.
"Admiral" Goering & mates
Italians & Germans
CARIN II More on this fascinating story. I found an article in Der Spiegel from 2004 and translated it into English with Babelfish - and that's what it reads like in part - babble. No matter. you can get the gist of the yarn. Here's the source and here's the wacky translation -
In the Red Sea a deeply German ship emerged again: the former luxury yacht of Hitler's realm marshal Hermann Goering.
The bathing resort El Gouna at the Red Sea would gladly be an Arab Saint Tropez and the shipping agent Christopher Brunner heavy dreams to make with an old punt a spectacular business. While the sand mark at of Egypt must still wait coast for its break-through to the Top Spot of the millionaires, desire and reality do not gape completely so far with the German boat salesman.
With the "Carin II" Brunner heavy has an almost unbelievable piece in the catalog, which was considered for a long time as verschollen. Among the owners of the legendary engine yacht did not only rank with Hermann Goering a man, who made history as Hitler Intimus, Jew pursuer and a Air Force boss in the third realm relevantly, separate with ex-"Stern"-reporter Gerd Heidemann also one, which wanted to describe them later. But even the old journalistic blood dog with the weakness for brown tracks had already lost the "Carin II" trace years ago. He does not know, what from his ship became, confesses Heidemann, 72.
Frau ? The 1937 teak built 27-Meter-Yacht, of Erstbesitzer Goering are baptized actually in memory of its the deceased wife "Carin II" ("Carin I" was too small and weather susceptible), a gruselig German ship. The launching of a vessel became the boat a popular place for secret meetings right after. Nazi sizes such as Heinrich Himmler and Martin Bormann, in addition, the leader are to have enjoyed the hospitality of the field marshal on it.
With beginning of war the yacht became Goerings personal control center. In the twilight of the cabin usually on Havel, Spree or Elbe schippernden boat probably matured the resolution to the air battle around England, which the reich marshal pursued on board by radio and telephone.
When Germany lay in debris and ash, the victorious British favours at Goerings of swimming summerhouse found. War hero field marshal Montgomery baptized the booty ship in "Royal Albert" over and made it for the later Queen Elizabeth the gift. The designated it after its first born "Prince Charles". As flagship of the Royal Navy Rheinflottille the Goering yacht drove some years in European waters with postwar chancellor Konrad Adenauer was allowed even again a German politician on board.
Back into German hands the boat fell in June 1960. Courts awarded the yacht of the Goering widow Emmy, which silvered its inheritance however already soon. New owner became owner of printering from Bonn, who provided the ship with a fourth name: "Theresia".
The doubtful Goering-flair returned to the ship however only "Stern" reporter Heidemann. It transformed the punt into a swimming reliquary casket for LV Fetischisten, while it was jubilant the alleged Hitler diaries to its Hamburg pictorial at the beginning of the eighties. The journalist was pushed with a search on the boat and had it, partially on pumps, for 160,000 Marks arisen. Heidemann equipped the ship after the grotesque taste of the baroque benefit human being: Soon there were again Goering board silver, Goering drinking cups and Goering ashtrays, the visitors reported.
On board met journalist colleagues, publishing house managers and former national socialists. In his film over the diary affair ("Schtonk") director Helmut Dietl let the fictitious Heidemannn even the Goering niece on the planks love, which disclaims the original figure however as "freely invented".
The speculation of the "Carin of II" owner on a high resale value of the yacht burst with the diary swindle. In an auction by order of the court the Egyptian oil agent Mustafa Karim acquired 1988 in Hamburg the ship for 270,000 Marks. With his American Mrs. Sandra Simpson it schipperte the "Carin II" by North Sea, English Channel and Biskaya in the Mediterranean.
At his current anchorage before El Gouna works the ship hardly seaworthy. The railing is damaged, those planks is washes. In the captain area with heavy oak table and greener leather couch strikes the visitor Muff against.
The erbaermliche condition is the result of a equivalent double stroke of fate for the American. After its man had died, the Egyptian bureaucracy opened an embittered war around the control over the ship. Only for few weeks broker may offer the "Carin II" to Brunner heavy in Simpsons order for the sales - and refers to many promising inquiries from the gulf emirates.
Desert princes have and oil sheikh with the boat dealer before-feel alleged to leave, what the betagte Pott is to cost. Also from the relationship of the Iraqi ex dictator Saddam Hussein inquiries about the "Carin II" were made. "the history of the yacht", gives itself confidently the broker, "pleases the Arabs. And drives the price."
Here's another hilarious translation of yet another article on Carin II in DIE ZEIT - a German newspaper. From 2005. This time using Google Translate just as quirky as Babelfish.
The yacht Carin II once belonged to Hermann Goering and later the "Finder" of The Hitler Diaries. Now it's for sale again.
The yacht port of El-Gouna, perhaps hundred meters from the pier, lies with slanted gestelltem rowing a wooden boat at anchor. It turns irritated with the gusts, does something with his drooping ramponiert sun deck, rostbraun dyed sand from the flight - but a certain elegance, it has preserved in the Red Sea. The other boats are so thick and confident, says Sandra Simpson, the ship's owner for 20 years, they stay where they are, even when stormy. My boat zappelts immediately like a dying fish on the rod.
German tourists on the Egyptian El-Gouna holiday, recognize the Carin II usually by the third day. A replica of Hermann Göring's yacht had a role in the 1991 Academy Award nominated Helmut Dietl film Schtonk based on the Stern Magazine scandal over the forged Hitler diaries which has a permanent place in the memory of the Germans. This is the Carin II no German ship fate as others from this era, later in the Marine pathetic prose transfigured. The thick Reich Marshal (The thick Reich Marshal? Ha ha. They must mean "rotund" schipperte a total of only two years on their way around. Rather, it is a dinghy (There's that word again!) in history, at times on the shoals of large events, but mostly in quiet historic inland waters - and once they slipped in the mud of a public grotesque.
Fortunately they brought their owners are not changing. Her story sounds even a bit sad, like a sailor's song of launenhaften sea. It was a gift from the German car industry to Goering, with which it was not a good end. After the war, fell to the British, later, the young Prince Charles on their vacation. In the sixties Bonner drove a print shop owner with her walking on the Rhine, and later he complained that his marriage had failed, the drama had largely played on board.
The star reporter Gerd Heidemann went into a self-produced under strudel. ("a self-produced under strudel"?! Even the great Knick in Sandra Simpsons life had with the Carin II to do so.
Hurghada, about twenty kilometres south of El-Gouna, is the oldest tourist centre in the Red Sea, full of stuff diving schools Stuff diving schools?! Is that like a Muff Diving School? and shops in which cloned Pharaoh's heads and water pipes to buy. At the beginning of the boom, 1983, worked for the American Sandra Simpson here as the first female diving teacher in Egypt. She lived with her Egyptian husband Karim Mustafa in a big house, as everything still sand and beach.
Hurghada was improvised, but chic, British and Americans came to water sports. Later, when the big hotel complexes were built, came the Germans. Now it hosts the Russian middle class.
Goering, Prince Charles, Adenauer: You all lead already on the Carin II.
Egyptian Sandra's life is drawing to a quarter of a century to the end. It should go quickly. It regulates its affairs, and this has in a small hotel in Hurghada Downtown-eingemietet. The legacy of her late husband is out of the house and the boat - and duration of trouble in court and a tough family dispute. The Karim, one must know, are a powerful and extensive Egyptian family, pursuing a variety of interests and very traditional. Meanwhile, Sandra sold the house, against the resistance of their Schwäger. What exactly will the family is difficult to say, at least not the proceeds to Sandra's U.S. account hinterherwinken. Now, there is still the boat.
I have the money. But what does that mean in this country? In the last moment you can lose everything. Egypt has it tough, maybe even hard. The country has in it like a eingebohrt Ohrgeräusch after diving. Sandra Simpson is disguised as a tourist by Hurghada streets, with T-shirt and Baseball cap. Your clothes after she is already at home in Pennsylvania, a narrow Yankee woman, accustomed to under adverse conditions to say. Arabic speaking only if absolutely required. Then loud. A small blue Nokia phone with a handsfree dangling micro connects them with the world their Egyptian and American friends. In fact, I hate the sun, wind, sand, surfing. I am longing to woods, where I can ride again, with rain and mud.
All attempts in recent years by a broker to find buyers, remain unsuccessful. The Carin II, in the Sandra recalls happier times, the last memory of Mustafa, the ship's treasure, this strange German legend, for a while as strange German types dressed, they vergammelt slow. There is no time for sentimentality. The climate has not rotted the boat, rather mummified it. The double hull is undamaged, inside the oak diagonal, the outer layer of Rangoon-Teak kraweel geplankt: best work. Wow! Double-diagonal planking - oak inside - Burmese teak out. You do know what that would cost these days?
