STANLEY KAUFFMANN
93
fa~ade
untouched. The interior was now lawyers and banks. Around the
corner was a psychiatrist's ollice. The master ironist might have smiled.
We went to Lubeck because of Mann, but we discovered marzipan.
Li.ibeck is the marzipan capital of the world. One company, Niederegger, not
only makes famous marzipan, it runs a lovely old cale in Llibeck, almost Vi–
ennese. We went there in mid-afternoon. In a corner, at a dainty small table,
sat two stately old ladies, wearing hats. They were having afternoon coffee,
sitting erect and conversing regally, as if there were no today. What hats.
History was in those hats.
Where were those hats, those stately old ladies, when the bells fell in
the Marienkirche?
Our waiter was pleasant, especially so. We noted it because waiters
were always pleasant, and this man stood out. German waiters, hotel people,
taxi drivers, railway porters were always considerate whether I gave a
good tip or a small tip or, in ignorance, no tip at all. Laura said, "I have to
admit it. It's the least pushy, grabby country I've ever been in."
But, other than the waiters, there was not much to be said for the
restaurants. Coflee was dependably good, as it is dependably bad in Amer–
ica. Wursts were tasty. The beer, except for Czech beer, was unbeatable.
But German imagination and taste were not in the kitchen. How could the
people who designed the best-looking books in the world enjoy this food?
Laura and I couldn't decide which were worse, the
run-of~the-mill
dishes or
the attempts to laney things up. The food in the few homes we visited was
good, but after a lew days of German restaurants, we headed for the near–
est Italian or Chinese restaurant, of which there were plenty. To hear an
Italian speak German is to feel compassion. To hear a Chinese speak it is to
be
charmed.
3.
Stuttgart is where my grandfather was born. The memory of
him didn't overwhelm me when we arrived. Grandpa Kauffmann was one of
the least impressive men I have known, a catarrhal cough, a brownish com–
plexion, small stature, and small cigars. Not much more. Still this was the city
he came from when he was young. His older brother came much later, in the
middle of the 1930s with his wife and their lawyer son, all refugees. That
son, my cousin, I remembered more warmly. He had told me of parks and
theaters and cafes in Stuttgart. His stories had been so wistful that I almost
felt I was returning here.
This, in a newcomer, was doubly foolish. Because there was no "here."
There was a place on the map called Stuttgart, a valley surrounded by close
green hills. The setting was as pretty as it had always been. We stood on the
main street, and there were vineyards sloping down only a few hundred
