Page 76 of Riesling with My Roommate

Diedrich glances over his shoulder apologetically. “My English is not good.”

“You’re doing great,” I assured him. “Better than my German, and we’ve got Chris to translate.”

Chris does translate, and I have a thought. “Does he know you are Chris Rächer?”

“Yes, he definitely does,” Chris looks at his plate, and I think he’s laughing at me.

“What? What’s so funny?” I pick up my fork and use it to cut the potato pancake.

“How do you think I got a top chef at the last minute?”

“Okay, good point.”

Chris takes a bite of the currywurst and chews thoughtfully. “This is actually pretty good.”

I nudge him with my elbow and raise my eyebrows at Diedrich’s turned back. Chris clears his throat. “I mean, obviously, it’s very good, but I meant that it’s similar to a meat-based currywurst.”

I take my bite of potato pancake with a bit of sauerkraut and a bit of applesauce. I’ve had similar things before—latkes with Emma’s family—and of course, this one is perfect; just the right level of crispy and tender.

“What exactly is currywurst? How does it differ from bratwurst?” I ask.

“Bratwurst is a type of sausage. Currywurst is really about the sauce, which is a ketchup and curry base. This is a staple German street food.” He pops one into his mouth. “Definitely something Zoe had at that festival she went to.”

“I doubt they had vegan ones,” I say. I spear one of the seitan slices and nibble on it. The sauce is tangy and mildly sweet, with a complexity I wasn’t expecting.

We both eat the strudels last, a flaky, savory crust with spinach and mushrooms and spices that disappears way too fast.

“That might have been the best vegan pastry crust I’ve ever had,” I say. “I don’t even bother because it’s too much of a pain in the ass.”

Chris translates for Diedrich, who laughs and says “danke” while assembling our plates.

The next course is schnitzel, also made from seitan, served with spätzle and a glass of Riesling. After my first bite, I moan in pleasure. “I’ve had seitan parmesan before, and I thought that would be what schnitzel is like, but holy crap, this is way better.”

“It’s lighter,” Chris agrees. “But when you want that cheesy goodness, chicken parmesan is hard to beat.”

“Nah,” I say. “German food, one; Italian food, zero.”

Chris shoots me a look. “You were just in Rome. I hate to tell you this, but chicken parmesan is an American dish that, for some reason, Americans think is Italian. We ate at some Italian chain restaurant in the States when we were there for our first tour, and one of our roadies, who is Italian, thought it was mortally offensive.”

Not only is the schnitzel not overwhelmed with marinara and cheese, but it’s crispy and a reasonable portion size. I finish mine, and when Diedrich offers Chris seconds, he hesitates. “No, danke,” he says.

“In a few minutes, dessert,” Diedrich cautions us.

I toast him with my half-full wine glass. “I can’t wait.”

When Diedrich collects the plates, Chris leans onto the counter with his wine glass.

“You’ve been to the US for your tour? Where did you play?”

“All over,” Chris says. “I think the closest to you would have been Houston. I think we made twelve stops?” He screws up his face in concentration. “To be honest, they all blend together. Touring is exhausting. The concerts are physically draining, and then we party too hard afterward, plus sleeping on the bus is horrible. Ram snores. It’s quite different from the past few months.” He gestures at the house.

“Are you looking forward to going back?”

Chris spins his wine glass while he thinks. “I do miss it. There’s nothing like performing on stage. Having a successful song is thrilling, but trying to write and compose is hard. But performing, that’s pure pleasure for me.”

“I’d like to see you perform someday,” I say.

Chris turns sharply and laughs as if I’ve said something ridiculous. “Of course, you’ll see me perform.”

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