Heil Göring! And yet, what a contrast to 1937, than in the small Hamburg shipyard Hermann Heidtmann built yacht caused a stir because nobody in the kingdom drove a similar boat. Fantastic 1.3 million Reichsmark had tasted it, Göring crew of the Navy Air Force blütenweiße wore uniforms, in edelholzgetäfelten Salon reigned valet Robert, and later in the bunk were always the diamond dagger, a gift from Mussolini, and the legendary Mauserpistol in front e. Under a deck hatch: the hunting seat. He had the imperial Jägermeister expressly requested - actually just a flat metal shell for someone who is very broad (Read:fat bastard -)). From there Goering shot seagulls, actually a taboo for seafarers.
The Carin II received prominent Nazis with coffee and cake, on its conversion, the aviation industry to war production has been ordered.
For a long time the boat was anchored near the Luftwaffenstützpunktes Gatow in Berlin. Since the war began it was in Hamburg in marina Waltershof-Finkenwerder. Then in 1945 became part of the Royal Navy - renamed the Royal Albert - the flagship of the British fleet of the Rhine. In 1952 the boat was renamed Prince Charles. She steamed from Krefeld for the state visit to Switzerland in 1955 and was even command ship of the British at the first joint NATO maneuvers "Cordon Bleu". Then came Adenauer to the evening reception on Göringis yacht. Regularly, she was used by the Royal Family. The former chef recalls that the Royals used to fly to Frankfurt and then drive by Rolls-Royce to Wiesbaden-Schierstein where they could go by boat up the Rhine to Heidelberg or down to Holland. Prince Charles, as a boy, was kept busy peeling potatoes. (WTF!)
Hard to say what is happening in all the years to original equipment received. Today it is actually only the salon that some of the gloomy bourgeois elegance of the thirties remains. Each new owner of the vessel, especially Gerd Heidemann (who later claimed to have it restored) renovated the yacht. Heidemann added a lot of mahogany fittings. Sandra says that much of the old Goering memorabilia, which Heidemann gathered from dubious sources, was still on board when she and Mustafa auctioned the boat. Meanwhile, almost everything is gone.
Twice relics robbers have broken into the Carin II. Once in the early Nineties and then again a little later. As well as that still photos of the yacht were stolen from Sandra's apartment in Cairo. Years later, Sandra did an Internet search and found some of the items on the site of an antique book store in Galway, Ireland.
Under the title The Carin II Archives she found almost everything for sale. Sandra protested and the archive disappeared from the web for awhile. But now it's back offering ashtrays and binoculars, parts of the library, photos, paintings, logbooks and the famous green Sèvres porcelain with the Golden family crest of the Reichsmarshall. And €48,500 buys the whole collection.
Measured against the greed, the emergence of this kind of Memorabilia still two or three decades would have triggered, it must be noted that something has changed for the better. Of course there are customers for such a thing, but Sandra says that the price was earlier twice as high. Apparently, the market for goods Goering broken into, and it would Carin II prospects for a more attractive, when they finally emerging from the Nazi heraustuckerte haze.
End of the fifties, since they have long expired under the English flag, the name spukte Goering briefly again around than before court on the private property of the Nazi leaders argued. The largest part of Goering zusammengegaunerten seized goods was 1946. The so-called Berlin assets, however, essentially cash and Imperial Treasury, had the British after 1945 North Rhine-Westphalia provides. Since 1957 Emmy widow complained to the return of these assets, on the grounds that Hermann was in the last days of the war leaders from the party and been sentenced to death - and thus victims of the regime.
Two years later they reached a partial success: Subsequent asset expropriations in North Rhine-Westphalia were no longer constitutionally, so its 150 000 D-Mark cash, jewellery and the ship had to be refunded. So Emmy lived with daughter Edda, which later with Gerd Heidemann liiert was carefree in Munich. The Carin II 1960 sold it for 33 000 Mark Bonner to those print shop owners, whose marriage unfortunately went wrong. The verscherbelte turn the boat for 16 years to five to Heidemann.
Thus begins the re-invention of the Carin II as a Nazi boat. About Heidemann has been much speculation that he is an obscure figure and a heilloser Fantast, but he was also once an outstanding reporter. Example way he felt very early the so-called rat line, which, equipped with Red Cross passports of the Catholic Church, desk perpetrators and executioners fled in the direction of Argentina. Old and neo-Nazis formed soon Heide's Entourage, why, that remains his great mystery. On the Carin II, he received former SS generals and collectors of militaria. The tips of the Gruner + Jahr Publishing House gave the honor. This was radical chic and was wonderfully politically incorrect. The early eighties was a confused time, Germany's past seemed to fade, and you could feel superior to her by the scrap of brown reign played.
Heidemann wanted the ship for 1.3 million dollars resell but found no. He lived fast and was deep in debt, and dreamed of hidden treasures of gold from the Nazis and Bernstein rooms. Eventually he met then the manuscripts-Paganini Konrad Kujau and cheered stern false diaries of the leader under, 60 volumes of 9.3 million marks. On 25 April 1983 was Europe's largest magazine with the greatest of all time to duck. Heidemann was sentenced to four years and eight months condemned six million of the embezzled money remained until today disappeared. All four safes on the Carin II, however, were empty. The hole in Göring Originalschatulle welded later Libyan Revolution Garden into it.
During the busy star reporter Göring brushed uniform, Sandra Simpson lived in a lighter, unschuldigeren world. In Paris the end of the seventies, the young student of French language, Egyptian petroleum engineer Mustafa Karim know each other. He had studied in the U.S., was charming, educated, British mother, father, a Pasha. The times believed in progress, with some luck could all get rich. And Karim, of the large commissions Ölgeschäfte lived, was lucky. They married in January 1980. They went on trips, enjoyed the luxury of Cairo and Hurghada discovered as a diving paradise.
Actually, they already had a yacht. But it was too large. The purpose was for them a small wooden boat, but beautiful wooden boats are rare.
1985, a friend on the ship's attention to the auction in Hamburg to stand, because someone is so in a large Kuddelmuddel maneuvers. In December bought Sandra and Mustafa Carin II for the 270 000 marks. No one in Germany wanted the ship scandal. Sandra claimed that they had at that time really had no idea that it was actually Göring's yacht. A new life section should begin for children and boats.
In Hamburg remained stuck inside the expansion ended and the electronics renewed. The ship is steamed to Spain, then the couple spends half a year on their yacht in Antibes.
It is 28 January 1987. They set course for Hurghada, where Mustafa has sunk his entire fortune into a hotel project and similar activities. Also on board: a Belgian captain, a Belgian woman and a German mechanic.
Mustafa his government had a huge piece bought from desert, with the stipulation within three years, a hotel complex to be built. It aims to pensions. Her first stop is San Remo, and from there it goes on to Naples Gaeta. Very dark clouds creep over the mountains. By Crete, the weather had calmed down.
On 6 February marked the logbook of the Carin II: Passing the Cape Vaticano in the direction of Messina. Peaceful Sea.
The following day, the Ramponierten permission to settle in Libyan waters to save. In Benghazi, they are interrogated, but also receive food and tools. First, there is hope after the storm to continue the journey. And it seems to be something done.
Under 16 February is the logbook: I can the behaviour of Ms Simpson is not cheap and I fear it will give us all at risk. (This makes more sense with the babelfish translation which reads -
So I wonder what was going on there? Was Sandra walking around in a bikini? Abusing the Libyans? I might have to ask her (I'm in email contact).
The owner wants to sell the boat but finds nobody.
Sandra is not happy about these days. The Revolutionary Garden take their passports and puts them in a hotel in Benghazi. Karim immediately sends a telegram to Gadhafi. There are armed, announces the crew, Karim, the board fund itself. It creates them in a hotel in Derna, there are Dauerverhöre. Worst of all is the uncertainty that indictment will not be collected. Libya is considered dangerous rogue state, only half a year earlier, the U.S. Air Force targets in Tripoli and Benghazi bombed. At the same time, the Libyan coast guard a small ship called Silco, with the Frenchman on board. Even its crew disappeared in the country, as a suspected Israeli spies. Only two and a half years later was the revolutionary leader with great humanitarian gesture again. Shortly afterwards, the French government three Mirage fighter jets to Libya, the maintenance brought to France and then had been seized.
However seemed Carin-pray for Libya to have been worthless. After three months, the Belgians, the Germans and the American woman ausfliegen. Not so the Egyptians Mustafa Karim. From the first day had it separated from the group, and no one knew whether he was still alive. Sandra says that her husband had had one of the few Egyptians, because of their Ölgeschäfte were allowed to travel to Libya. It would also be divided for Mustafas with their family connections have been easy to detect and brother release. But for Karim did not hand.
It took longer than one year, until it is wiedersahen. Finally they brought the ship to Hurghada and took their construction project in check. In the area were huge concrete skeletons. The crucial time to press ahead with the project, was passed. A part of the country attacked the government, they could tear the structures again. The other part is attacked Mustafas brothers. In August 1993 Sandra's husband died of stomach cancer.
