Here's a story my friend Em passed my way... it appeared on November 7, 2012 in the British Guardian.co.uk, and was written by Kate Connolly.
It's a film about a true story in which an East German chef who wanted to create Japanese cuisine, and because he couldn't get the official ingredients into the former communist-bloc country, fused together similar ingredients to create his own version of sushi that Germans, and later Japanese tourists flocked to his Suhl restaurant to sample his wares.
How beloved was it? Would you believe a decoration from Japan's royal family?
The article writer presents a fascinating look into the real chef, as well as the film. Personally, I just love that this chef was willing to take such a gamble to present a cuisine very, very few had ever tasted before... a fact that probably played into his being able to 'fool' the customers.
Read on:
It's a film about a true story in which an East German chef who wanted to create Japanese cuisine, and because he couldn't get the official ingredients into the former communist-bloc country, fused together similar ingredients to create his own version of sushi that Germans, and later Japanese tourists flocked to his Suhl restaurant to sample his wares.
How beloved was it? Would you believe a decoration from Japan's royal family?
The article writer presents a fascinating look into the real chef, as well as the film. Personally, I just love that this chef was willing to take such a gamble to present a cuisine very, very few had ever tasted before... a fact that probably played into his being able to 'fool' the customers.
Read on:
Film celebrates East German chef who cooked up Japanese storm in cold war
Having spent a lifetime slaving over meals of sausage, potato dumplings and beef roulade, Rolf Anschütz itched to turn his hand to something more exotic.
But living in 1960s communist East Germany, with the many restrictions imposed by its centrally planned economy, when the chef decided to try Japanese cuisine he found his options were limited. So he experimented with the few ingredients available to him.
Tinned rice pudding was transformed into sushi rice, local carp was dyed to resemble salmon, a local variant of Worcestershire sauce was used instead of soy sauce, and Hungarian tokaj wine was mixed with German corn schnapps and heated, to fool diners into thinking they were drinking sake.Even may bugs fried in batter were brought into play as Anschütz started conjuring Japanese fare in the heart of East Germany.
Before long his East German-style Japanese menu had gained cult status, and his restaurant in Suhl, Thuringia, began attracting diners from not only across the communist state, but also from West Germany and even Japan.
His story has now been turned into a film, which has been attracting large audiences across the country. Sushi in Suhl charts the rise of Anschütz's success, his battles with the authorities, who accused him of "culinary capitalism", the friendships he made with Japanese admirers who supplied him with foodstuffs, and his eventual invitation to visit Japan, where he was decorated by the royal family.
Just under two million diners passed through his restaurant, the Waffenschmied (the Armourer), between 1966 and 1986. Diners had to wait for up to two years to get a table and paid the equivalent of half of a month's rent for the full four- or five-hour Japanese experience, which included a ritual cleansing bath for which guests had to disrobe.
"This was something of a mythical place in the heart of the communist east," said Conny Günther, recalling her one visit to Waffenschmied on New Year's Eve 1985, when the then 25-year old translator and some friends made the four-hour drive from Berlin in a Wartburg car to reach the snowy picture book forest town.
"First we were led by German girls dressed as geishas and had to descend naked into a pool, where we drank champagne, which was where all the fun started. Then in kimonos we started on a 15-course meal in a room full of Japanese decor, during which Anschütz furnished us with anecdotes and stories about Japan.
"It was a truly exotic experience. The flavours, the smells, the music. We were in Japan, not in the largely drab GDR, and didn't even notice the outside world – the curtains were drawn."
The innovative Anschütz sawed the legs off chairs and tables to create an authentic dining space. He turned floral polyester aprons into geisha outfits, procured judo suits from the local sports club and dyed them to make kimonos and used his son's drumsticks as a model for chopsticks that were carved by a carpenter friend.
When Japanese diplomats and business people got to hear of his venture, it opened up a supply chain that allowed the genuine ingredients such as wasabi, soya sauce, ginger and salmon to be delivered from Japan.
The East German authorities, while initially nervous of the connections he had nurtured with one of the world's biggest capitalist powers, soon encouraged the venture, as a way to boost bilateral relations between the two countries.
"At some point the restaurant was so famous the organisation responsible for state retail had little choice but to tolerate it. It was seen as being in the state's interest to do so, even though they would have liked to have more control over my father," said Anschütz's son Jörg, who worked as a waiter in the restaurant, where, he recalled, everyone was treated equally, from the "charlady to the professor".
But the fall of the Berlin Wall led to the demise of Anschütz's dream. Its popularity had had much to do with its exclusivity, but once the world opened to East Germans, the town of Suhl and Anschütz's restaurant were largely forgotten.
