To My Father

My Father and The Caspian (Photo by: Nadia)

When dad was a kid, he woke up one cold snowy day to find the pantry empty and his mother in tears. Dad was still a kid but the man he was, he took the hunting rifle and set off. Snow filled up his galoshes and his toes turned numb. He went on. His fingers turned blue and the rifle grew heavier. But he went on, through the marshes, through the empty frozen rice fields. He went on until he heard the Caspian Sea roaring in a distance. Wild ducks fed in wetlands by the Caspian, dad knew. He shot a single shot that day. The duck had fallen down into the wetland and dad had gone to fetch it. Making his way back through the wetland, his saw the fish. The Caspian had brought it over and it was swimming there entangled in the green.

When dad was a kid, he came home one cold snowy day with a wild duck and the gift of the Caspian. He was already a man.

*****

Later on, I asked myself how long the cancer had been growing in his lungs. His feet had become swollen and painful and the doctors would swap one blood pressure pill with another. One even said it was arthritis and prescribed another pill. Later on, I wondered if the cancer was there when I combed his hair and kissed his cheeks; was it there when I baked Anna Olson’s shortbread for the first time and Dad tried and said I should only marry a man who appreciates me and my cooking the same way he does. Was it there when he came back each day finding me hunched over the laptop trying to find something, anything to take me away from him? Was it there when he threw his hands in the air and danced on the stairs when Mum told him. “Yes, our Ida is going away.” When I hugged him goodbye, was it here? When he started crying, was it there? On Yalda night, on Christmas night, was it there? Had it grown beyond control, beyond care? Had it already won?

In my mind he is still there, hunched over. His voice has turned into a hush. I can still see him in the corner of the screen and I ask my mum to comb his hair and kiss his cheeks.

*****

He is my cheeks and he is my shoulder blades. He is my sarcasm and he is my hotheadedness. He is my sudden feats of anger and my descent into melancholy. He is my eagerness to read and my passion to write. He is my quickness to love and my readiness to forgive.

He is my ugliness. He is my beauty. He was my beginning and he will be my end.

Das Eis at Henrys

Henrys

Later, I’d like to say I was the one who discovered Henrys. Sure, there was that TripAdvisor plaque of excellence displayed modestly behind the ice-cream shop window but I’d say if I hadn’t happened to pass the shop on that certain summer day, if my sweet tooth hadn’t been killing me that evening, the petite shop would have remained obscure, undiscovered and unappreciated. The world wouldn’t know of the whisky-flavored Eis or of the correct way to eat an Earl Gray. Take a bite. This way your teeth would sink into the baked cherries and if you’re not already in love, you will certainly be afterwards.

Sabine Menzel

Sabine runs Henrys. It has taken me two ice cream scoops, the marshmallowy chunky-chocolaty Rocky Road and Macbeth’s Double ‘Toil and’ Trouble to stop by one summer evening and commit the crime of asking for an interview instead of an ice-cream. Sabine says, “Well, that’s a lovely idea!” So I come around the next day and try my best to steer clear of the dipping cabinet, at least for a while.

You can never go wrong at Henry's!

Truth is I have already started doing the interview first time I stepped into Henrys. I had asked what Sabine’s favorite ice-cream was because I was blindsided by how good everything looked.

“I’m a bit conservative with mine.” Sabine had said, “So at the end of the day, even when I say peppermint-choco has found a place in my heart, I’ll always go for the strawberry.” Maybe not in her choice of a favorite flavor, but Sabine is certainly adventurous when it comes to developing her originals. Her rule of thumb?
“It should taste nice. It’s not just throwing everything in there but creating something that actually tastes good, something that works.”

Italians do it so well with their gelatos. They take the simplest of ingredients and they just bring out their inherent deliciousness. That’s art. The far-flung American ice-cream makers are more adventurous cause in Americas everything’s a tad “more”. More cream. More intense flavors. More wacky funny stuff and ‘they don’t need to jump through one hundred hoops to get it done!’

Henrys is a modest ice cream parlor though. Here, Sabine whips up her own original recipes out of fresh milk and cream and adds a little magic too. A little magic and freshly-made brownies and baked cherries and lots of love. Yes, she gets inspirations here and there. The brownies she makes using Nigella Lawson’s popular recipe and her sundaes take after their American counterparts. While German Eisbecher towers with heaping piles of Eis, cream, fruits and sauces, at Henrys sundae-simplicity is key.