That's it. Sandra Simpson was looking for a new life in Cairo. A buyer for the ship they were still looking. The Carin II sank Egyptian thorn in their Rösch's sleep, sand storms utmost, with slanted gestelltem rowing in a short anchor chain.
Hell of a story isn't it? In the old days, Omar Sharif would have played Karim Mustafa with Meryl Streep as Sandra Simpson.
BTW Sandra Simpson is alive and well, has remarried and is working as a teacher back in The States.
Just discovered this in David Irving's book "War Path" -
Wikipedia has this to say about him - "In 1983, Irving played a major role in the Hitler Diaries controversy. Irving was an early proponent of the argument that the diaries were a forgery, and went so far as to crash the press conference held by Hugh Trevor-Roper at the Hamburg offices of Der Stern magazine on 25 April 1983 to denounce the diaries as a forgery and Trevor-Roper for endorsing the diaries as genuine (Trevor-Roper had called the press conference to announce his withdrawal of his endorsement, arguably rendering Irving's attack on Trevor-Roper irrelevant). Irving's performance at the Der Stern press conference where he violently harangued Trevor-Roper until ejected by security led him to be featured prominently on the news and the next day Irving appeared on Today television show as a featured guest.
However, a week later on May 2, Irving reversed himself and claimed the diaries were genuine at the same press conference, Irving took the opportunity to promote his translation of the memoirs of Hitler’s physician Dr. Theodor Morell. Robert Harris in his book "Selling Hitler" suggested that an additional reason for Irving's change of mind over the authenticity of the alleged Hitler diaries was that the alleged diaries contain no reference to the Holocaust, thereby buttressing Irving's claim in "Hitler's War" that Hitler had no knowledge of the Holocaust.
Subsequently Irving reversed himself again when the diaries were revealed as a forgery. At a press conference held to withdraw his endorsement of the diaries, Irving proudly claimed that he was the first to call the diaries a forgery, to which a reporter replied that he was also the last to call the diaries genuine. In his later accounts of his role in the Hitler Diaries matter, Irving has always mentioned his role as proponent of the theory that the diaries were fake while ignoring his change of opinion about their authenticity.
In 1989, Irving published his biography of Hermann Göring, in which he highlighted, though did not endorse, the more "positive" features of the Nazi Reichsmarschall. Irving avoided discussion of Göring's role in the Holocaust, describing instead Göring's jovial personality and offering a wealth of lesser-known facts about his life. Irving also recounts various incidents and produces documents as evidence that Göring disapproved of the persecution of Jews and other Nazi crimes.
By the mid-1980s, however, Irving associated himself with the Holocaust-denying I.H.R., began giving lectures to groups such as the far-right German Deutsche Volksunion, and publicly denied that the Nazis systematically exterminated Jews in gas chambers during World War II. .
In 2006 after being arrested and imprisoned by the Austrians he said - "I've changed my views. I spoke then about Auschwitz and gas chambers based on my knowledge at the time, but by 1991 when I came across the Eichmann papers, I wasn't saying that any more and I wouldn't say that now. The Nazis did murder millions of Jews. ..I made a mistake by saying there were no gas chambers, I am absolutely without doubt that the Holocaust took place. I apologise to those few I might have offended though I remain very proud of the 30 books I have written." However, Irving continued to insist that Hitler knew nothing of the death camps, and that "The figure of six million killed Jews is just a symbolic number"."
She's in a bit of a sad state now. Click on thumbnail to blow up the boat!
Just found this pic on Flickr - With this text under it -
The Royal Navy/Royal Marine base on the Rhine in 1956 or 1957. My father, who served on RM landing craft at the base, and who took the photo, said that the rumour was that the white yacht previously belonged to Hitler. However, having done some research on the internet, I believe the yacht is actually the "Carin II, " which was Hermann Goering's private yacht, and which still exists in a somewhat dilapidated state.
More pics. Original plans - And a treasure-trove of shots here - CarinII
Another pic of Carin II I've just found. From May 1956 with this caption - "The yacht Carin II earlier belonging to Hermann Goering (Goring ) lying in the port of Copenhagen. It is now owned by RAF officers from Kiel. They are here demonstrating the art of keeping the beer chilly."
Just found this pic. Titled "Jun. 06, 1960 - In Oberwinter near Bonn"
Guess what? Carin II has been fully restored. In Egypt. So all those British ASSHOLES who attacked me in yacht forums can go fuck themselves. I'm vindicated. She WAS worth saving. Albeit with the naff new name "Prince Charles" ffs. https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carin II
Now restored and renamed "Prince Charles" and lying in Valletta, Malta.
January 27 is celebrated as International Day of Commemoration in Memory of the Victims of the Holocaust. Books listed below, provide diferent perspectives into one of the most dark periods of history. Please share with your contacts and spread the word.
&ldquoI swore never to be silent whenever and wherever human beings endure suffering and humiliation. We must always take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.&rdquo
&mdashElie Wiesel, Holocaust Survivor Nobel Laureate.
Women and the Holocaust. Courage and Compassion
Holocaust and the United Nations Outreach Programm | Gender Studies
JEWISH WOMEN PERFORMED TRULY HEROIC DEEDS DURING THE HOLOCAUST. They faced unthinkable peril and upheaval -- traditions upended, spouses sent to the death camps, they themselves torn from their roles as caregivers and pushed into the workforce, there to be humiliated and abused. In the face of danger and atrocity, they bravely joined the resistance, smuggled food into the ghettos and made wrenching sacrifices to keep their children alive. Their courage and compassion continue to inspire us to this day&rdquo. BAN KI-MOON, UNITED NATIONS SECRETARY-GENERAL
The Reluctant Terrorist
Harvey A. Schwartz | Fiction
Could a Holocaust take place in America? A prominent Boston civil rights lawyer looks into a not-too-distant future in which Homeland Security justifies actions against a new band of terrorists: Israeli and American Jews who survived a nuclear attack that has destroyed Israel. How would America treat terrorists who are not Muslim, but Jewish, and how would American Jews be likely to react? Download this FREE e-Book today!
Hitler in Central America
Jacobo Schifter | Human Rights
"It was so interesting with the facts and fictions, also I liked this satirical and ironic approach. Even more as a native German I found the book a very unusual apprehension of german-jewish history." A historical novel and a thriller based on a PhD Dissertation from Columbia University. The book reveals dark secrets of Nazi plans in Central America to take over the Panama Canal and the hidden lives of both Nazis and anti Nazis, Americans and Germans who were trapped in love and hate stories. But the book is also a plight for women`s, Jewish and Gay rights.
Manfred Mitze | Fiction
Walter Herzog was born in a small town outside of Frankfurt to an emotionally detached mother and a Nazi-sympathizing stepfather at the tail end of World War II. Teenage Walter and his pals come to school drunk and oversexed eventually, they skip classes altogether to make out with girls and earn drinking money. Over the years, restless Walter finds himself loving numerous women. He gets drafted into the German military and relinquishes his service by claiming pacifism. Later, he discovers marijuana and finally settles with a beautiful girl, Hilde. But a stable relationship isn&rsquot enough to stave off Walter&rsquos mounting depression and intense desire to find meaning. When he and a friend visit the United States in the late 1960s, he falls in love with an unlikely place&mdashOklahoma City.
Aileen Friedman | Romance
Peggy, Audrey, Dorothy, and Maisy Four young ladies, four young friends studying Physics at University get recruited to join the Special Signal Services to serve their country as Radar Operators. At twenty years old they embark on exciting, sad and nervous times during World War II. They fall in love, they dance, they get challenged in many ways, but mostly they are bonded together by a tight camaraderie with the other officers serving at the Silversands and Hangklip Radar Stations. The story begins when Audrey, Dorothy, and Maisy sit under a Weeping Willow tree in a park opposite the cemetery. They fondly remember Peggy, their precious lifelong friend of sixty-two years. Their grandchildren, are sent to look for them but instead of taking them home they sit on the luscious grass under the Weeping Willow tree and get transported back in time as Audrey tells them one of the greatest love stories of all time. Audrey tells them the love story of Lt. Harvey Newsome and Sgt. Peggy Hatcher. But it is so much more than a love story between two people. It is a story of faith, hope, happiness, tragedy and immense despair. It is a story of a group of people that depend on God to bring them through trying times and to remain faithful when it seems impossible.
To Eat the World
Everyone must die during dessert. Can Sophie save New York and the world? In the dying days of World War Two, Nazi rocket scientists were spirited to America to give the United States a strategic edge in the atomic arms race. Some of the Nazis built a secret empire in New York, founded on looted art and gold. Fast forward to today. Emboldened by the rise of right-wingers and the broken economy, the Nazis plan to take over the Presidency, destroy Wall Street and enslave the world. Launching their coup at a King Louis XVI-themed art banquet. Sophie, a Manhattan chef, is asked to cook for the President at the feast. Her ex-lover, art expert Jacob, will be served as the main course. A sexy, thrilling tale of great food, classic art and the meaning of beauty, love and life.