"Suddenly we had access to a whole world of exotica. I went to the Philippines and India and completely forgot about Suhl, until the film came out, and all the memories of that happy time came flooding back," said Günther. "What strikes me most looking back is the fact that we had so much time to sit and celebrate together, with nothing like the pressures of today, and it was somewhere that ordinary people had access to, not just the high-ranking communist officials."
The film's success has ignited a wave of nostalgia for the restaurant, spawning a Facebook page where former diners have posted their photographs and memories and "Rolf Anschütz" walking tours of Suhl by kimono-clad guides. A blue plaque was recently erected on the site where the now derelict restaurant stands.
"At the end he was very lonely and afraid that having once been so loved he'd now be forgotten," said Sushi in Suhl's producer, Carl Schmitt, who interviewed Anschütz at length before his death in 2008. "He was deeply saddened by the thought that his novelty Japanese theme park had become obsolete."
But living in 1960s communist East Germany, with the many restrictions imposed by its centrally planned economy, when the chef decided to try Japanese cuisine he found his options were limited. So he experimented with the few ingredients available to him.
Tinned rice pudding was transformed into sushi rice, local carp was dyed to resemble salmon, a local variant of Worcestershire sauce was used instead of soy sauce, and Hungarian tokaj wine was mixed with German corn schnapps and heated, to fool diners into thinking they were drinking sake.Even may bugs fried in batter were brought into play as Anschütz started conjuring Japanese fare in the heart of East Germany.
Before long his East German-style Japanese menu had gained cult status, and his restaurant in Suhl, Thuringia, began attracting diners from not only across the communist state, but also from West Germany and even Japan.
His story has now been turned into a film, which has been attracting large audiences across the country. Sushi in Suhl charts the rise of Anschütz's success, his battles with the authorities, who accused him of "culinary capitalism", the friendships he made with Japanese admirers who supplied him with foodstuffs, and his eventual invitation to visit Japan, where he was decorated by the royal family.
Just under two million diners passed through his restaurant, the Waffenschmied (the Armourer), between 1966 and 1986. Diners had to wait for up to two years to get a table and paid the equivalent of half of a month's rent for the full four- or five-hour Japanese experience, which included a ritual cleansing bath for which guests had to disrobe.
"This was something of a mythical place in the heart of the communist east," said Conny Günther, recalling her one visit to Waffenschmied on New Year's Eve 1985, when the then 25-year old translator and some friends made the four-hour drive from Berlin in a Wartburg car to reach the snowy picture book forest town.
"First we were led by German girls dressed as geishas and had to descend naked into a pool, where we drank champagne, which was where all the fun started. Then in kimonos we started on a 15-course meal in a room full of Japanese decor, during which Anschütz furnished us with anecdotes and stories about Japan.
"It was a truly exotic experience. The flavours, the smells, the music. We were in Japan, not in the largely drab GDR, and didn't even notice the outside world – the curtains were drawn."
The innovative Anschütz sawed the legs off chairs and tables to create an authentic dining space. He turned floral polyester aprons into geisha outfits, procured judo suits from the local sports club and dyed them to make kimonos and used his son's drumsticks as a model for chopsticks that were carved by a carpenter friend.
When Japanese diplomats and business people got to hear of his venture, it opened up a supply chain that allowed the genuine ingredients such as wasabi, soya sauce, ginger and salmon to be delivered from Japan.
The East German authorities, while initially nervous of the connections he had nurtured with one of the world's biggest capitalist powers, soon encouraged the venture, as a way to boost bilateral relations between the two countries.
"At some point the restaurant was so famous the organisation responsible for state retail had little choice but to tolerate it. It was seen as being in the state's interest to do so, even though they would have liked to have more control over my father," said Anschütz's son Jörg, who worked as a waiter in the restaurant, where, he recalled, everyone was treated equally, from the "charlady to the professor".
But the fall of the Berlin Wall led to the demise of Anschütz's dream. Its popularity had had much to do with its exclusivity, but once the world opened to East Germans, the town of Suhl and Anschütz's restaurant were largely forgotten.
"Suddenly we had access to a whole world of exotica. I went to the Philippines and India and completely forgot about Suhl, until the film came out, and all the memories of that happy time came flooding back," said Günther. "What strikes me most looking back is the fact that we had so much time to sit and celebrate together, with nothing like the pressures of today, and it was somewhere that ordinary people had access to, not just the high-ranking communist officials."
The film's success has ignited a wave of nostalgia for the restaurant, spawning a Facebook page where former diners have posted their photographs and memories and "Rolf Anschütz" walking tours of Suhl by kimono-clad guides. A blue plaque was recently erected on the site where the now derelict restaurant stands.
"At the end he was very lonely and afraid that having once been so loved he'd now be forgotten," said Sushi in Suhl's producer, Carl Schmitt, who interviewed Anschütz at length before his death in 2008. "He was deeply saddened by the thought that his novelty Japanese theme park had become obsolete."
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