Get adventurous and seasonal with Henry's Sundae! 

“So ours is just something baked, ice cream, and a sauce. And the sauce varies depending on the season. We had this amazing plum sauce a while ago and soon it will be cherries’ turn.”

But the ice cream remains the star at Henrys. So there are those rare occasions where clients stop by for a good cup of joe but the Eis steals the show every time. And there is something for everyone’s taste at Henrys; may it be the bestseller Peanut Brownies or Double Trouble or even vegan options like the intensely-chocolaty Schoko because you can’t live in Berlin without going maybe a little vegan, maybe a little organic.

“I’d love to go hundred percent organic but will our bio ice-cream be still affordable for those who love it so dearly?” Sabine points out, “So it’s all about the balance and inclusiveness.” Everybody needs to feel welcome, rich or poor, young or old, everybody. And the neighborhood is not particularly a rich area. It still has that old Berlin feel to it when it was getting diverse and international but nobody was sitting down starting at some MacBook all the time. And Sabine likes it that way and though the area wasn’t her first option when she was looking up places, the small shop grew on her.

Earl Grey and Peanut Brownies are already my favorites! 

“We started last June… mid-ice-cream season because there was simply so much to do.” Sabine says of the Henrys origins, “We were developing recipes for two years.” Some of these recipes are so close to her heart. The scotch-flavored Whiskey Eis took six weeks to develop and the Earl Gray with its subtle hint of English tea and baked cherries was perfected drawing inspirations from ice cream parlors in New York and San Francisco.

Henrys now has its passionate regulars who sometimes drop in a couple of times a day. They bring in their friends and family and the word gets around of the sweet Eis parlor off Schlossstraße. Go there sometime and ask for a cone if you’re still in touch with your inner child or get a cup if you like to eat the Eis your own pace. I’m looking at you control-freaks!

******************************** 

So who’s Henry? I ask. Sabine laughs.

“O Henry… Henry’s my cat.”

Henry and Lilly (Guess who's our man!) Photo courtesy of Henry's Instagram  

   

  

I am Ida

They are three. Hippies I suppose. They emanate that nonchalant out-of-placness which feels right at home in Berlin. I’ve walked past them on the S-Bahn nach Oranienburg and have noticed a tad pissed maybe, they have occupied another good four seats with something that resembles a musical instrument. I sit down and open “All My Puny Sorrows” and go two stations.

Then somebody shouts “Hi!” and I look up. It’s the hippie with the dreadlocks. If you know some hippies in Berlin chances are one has dreadlocks.

“How are you?” he says in German.

“Fine. Thanks.” I say in my embarrassingly-broken German. “I’m sorry, my German…” and he immediately switches to English. Everybody can switch to English on a moment notice.

“What ya’ readin’?” he asks and I hold up the cover so he can see for himself.

Julia has given me the book.

“What’s it about?” I don’t think he really cares for the content but I say it anyway.

“Depression I suppose.” I’m not sure myself.

One leaves the trio and comes sits in front of me. He doesn’t have dreadlocks and looks more put-together compared to the other two. He looks battered though. His eyes are drifting away.

“Where do you live?” He asks just like that, no introduction. He’s holding on to a bottle of beer.

“Schlachtensee.” I don’t lie but then I haven’t said exactly where in Schlachtensee. He probably won’t even remember.

“There’s a beautiful park there… a park.” And his eyes lose their focus for a second but then he comes back. “There’s a Reichelt markt there.”

Well I’ll be damned.
“Beer in the morning, huh?” I’m not accusing, just making a statement.

“No, no, …” he tries to explain, “We started yesterday at three, we have a friend in the park.”

It’s a trend. Party starts on Friday, goes on through the night and stretches well into Saturday morning.

“Where are you from?” The ultimate question. I play the game just because I feel like it and he's drunk.

“Make a guess.” Nobody has ever got it right. He pulls himself down from the outer space and looks at me, really looks. I wait for it. I get Italian a lot, Spanish, French, once got Georgian but never Iranian.

“You’re from Iran.” Affirmative not even a question. My mouth falls open but then I start laughing. I like the fact I've lost at my own game. 

"What's your name?" I ask him as the train pulls into my stop. I owe him this much. I owe myself.

"Sven."

 I get up and pat the young man on his shoulder. He smiles.

"I'm Ida, Sven. Take care."

As I'm getting off, dreadlocks shouts: "You have a nice smile!"

"All you need is smile." At the Reichstag