Wartime Statutes: Instruments of Soviet Control
Central Intelligence Agency | History (Academic)
Soviet military planning for conflict in Europe after World War II from the outset harnessed East European military capabilities to Soviet military purposes and assumed operational subordination of East European military formations to higher-level Soviet commands.8
Why the Actions of Vichy France Were Helpful to the ALLIED Cause During World War II
Tommy Coleman | History (Academic)
This thesis explores how the initial defeat of the French army in June 1940 would eventually allow the Vichy French time to aid the Allies in the defeat of Germany. Subsequent request by Marshal Pétain for an armistice with Nazi Germany was followed by a collaboration with the Nazi regime with the attempt to maintain some degree of French National Sovereignty.
German women and the holocaust
Judith.O.Purver | Gender Studies
At the core of the murder of six million Jews is the chilling truth that a great number of &ldquoordinary&rdquo German people were implicated in the genocide, whether through active involvement or compliant inaction. The desire to know why so large a number of people contributed to the evil of the Holocaust has led to discussion of the acts of different groups within the German population. However, with regard to the perpetrators and bystanders there has been little or no discussion of the moral responsibility of women.
Resistance during the Holocaust
United States Holocaust Memorial Museum | Sociology
This pamphlet explores examples of armed and unarmed resistance by Jews and other Holocaust victims. Many courageous acts of resistance were carried out in Nazi ghettos and camps and by partisan members of national and political resistance movements across German-occupied Europe. Many individuals and groups in ghettos and camps also engaged in acts of spiritual resistance such as the continuance of religious traditions and the preservation of cultural institutions. Although resistance activities in Nazi Germany were largely ineffective and lacked broad support, some political and religious opposition did emerge.
Mid-East Dilemma & WW-3
Alexander Zielinski | Politics
Part-1 Bible Prophecy: Anti-Christ, WW-3, &lsquoJesus Christ&rsquos&rsquo return. Part-2 Involved Nation&rsquos and Leader&rsquos: Iran, USA, Israel, ISIS, Russia, Palestine, China, Syria.Part-3 Mid-Easts effect upon Creation, Energy Beings, Astrology Effect, Balancing Energy in this Region, Alien Connection. Part-4 Religion&rsquos Role in the Mid-East, Children are the Key, Pope, Mind-Energy Healing, illuminati, Muhammad.Part-5 Nostradamus Prophecies concerning WW-3, Anti-Christs, &lsquo666&rsquo Mark of the Beast. Part-6 Nuclear Weapons, One World Government, Jewish Holocaust, United Nations, Energy Beings Influence, Media Downfall, World Trade Organization. Part-7 Terrorism: 9/11 (Twin Towers, Pentagon) attacks.
High Cotton (a slave's tale) MAAFA, THE AFRICAN HOLOCAUST AND THE SURVIVAL OF A TWELVE YEAR OLD BOY. "Riveting tale of a twelve year old boy kidnapped and sold to Dutch slave traders and his strength, and determination to be free." Kidnapped from his home, along with his brother, sold into slavery, Manni was determined to not only survive, but to overcome the torture and atrocities heaped upon him and his people by the ruthless Yoruba Warriors, then the Dutch slave traders. Somehow, in someway Manni touched the heartstrings of a rough, tough, barbaric ship's captain. But then, he was given over to the humiliation of the slave auction, purchased by a Plantation owner, where he spent the next eight years in servitude to his master. Civil war, southern defeat, emancipation, and he suddenly found himself to be free. He left the plantation and returned to the only other life he knew, the sailing ship, the Albatross.
Women’s Experiences During the Holocaust
Rochelle G. Saidel | Academic Articles
In 1999, for the first time in twenty-nine years of conferences, the Annual Scholars&rsquo Conference on the Holocaust and the Churches presented a plenary on women and the Holocaust. As co-chairs of this plenary, Dr. Myrna Goldenberg and I decided to feature recent scholarly books on the subject and to entitle the session &ldquoWomen&rsquos Holocaust History: Books in Print.&rdquo The occasion was historic beyond the fact that the subject was deemed important enough for a plenary, because, by early 1999, a core of &ldquobooks in print&rdquo had made possible a session with such a title.
A Philosopher in the Kitchen
The fifth-best meal I have ever sat down to was at a sort of farmhouse-inn that is neither farm nor inn, in the region of New York City. The fourth-best was at the same place—on a winter evening when the Eiswein afterward was good by the fire and the snow had not stopped falling for the day. The third-best meal I’ve ever had was centered upon some smoked whiting and pale mustard sauce followed by a saltimbocca, at the same place, on a night when the air of summer was oppressive with humidity but the interior of the old building was cool and musty under a slowly turning paddle fan. When things come up so well, culinary superlatives are hard to resist, and the best and second-best meals I have ever had anywhere (including the starry citadels of rural and metropolitan France) were also under that roof—emanations of flavor expressed in pork and coriander, hazelnut breadings, smoked-roe mousses, and aïoli. The list of occasions could go deeper, and if it were complete enough it might number twenty or thirty before the scene would shift—perhaps to the fields of Les Baux or the streets of Lyons. The cook who has been responsible for such pleasure on this side of the Atlantic was trained on the other side, in kitchens in various places on the Continent, notably in Switzerland, and including Spain, where he grew up in a lavish and celebrated Andalusian hotel that was managed by his father. His father was Austrian, but his mother was English, and so, from the age of eight, he was sent to be educated in Great Britain. As a result, he is in manner, speech, and appearance irremediably English. He has an Oxbridge accent and a Debrettian flourish of names—not one of which he will allow me to divulge. His customers tend to become his friends, and I had been a friend of his for something like five years before I thought to ask him if I could sit in his kitchen and take notes. He said it would be all right, but with the condition that I not—in any piece of writing—use the name of the restaurant, or his name, or the nickname of his wife, Anne, who is not known as Anne and is always called by her nickname. We further agreed that I would not even mention the state in which they live and work, or describe in much detail the land and waterscapes around them, let alone record what is written over the door of the nearest post office, which is, as it happens, more than five miles and less than a hundred from the triangle formed by La Grenouille, Lutèce, and Le Cygne.
The man’s right knee is callused from kneeling before his stove. He would like to see his work described. He would like to be known for what he does, but in this time, in this country, his position is awkward, for he prefers being a person to becoming a personality his wish to be acknowledged is exceeded by his wish not to be celebrated, and he could savor recognition only if he could have it without publicity. He works alone, with Anne (who makes desserts and serves as hostess, bartender, sommelière). In a great restaurant of Europe, the team in the kitchen will be led by the gros bonnet, and under him a saucier, an entremettier, a potagiste, a rôtisseur, a grillardin, a friturier, a garde-manger, and any number of commis running around with important missions, urgent things to do. Here—with Anne excepted, as la pátissière-en-chef—this one man is in himself the entire brigade de cuisine. It is his nature not just to prefer but to need to work alone, and he knows that if his property were invaded and his doors were crowded up with people who had read of him in some enamelled magazine he could not properly feed them all. “There is no way to get qualified help,” he explains. “You’d have to import kids from Switzerland. If you did, you’d lose control. The quality would go down the drain.” In the haute cuisine restaurants of New York, kitchens are often small, and, typically, “five ill-educated people will be working there under extreme pressure, and they don’t get along,” he says. “Working alone, you don’t have interaction with other people. This is a form of luxury.”
Sometimes, at the height of an evening there are two customers in his dining room. His capacity is fifty-five, and he draws that number from time to time, but more often he will cook for less than forty. His work is never static. Shopping locally to see what is available today, reading, testing, adding to or subtracting from a basic repertory of roughly six hundred appetizers and entrées, he waits until three in the afternoon to write out what he will offer at night—three because he needs a little time to run to the store for whatever he may have forgotten. He has never stuffed a mushroom the same way twice. Like a pot-au-feu, his salad dressing alters slightly from day to day. There is a couple who have routinely come to his dining room twice a week for many years—they have spent more than fifteen thousand dollars there—and in all that time he has never failed to have on his menu at least one dish they have not been offered before. “I don’t know if they’re aware of this,” he has told me. “We owe it to them, because of the frequency of their visits. They keep us on our toes.”
In the evening, when his dining room is filling and he is busy in the rhythm of his work, he will (apparently unconsciously) say aloud over the food, and repeat, the names of the people for whom he is cooking. A bridge-toll collector. A plumber. A city school-teacher. A state senator—who comes from another state. With light-edged contempt, he refers to his neighborhood as Daily News country. There are two or three mobsters among his clientele. They are fat, he reports, and they order their vegetables “family style.” There is a couple who regularly drive a hundred and twenty miles for dinner and drive home again the same night. There is a nurse from Bellevue who goes berserk in the presence of Anne’s meringue tortes and ultra-chocolate steamed mousse cakes, orders every dessert available, and has to be carted back to Bellevue. There is an international tennis star who parks his car so close against the front door that everyone else has to sidle around it. Inside, only the proprietors seem to know who the tennis star is. The center of attention, and the subject of a good deal of table talk, is the unseen man in the kitchen.
“Usually when you go out to dinner, the social event revolves around the people you are eating with and not the people who prepared the food. Soon after we started going there, he appeared by our table and wanted to know how something was—a shrimp al pesto he was trying for the first time. We have been there about once a month for nine years and he has never disappointed us.”
“He’s better than any restaurant I’ve eaten in in New York.”
“He’s a shy, compulsive, neurotic artist.”
“He could never expand. He is a legitimate perfectionist who would find anyone else’s work inferior to his own. No one would meet his standards. He doesn’t meet his standards. Sometimes when I try to compliment him he refuses the compliment.”
“I see him as one of the last of the great individualists, very happy in his kitchen, with his illegal plants out back. If he were to become prominent, his individualism would be damaged, and he knows that.”
In part, the philosophy of this kitchen rests on deep resources of eggs, cream, and butter, shinbone marrow, boiled pig skins, and polysaturated pâtés of rich country meat. “Deny yourself nothing!” is the motto of one of the regulars of the dining room, who is trim and fit and—although he is executive vice-president in charge of public information at one of the modern giants of the so-called media—regards his relationship with the chef as a deep and sacred secret. “The place is not chic,” he goes on. “It is no Southampton-type oasis. The people there are nondescript. In fact, that place is the only realizable fantasy I have ever had. The fantasy is that there exists a small restaurant in the sticks, with marvellous food, run by civilized, funny, delightful people who have read every book and seen every movie and become your good friends—and almost no one else knows about them. I used to fantasize such people. Now I know them. They exist. And the last thing in the world they would want is fame that is associated with hype and overpublicity. They are educated, sensitive, intelligent. Their art is what comes out of the kitchen. I’m sure he wants his work appreciated, but he doesn’t want visitors coming to his hideaway for purposes of seeing the freak—the guy out in the woods who is making three-star meals. He would like to be appreciated for the right reasons—like an author who wants to be writing instead of going on TV talk shows. He is delighted when someone finds him, but wary, too. I think one proof of his sincerity is that he could raise his prices but he doesn’t. He could advertise, but he doesn’t. Somehow, that would be making too much of a commercial venture out of his work. It is inconceivable to imagine how his business could be run to make less money.”
The chef is an athletically proportioned man of middle height—a swimmer, a spear fisherman. One day when he was thirteen he was picking apples in a tree between North Oxford and St. Giles and he fell out of the tree onto a bamboo garden stake. It impaled his cheek at the left corner of his mouth. His good looks are enhanced, if anything, by the scar that remains from this accident. He has dark hair, quick brown eyes, and a swiftly rising laugh. Anne is tall, finely featured, attractive, and blond. Each has eaten a little too well, but neither is falling-down fat. They work too hard. She works in a long ponytail, a cotton plaid shirt, unfaded dungarees, he in old shirts with the sleeves rolled up, rips and holes across the chest. His trousers are generally worn through at the knees. There are patches, sutures of heavy thread. His Herman boots are old and furred and breaking down. He pulls out a handkerchief and it is full of holes. “I don’t mind spending money on something that is going to be eventually refundable,” he explains. “A house, for example. But not a handkerchief.” Most of the time, he cooks under a blue terry-cloth sailor hat, the brim of which is drawn down, like his hair, over his ears.
He was working with a Fulton Market octopus one morning, removing its beak, when he happened to remark on his affection for the name Otto.
“I like Otto,” he said. “I think Otto is a sensational name. It’s a name you would have to live up to, a challenging name. It suggests aloneness. It suggests bullheaded, Prussian, inflexible pomposity. Someone called Otto would be at least slightly pompous. Intolerant. Impatient. Otto.”
Anne said, “He has written his autobiography in that name.”
“I like Otto,” he said again. “Why don’t you call me Otto?”
I said, “Fine, Otto. I’ll call you Otto.”
Otto stepped outdoors, where he set the unbeaked octopus on a wide wooden plank. “Otto,” he repeated, with savor. And he picked up an apple bough, a heavy stick about as long as his arm, and began to club the flesh of the octopus. “Otto,” he said again, moving from one tentacle to the next. “I like that very much.” Smash. “You do this to break down the fibres.” Steadily, he pounded on. In time, he said, “Max is a good name, too—a sort of no-nonsense, straightforward name. Otto sounds humorless, and I don’t think I’m humorless.”
“Fine, Max. I’ll call you Max.”
“I like the way Max looks,” he said. “It looks wonderful written on paper. You have the imagery of ‘maximum,’ too. And all the Maximilians.” He struck the octopus another blow with the apple bough. “However,” he went on, “I prefer Otto. Otto is autocratic. One word leads to another.”
He carried the octopus inside. He said he has a cousin in the Florida Keys who puts octopuses in his driveway and then drives over them. “It’s just to break down the fibres. I don’t know what happens. I just know that it works.” He went into the restaurant bar and took down from a wall an August Sander photograph of an anonymous German chef, a heavy man in a white coat of laboratory length over pin-striped trousers and highly polished shoes. The subject’s ears were small, the head a large and almost perfect sphere. On the upper lip, an aggressive mustache was concentrated like a grenade. The man was almost browless, his neck was too thick to permit a double chin, and his tiny black eyes—perhaps by the impertinence of the photographer—were opened wide. In his hammy hands were a bowl and a wooden-handled whip. “This pig-faced guy is a real Otto,” said the chef. “When our customers ask who that is in the picture we say he is our founder.”
As we returned to the kitchen, I thought about the chef’s actual name, which, like the man’s demeanor, like the man himself in nearly all his moods, is gentle and unaggressive—an all but dulcet name, ameliorative and smooth, a name like Randal or Malcolm or Neal or Duncan or Hugh or Alan or John. For all that, if he wished to call himself Otto, Otto he would be.
Anne said, “He is less pompous than when I met him.”
“Never let it boil,” said Otto, lowering the octopus in to a pot. “It mustn’t boil. It should just simmer.”
Nine o’clock in a spring morning and with a big square-headed mallet he is pounding a loin of pork. He has been up for three hours and has made school lunches for the two of his children who are still at home, boned some chicken, peeled potatoes, peeled onions, chopped shallots, shucked mussels, made coffee, swept the kitchen, made stock with the head of a twenty-pound grouper, and emptied outside a pail of scraps for the geese. His way of making coffee is to line a colander with a linen napkin and drip the coffee through the napkin. He ate a breakfast of leftovers—gâteau Saint-Honoré, Nesselrode cream-rum-chestnut mousse. He said, “I always eat dessert for breakfast. That’s the only time I like it. For the rest of the day, if I’m working, I don’t eat. It’s wonderful not to eat if you’re in a hurry. It speeds you up.”
Anne works late and sleeps late. Otto goes to bed when his cooking is done and is up, much of the year, before dawn. Even at 6 A.M., he is so pressed with things to do that he often feels there is no time to shave. Into the school lunches today went small pork cutlets. He said, “I really don’t believe in letting children eat the food served at school. Hot dogs. Baloney. Filth like that.” His children carry roast chicken, veal, various forms of fish instead. At home, at the inn, they cook their own meals and eat more or less at random. The family business being what it is, the family almost never sits down at a table together. Sometimes the children, with friends, have dinner in the restaurant. Otto says, “They dress as if they’re going to a disco, contemptibly wearing their collars outside their jackets, which is worse than wearing a blazer patch.” He charges them half price.
The pork loin flattens, becomes like a crêpe. He dips the mallet in water. “All the cookbooks tell you to pound meat between pieces of waxed paper,” he remarks. “And that is sheer nonsense.” He is preparing a dish he recently invented, involving a mutation of a favored marinade. Long ago he learned to soak boned chicken breasts in yogurt and lemon juice with green peppercorns, salt, garlic, and the seeds and leaves of coriander, all of which led to a flavor so appealing to him that what he calls chicken coriander settled deep into his repertory. In a general way, he has what he describes as “a predilection for stuffing, for things with surprises inside,” and so, eventually, he found himself wondering, “Maybe you could translate a marinade into a stuffing. You could pound a pork loin thin and fold it like an envelope over a mixture of cream cheese, fresh coriander leaves, lemon juice, and green peppercorns. Then you’d chill it, and set it, and later bread it. Sauté it a bit, then bake it. It should have a beguiling taste.”
Picking up a knife now, he extends his fingers beyond the handle to pinch the blade. He rocks his wrist, and condenses a pile of parsley. There are calluses on his fingers where they pinch the blade. “The great thing is the mise en place,” he says. “You get your things together. You get ready to cook. You chop your parsley, peel your onions, do shallots, make the hollandaise, make demi-glace sauce, and so forth.” He does most of this in the center of the room, a step from the stove, at a long, narrow table that sags like a hammock. He works on two slabs of butcher block, and around them accumulate small tubs, bowls, and jars full of herbs and herb butters, stocks and sauces, grated cheeses. A bottle of applejack stands nearby for use in pâtés, and a No. 10 can full of kosher salt, which he dips into all day and tosses about by hand. Everything he measures he measures only with his eyes. How does he know how much to use? “I just know what is going to make things taste good,” he says.
“Even with garlic, for example?”
“In garlicky dishes, you can hardly use too much—as long as you don’t burn it.” He nibbles some parsley, wipes the block. On his shoulder is a hand towel, and with it he polishes his working surfaces as if he were polishing cars. He wipes the edge of the stove. He wipes the lips of pots. After he sautés something, he wipes out the interior of the pan. All day long the cloth keeps coming off the shoulder—or out of a rear pocket when it has migrated there—and as it grows foul it is frequently replaced. Like a quarterback, a golfer, a dentist, he would be unnerved without his towel.
When he finishes a patch of work—stops pounding loin of pork, completes a forcemeat for quenelles—he neatly puts the product away. Moving on to some new material, he carries it to a working surface, and cuts or separates or pours out just what he needs, and then returns the matrix—to the refrigerator, or wherever it came from—before he begins the new preparation. If he did not do this, he would risk chaos. His day will grow in frenzy and may eventually come a bit unstuck, but even in the whirl of the height of the evening he never fails to replace a source before he works on the substance.
He has a Vulcan gas stove with two ovens, a broiler, and six burners. Every time he turns it on he has to use a match. He keeps matches in a McDonald’s French-fry packet nailed to a post. He saves the wooden sticks to use again as tapers. “We’re really cheap,” he confesses. “We wash our Reynolds Wrap and use it again.”
His evolving salad dressing is stored in whiskey bottles and is topped up a few times a week with oil, egg yolk, wine, tarragon, marjoram, chervil, salt, pepper, chives, garlic, parsley, onions, scallion tops, vinegar, mustard seed—and almost anything but sugar. The thought of sugar in salad dressing disgusts him, although he knows it will sell salad dressing. He blends in some lightly boiled potatoes. They homogenize the dressing, he says, emulsify it, hold it together.
There is no top on the blender. Otto and Anne cover it with their hands—sometimes with a napkin. The blender is old and bandaged with tape. They have a KitchenAid mixer. “It’s the worst-engineered thing I’ve ever seen. It spits ingredients into the air.” To facilitate their preparations they have no other appliances. There is not even an electric dishwasher, just a three-tub stainless deep sink where Anne washes dishes in the dead of night, except on weekends, when a high-school student comes in to help. Three plugs stop the sink. A sign on the wall above says, “HANG PLUGS HERE. THIS IS A PROPHYLAXIS AGAINST DEMENTIA NERVOSA. PLEASE!” No rotisserie. No microwave. No Cuisinart in any form. “We’re not anti-technology. We’re just anti-junk,” said Otto one morning. “There’s no reason to be anti all ‘labor-saving’ things—just from sheer perversity to be against them—but, as it happens, there is nothing a Cuisinart can do that I can’t do as quickly. And after using a Cuisinart I would have to clean it. Steak tartare cut with a knife has a better texture than it does if it comes out of a Cuisinart. The Germans call it Schabefleisch. For that matter, it is easier to cut hamburger meat than to make it in any kind of machine. If you grind it, you then have to clean the grinder.” I asked him to make me a hamburger. He removed from the refrigerator the hundredth part of a ton of beef, sliced off a portion, put the rest of the meat back in the cooler, and returned to his working block, where his wrist began to flutter heavily, and in thirty seconds he had disassembled the chunk of beef and rearranged it as an oval patty. He ate some of the meat as he worked. Fast as it all happened, the cutting was done in three phases. He began with a one-handed rocking motion, and then held down the point of the knife with his left hand while pumping the handle with his right. He ended with a chopping motion, as if the knife were a hatchet. As he made the patty, he did not compact it crudely in his hands like a snowball. He tapped it together with the flat of the knife. The knife was Swiss (hachoir size), the blade vanadium stainless steel. “It’s a lot of bull not to use stainless,” he said. “If you know how to sharpen a knife, you can sharpen a stainless knife. You can’t use a carbon knife to cut anything that has acid in it. If you cut anything acid with a carbon knife, it develops big black splotches. The splotches flavor the food.” From under the stove he pulled a damaged iron skillet. Something that looked like a large bite was missing from the rim. He cooked the hamburger, turning it, touching it, turning it again and again, using the knife as a spatula. One morning he made fresh pork sausage for me the same way—mixing into the patty the salt, thyme, pepper, and coriander that are the essences of the flavor of sausage. The awakening aroma was vigorous and new. He tasted the raw pork as he went along. He said sausagemakers do that routinely. He observed that if one does need to make use of a meat grinder it is a good idea to put chunks of the meat into a freezer for twenty minutes beforehand. This in some way—he has no idea why—greatly reduces the stringiness that will often clog a grinder.
The kitchen has the dimensions of a fair-sized living room, and the refrigerator is a multi-doored affair that fills one end from wall to wall. The kitchen at a New York frog pond would not be half as large. (A frog pond, in Otto’s vernacular, is any French restaurant, but particularly the finest and Frenchest of the supraduodenal boutiques.) Otto much admires André Soltner, chef of Lutèce, for removing (after he took over the ownership of the restaurant) some of his dining space in order to expand the kitchen. In Otto’s kitchen, there is room for an old brass-studded leather Spanish chair. There is a television set, a big Grundig Majestic radio. On spacious high shelves are the chef’s unending agents of flavor—his angelica seeds, his sorrel jam, his twenty-seven-dollar pelures de truffes, his valerian root, his Ann Page filberts, his Sun-Maid currants, and a thousand other things. Holding a deep, half-filled pan below my nose, he says, “This is rendered beef fat. We render all our pork and beef fat. It is extraordinarily unhealthy, but smell it. It smells of roast beef. Cooked in this, French-fried potatoes taste nutty and have a thick crust. The Belgians do all their frites like that. You can burn yourself badly, of course. I wouldn’t want a large deep-fat fryer here. I’m too accident-prone. I burn myself all the time. The awful thing about burning is that you always burn yourself on a useful part of the hand.” On a windowsill in the kitchen he grows Aloe vera, and tends it with affection, a handsome plant with its lanceolate, serrate, basal leaves. When he burns himself, he takes a leaf of aloe and slices it from the side, as if he were filleting a sman green fish. He presses the leaf’s interior against the burn, and holds it there with a bandage. “That takes the burn right away.”
Outside, in his kitchen garden, Otto grows asparagus, eggplant, chili peppers, bell peppers, tomatoes, cucumbers, potatoes, spinach, zucchini, and chard. He also grows chervil, fennel, parsley, horseradish, basil, chives, marjoram, arugula, and tarragon, among other herbs. He freezes his herbs, he dries his herbs, and he aspirates the “h.” He knows how to pronounce “Hertford” “Hereford” “Hampshire” and “herbs.” He went to school in Oxford. Chervil, he says, is as potent to smoke as marijuana. “Black agaric is growing by the house, but I have not yet plucked up the courage to eat it. I grow my own garlic because the aroma is so much stronger when fresh. Garlic, fresh, throws a long cast through the kitchen.”
The garden is not much affected by the shade of a condemned elm, where morels grow. Seashells in deep profusion—clam shells, oyster shells, conch shells, mussel shells—make tabby of the surrounding ground. Hold a conch to your ear. You can almost hear the sea. There are dogwoods, maples, white and Scotch pines, junipers, and dying apple trees beside the long drive that leads to the front door. The building is tall and proportional, not offensively ungainly, three stories, white, with many windows and a red tin roof. It glows at night at the end of its lane, and in daylight stands aloof in a field of tall grass, which is silvery brown after an autumn frost—fox grass. The place was a commune once, a boarding house, a summer hotel. There were two red barns. The communists burned up one for firewood. Otto’s geese nest in the other. When Otto and I went in there once, he said, “It’s a myth that geese are so dangerous. They don’t bite hard.” Wanting to show me some eggs in an embankment of down, he shoved aside a nesting goose. She struck, ineffectively, at the tough skin of his hand. I thought I’d like to see what that felt like, so I extended a hand of my own toward the head of the goose. She struck and struck again. She savaged my hand. She raised a pulpy red welt. Otto’s geese patrol the grounds. Sixteen of them march up and down the driveway. “Geese once protected the Roman capitol,” he says. “If something alarms these, they will make a commotion. But not during working hours.” He used to kill and serve his domestic geese, but the flock has grown too old. He raised ducks and chickens, too. “Eating grubs and insects, the odd bit of corn, they tasted infinitely better.” But he gave that up in surrender to the pressures on his time. He cautions you to beware the dog. Oh, no, not Zulu—not the shaggy black fun-loving Tibetan mastiff. Beware Fofa, the bitter little brown-and-white spaniel with beagley undertones—Fofa, half cocked, with the soprano bark and the heavy bite.
Behind the inn are a can-and-bottle dump, rusting fragments of dead machinery, lengths of snow fencing, an automobile radiator, used lumber, two iron bathtubs, three mattresses, a rubble of used cinder blocks. There is little time to tidy what the dark paints out. The chef, who is not always ebullient, does not seem to care much anyway. “One of my great disadvantages is that I grew up in Spain in a luxury hotel with lots of servants,” he will say. “I’ll never be able to live as well as that, no matter how much money I make. It sort of crushes one’s ambitions.” He lives where sewer lines run up against winter wheatland and arms of forest interrupt the march of towns. There are heavy concentrations of wild deer. A man up the road sells mutton to hunters to take home as venison. On Otto’s property, a clear stream flows into a good-sized pond. Water falls over its dam. He makes quenelles sometimes with pickerel from the pond. He makes quenelles, too, with whiting and other ocean fish and with a combination of shrimp and veal. “The veal binds them together and makes them very fluffy. My quenelles are much better than any quenelles you actually get anywhere. I don’t know why. My quenelles have spring.” To drink the pond or to share with the geese the scraps of Otto’s profession, raccoons appear, and skunks, opossums—every creature of the woods, including one whose name would blow all this away. Otto will kill such creatures only to eat them. He has a Havahart trap in which he catches skunks. He takes the trap down the road to where some “perfectly contemptible” neighbors live, and releases the skunks there. He and Anne pick blueberries and wild grapes. They gather dandelions for salads, and blackberries for cobblers and pies. He has cooked, and served to customers, stinging nettles and the fiddleheads of ferns. He gathers sheep sorrel for soups and salads. He once served creamed cardoons. In a lake not far away, he dives for crayfish, collecting them from under boulders and ledges. “The sauces you can make with their heads are unbelievable.” He has shot and served rabbits and squirrels (Brunswick stew). He shot a raccoon and attempted a sort of coon au vin but considered the dish a failure. Sometimes there are wood ducks and wild geese in the pond. Over the land at dusk, woodcocks swoop and plummet, sometimes into the oven. Otto eats thrushes and blackbirds (“Delicious”) but does not serve them. He would like to raise and serve kid, but he could not bring himself to kill one. He feels it would be “like killing a kitten.” And, for all his youth in Spanish kitchens, he says he could not bring himself to take the life of a suckling pig. When, however, the odd pheasant happens through his fields of grass, he is not the least bit reluctant to go through the steps necessary to roast it for twenty minutes and then flame it with cognac and put out the fire with madeira. Disjointed, the pheasant next enters a heavy clay crock and is covered over with slices of goose liver and peelings of truffle. “Then I nap it with a fairly strong game gravy, really a demi-glace of game, made with rabbits. I hang them a bit, let them get a little high.” He adds more sliced goose liver and truffles then he covers the crock with its heavy lid and glues it down tight with a dough of egg white, water, and flour. He sets the pot in a bain-marie, and puts the whole rig into a very hot oven—for less than half an hour. The contents are ready when the dough turns brown. Pheasant Souvaroff. It was in the “Spezialrezepte der Französische Küche,” one of his textbooks when he was in Basel.
Otto routinely dusts meat with white pepper “to lock in the freshness.” Its taste seems unaffected. “It loses nothing,” he says. “Bacteria don’t like to eat their way through pepper any more than you would.” Since he told me that, I have gone off on canoe trips with the meat in my pack basket dusted with pepper. The meat lasts for days. Otto doesn’t camp. He once came down with pneumonia after sleeping a night on the ground.
When he makes béarnaise, he uses green peppercorns, preferring the stronger taste. When he makes bordelaise, he uses pork rinds, boiled until tender, in preference to marrow. He does almost everything, as he phrases it, “à ma façon.” As a result of a tale often told by English friends of his parents, he is a particular admirer of a parvenu member of the peerage whose eccentric and umbrageous reputation had caused his applications to be rejected by any number of London and provincial clubs. At the helm of a yacht, he appeared one year at the Royal Regatta flying a pennant lettered “MOBYC,” which, he was by no means reluctant to explain, was the simple heraldry of My Own Bloody Yacht Club. “I do things MOBW—my own bloody way,” says Otto. “I should write that—or ‘à ma façon’—on the menu after every dish.”
The unfortunate peer. He may never have tasted English marrowbones roasted after being sealed with flour. “A very clubby thing they are, marrowbones, done that way,” says Otto. “The ends are closed hermetically, with dough. When the bone is roasted, you remove the crust and eat the marrow with a spoon. They serve that at the best clubs—of which I also am not a member.”
In his affection for marrowbones, he collects veal shanks—slowly, one at a time as they arrest his eye—and they pile up like cordwood in the freezer for about three months. He pan-fries them in butter and olive oil. He sautés his bouquet garni. He then braises the lot in stock, tomato purée, herbs, and wine. And when he has the sauce in place and the bones on plates and ready to serve, he dusts them with fine-chopped lemon peel, parsley, and garlic. “It’s called gremolata,” he says, “and that is what makes the osso bucco explode.” Not absolutely everything is, or needs to be, à ma façon. That one, unaltered, is from the “Joy of Cooking.”
In a roasting pan with hickory chips he is smoking shad roe. He will make a shad-roe mousse. “But it’s not really a mousse. It’s more like a butter. A form of pâté.” He is struggling to name it because he has not made it before. He buys his hickory chips at the sporting goods store—three dollars a pound—if he is pressed. He knows a carpenter, some distance away, who gives them to him for nothing. He smokes shrimp, trout, turkey breasts, and whiting, and turns pork loin into Canadian bacon. After twenty minutes with the chips, seven fresh rainbow trout will come out of the pan at what he considers acceptable (and I find remarkable) levels of taste and texture. He prefers the trout he smokes outside. He has a semi-dugout igloo made of earth and block, full of tunnels and traps, in which he cold-smokes trout for twenty-four hours. The wood is from his dying apple trees. He gets up to tend the smoker two or three times in the night. The principal difference between the twenty minutes inside and the twenty-four hours outside is that the resulting flesh is not opaque, it is translucent. When he smokes salmon out there, it takes thirty-six hours. He sometimes gives his Saturday-night ducks a little outdoor smoke before he roasts them in the oven. “If I ever perfect cold-smoking,” he says, “I’m going to smoke swordfish. It is fantastic. It turns pink, like a rose.”
He rocks a knife through some scallions, hauls a grouper out of storage and begins to reduce it to fillets. He eats some scallions and, slipping a hand into the refrigerator, pops a couple of shrimp and two or three fresh scallops. “Fresh scallops stink like boiling cabbage for a while,” he remarks. “These no longer stink. They breathe. They freshen themselves and come clean. Here are some I put away last night in lime juice with pepper flakes and red onion. Try one. Beautiful, isn’t it? Seviche. I just make stuff and keep making stuff through the day until I’ve got enough. Then I sit down and write it out.”
Anne enters the room, her first appearance of the morning—hunting shirt, dungarees, long hair akimbo. “Every spring I go mad. I am subject to the same swirling forces that pull the crocuses out of the ground,” she reveals. “It is because I retain fluids.”
Her husband seems to agree. He says, “She is subject to the same forces that govern the tides.” The forces have spread her hair to form a spectacular golden afro, beaming outward from a physiognomic sun. She removes Otto’s hat. It has become too grubby for her to look at in this part of the morning. He makes no struggle, but he is not completely assembled without his terry-cloth hat. He never eats aspirin. If he has a headache, he fills a plastic Baggie with ice, places it on his head, and pulls down around his temples the brim of his terry-cloth hat. Anne has much to do. She will make a mocha meringue. Then a gâteau victoire au chocolat. But for the moment she is only holding her head. She says, “I can’t do anything until my head is clear.”
I ask how long that might be, and she says, “It’s almost clear.”
Anne is Latvian and was six when she left the country. Her American-accented English contains no trace of those six years (that I, at any rate, can discern). Her predominant memories of Riga are of food-wide bowls full of caviar, mountained platters of crayfish, smoked lampreys served under crystal chandeliers at banquets in her home. In an album is a photograph of Anne’s mother all in white satin among sprays of lilies and roses bending attentively toward a hunting-covered drape-folded canopied bassinet—the day of the christening of Anna Rozmarja. Anna Rozmarja Grauds.
Otto sums it up. “They were rich,” he says. “I mean, they were rich rich.”
“When I was a little girl, I was swathed in ermine and mink. I don’t have a need for it now. It’s been done.”
“Her family had flocks of money, many ships. It was one of the First Families of Latvia, which is like being one of the First Families of Scranton.”
“When the Germans took over the house, they allowed us to live on the top floor.”
What’s the Name of That Book?
A Goodreads group with searchable discussion posts and thousands of questions and answers.
3K members — many of whom are librarians or library-adjacent — who help solve book mysteries via threaded discussions.
The Fiction_L listserv
Stumpers! Search archives of past questions, answered by an intense book-ish community, or subscribe and post a new one.
Reddit’s whatsthatbook thread
A nearly endless thread of users trying to help other users remember book titles, including several frequently requested books. Especially good for science fiction and fantasy.
"Stump the Bookseller" blog
A cool indie bookstore in Ohio that maintains extensive, searchable archives — and offers a $4 service for personalized help. Lots of children’s books here.
Big Book Search
If you can only remember what the cover looks like, try this cover-search tool.
Founded in 1984 in Antigua Guatemala by Monika Grave (from Germany) .
Welten Restaurant was founded in 1984 in Antigua Guatemala, fulfilling the long term dream of Monika Grave, a German architect with a passion for food who had fallen in love at first sight with Guatemala.
Traditionally in Antigua at this time, businesses and other establishments were endowed with the Spanish, family names of their proprietors. Monika in turn gave her restaurant her grandmother’s surname “Welten” (also meaning ‘worlds’ in German) thereby both keeping with this tradition and simultaneously alluding to the “international” character of her restaurant’s cuisine.
Since then, Welten has earned an excellent reputation here in Antigua Guatemala not only for our famous dishes, but also the personal attention with which they are served, and magical ambience of the restaurant.
Following the success of the November 2003 Jazz Festival in Antigua, Welten shall once again be presenting live music! For more information, please visit LIVE MUSIC section of our web site.
Reserve your table
We welcome walk-in guests, as well as reservations by phone, e-mail or online booking.
Take Home a Piece of La Tour d’Argent, the Iconic Paris Resto
La Tour d’Argent is one of those mythical Paris places where it’s hard to separate fact from fiction. Legend has it that Henri IV frequented this historic spot, which traces its roots to the 16th century. In fact, it’s said that here he discovered the use of the fork, a utensil imported from Italy. La Tour d’Argent has been captured in books—like Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast—and films like Pixar’s Ratatouille.
From its perch on quai de la Tournelle, La Tour d’Argent has beautiful views of Notre-Dame cathedral. The Michelin-starred restaurant is famous for its elaborate duck dish (prepared with a silver press) and for one of the finest wine cellars in the world, stocked with a whopping 350,000 bottles. During the Nazi German occupation of Paris in WWII, the restaurant went to great lengths to hide its collection… building a fake wall in the cellar. Today this exceptional cellar is overseen by to David Ridgway, the Chef Sommelier since 1981.
David Ridgway in the cellar, courtesy of the Tour d’Argent
And soon this iconic restaurant, what the New York Times calls “a Parisian shrine to the art of fine dining,” will be auctioning off tableware, décor, and even rare spirits… after renovations have left no place for accumulated treasures. The auction will take place on Monday, May 9, 2016 with Artcurial.
La Tour d’Argent has the largest glass collection in the world, with custom glasses made especially to taste the restaurant’s diverse wine offerings. To be auctioned off: over 3,000 pieces of engraved tableware, including the famous silver goblets. There will also be one duck press up for auction, estimated to fetch 4,000 – 6,000€.
Other stand-out items include a screen and tapisserie by Bernard Cathelin, an enormous 16th century carpet, exterior lanterns and two iconic sculptures from the restaurant including a character called ‘le Carnardier’ and another called ‘le Cuisinier Rôtisseur’ (inspired by the figures of Arcimboldo and Larmessin).
Last but note least: 60+ rare spirits and liquors will be auctioned off from the cave, including Eaux de Vie, Cognac, Calvados, Porto, Madeira and Armagnac. To quote Artcurial, “the majority of these were bottled in the cellar itself, something which was forbidden until the 20th century. The stone stairway and hook which was used to lift the barrels can still be seen and are proof of this activity.” The oldest bottle, a Grande Fine Clos du Griffier Cognac dating back to 1788, has an estimated value of 20,000€.
Classified Documents Reveal That Hitler May Have Used A Secret Runway To Escape His Berlin Bunker
You just think of the most tyrannical leaders of all time, and the name which pops up is Hitler! Indeed Adolf Hitler. Immense research and analysis have gone into the various aspects of his life. And definitely there is still a lot, which needs to be found out. So, while there are those who believe that Hitler did commit suicide in Germany on April 30, 1945, there are many more who cannot believe it.
The latter inculcates Former CIA operative Bob Baer and Tim Kennedy. These are the US Special Forces Sergeant. It was them, who were involved in the capture of Osama Bin Laden and Abul al-Zarqawi.
- They have analyzed more than 14,000 unclassified documents.
- A document from British Intelligence claims that Hitler was flown out of the German capital, pursued by Luftwaffe pilot, Captain Peter Baumgart, one day shy of the suicide day.
- The pair could also find an unknown fifth exit from the bunker. This was so large that it could be having turned into a temporary runway.
- Another document which revealed an SS officer had once claimed that he saw Hitler in Denmark. This is attributed to the sometime before he was changing planes to reach the final destination.
- There is also the evidence that in Argentina, there was found a military style compound, where it was probable that Hitler stayed there, after his arrival.
In accordance with Baer, the leader had all the plants to fabricate another empire, which would have been centered on the South American country.
In fact, Baer also pointed out the imperative fact that many Nazis did arrive in Argentina post the Second World War. And yet again, there are proofs that a Nazi physicist was pursuing a test of explosive devices at a nuclear facility.
Then, there is another piece of evidence, which was actually very much present post the time Adolf Hitler and his spouse committed suicide. It was their bodies. The only reminiscent of Hitler, which has been accepted by the historians, is a piece of lower jaw bone. It had been said to be held by the Kremlin.
In consonance with the Russian Army, after the death of the tyrannical leader, the dead body of him and his spouse Braun were wrapped in blankets. They were then, carried to the garden outside the bunker. Then, it was placed in a bomb crater, drenched with petrol and set fire to.
In May, 1945 a Russian forensics team did dug up the place. This is what the team found:-
- A part of the skull was not found- may be due to the suicide shot.
- The piece of jaw did match with his dental records back then.
- He had just one testicle.
The world does not know, that the corpse that was believed to be of Hitler, was buried in Magdeburg, East Germany. However, in the year 1970 KGB dug it up, cremated it and as for the ashes they were scattered in a river.
As Baer has put up, it is only the lower jaw fragments that remains, which can answer some question. However, for the same to be pursued Russia has to release it for forensic studies.
Julia Child’s Pastry Dough (shortcrust pastry) (method #1 : by hand)
- This Post
- Author : FX (François-xavier)
- Category: Recipe
- Posted on: Wednesday August 24, 2016
- Comments : No Comment
- Languages : English | Français
|An essential pastry in French Cuisine, often used for the base of tarts and quiches|
Don't forget to share your photos once you tried this recipe! HERE
About this recipe
A great recipe of French Pastry Dough (Shortcrust pastry), for tarts, savory pies and quiches
Julia Child, we owe you respect
This is a recipe of Julia Child. I have a great respect for Julia, for the dedication to French Cuisine and her huge work to assemble the French recipes and techniques in her book
She acquired her knowledge while living in Paris and studying at the Cordon Bleu de Paris
Julia spent many years in Paris and discovered the French food, and while attending the Cordon Bleu, learned about French cuisine techniques.
When she moved back to the United States, Julia Child published her book "Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Vol.1", a masterpiece that is still a best seller that you still can find nowadays in all bookstores in the states. What an impressive undertaking !
In fact, the book was written with two French ladies, Simone Beck and Louisette Bertholle
These three ladies met in Paris and started an informal school "L'école des trois gourmandes" (The School of the Three Food Lovers). Whenever Julia appeared on television, she kept the same name on a sticker on her chest.
After writing her book, Julia appeared on American television in a series called "The French Chef"
I learned about Julia Child quite late : While living in Pasadena, I followed a couple classes at the Cordon Bleu in Pasadena, and the teachers mentioned Julia and her book (see HERE ). Call it a Coincidence: Julia lived in Pasadena and studied at the Cordon Bleu (but the one in Paris)
I learned about Julia Child quite late : While I was studying classes at the Cordon Bleu in Pasadena, my teachers mentioned Julia and her book. Coincidence: Julia lived in Pasadena and studied at the Cordon Bleu (but that in Paris). Here's a photo of my mug with that house: