Developing A Wine Palate

Developing A Wine Palate

Do you know the best way to develop your wine palate? Drink more wine. I believe Cath and I have that covered. We began drinking wine together (legally) in 1974 when she started working for the FBI in DC. Seriously. We’ve had more than a couple of bottles together in the past fifty years.

After Cathy moved to DC in 1974 to work for the FBI, I’d visit from West Point for the weekend. If we were doing a “special” night out, we’d always order a bottle of wine. I think we felt more like adults. Now mind you, neither of us owned a car, and metro wasn’t here yet. We’d take a bus from her apartment to Old Town Alexandria and usually go to The Wharf, one of the nicer restaurants in town. After a seafood dinner and bottle of wine, we’d dutifully wait for the bus and take it back to her apartment. ;-). A taxi was out of our price range.

Our real wine education came after we married and were stationed in Germany in the ‘80s. Yea, we drank a lot of good German bier, but we drank our fair share of wine as well. Not only dry German and Austrian whites, but also French, Spanish or Italian reds when we traveled to those countries. Spending nine years in Europe significantly broadened our exposure to what wine could be.

Cath, Dad and I at a Weinfest in Germany around 1987.

Returning to the States in ‘89, we discovered California wines, which we’d pretty well ignored before then. Cabs, Merlots, Zins and eventually Pinot Noir’s – Our taste buds grew once again and sometime in the ‘90s we installed our first wine rack, which held about 110 bottles.

After moving to the farm in ‘99, we renovated the kitchen around 2005 and put in a wine cooler – we could store 250 bottles in it, which seemed like a pretty reasonable number. Except it wasn’t. And so…

In 2011 we discussed putting in a wine room with a separate chiller. To be honest, I think Cathy was feeling a bit guilty about the money we were spending on her horses and she readily agreed we needed a cellar. Of course, she would benefit from the cellar as well. And so, we bit the bullet and installed it.

The Wine Cellar – Not quite at Capacity.

Our cellar holds around 950 bottles, although if you wanted to stack cases on the floor, you could add another 200 or so. I’d point out this is a drinking cellar. This isn’t a cellar for storing trophy wines. Everything in the cellar is meant to be consumed … over time. It’s stocked to our tastes. You’ll find sparkling wines, Virginia wines from a couple of our favorite vineyards (Linden and Glen Manor); California Pinots, Merlots, Cabs, and Zins; French, Italian, Sicilian, Spanish, South African and Portuguese reds; whites from a number of locations in the States and France; and some dessert wines. There’s a bottle of Georgian wine in there somewhere (the country, not the state). There are a couple of bottles from the late ‘90s, and then probably just about every year from 2000 to the present. We like the cellar and we like the inventory. We enjoy putting a dent in it with friends.

Wine Tasting in South Africa.

Now here’s the funny part. Although the cellar is ostensibly mine, Cathy has a palate that blows mine away. She’s much better in blind tastings at guessing the grape and where the wine is from. She recognizes the flavors and can talk about them. And if a wine has turned bad or is corked? She can tell just by smelling the wine before she’s even taken a sip. These days, when we go out to dinner and order a bottle of wine, I usually just tell the waiter or sommelier to let her taste the wine. She’s really good.

I suppose we’ve consumed thousands of bottles of wine over the last fifty years – at home or in restaurants; on picnics and vacations; at wineries; and of course with friends and family. There are lots of good memories associated with those bottles and gatherings.

Good Memories. Always.

In vino veritas”, is a Latin phrase that means “In wine, there is truth”. The truth is we are still improving our palates, one bottle at a time.

Cathy says life is too short to drink bad wine. I think I agree.

Illinois Militia – 1984

Illinois Militia – 1984

In 1984, Cath and I were back home in Ottawa for her 10-year high school reunion. I was waiting in line for a drink when a guy approached me. “Hey, aren’t you Max Hall? Didn’t you go to West Point?” I answered, “I am and I did. Why do you ask?” “I’m Joe xxx. We would love to have you come talk with our local militia.” What?

I was a Captain in the Army at the time and had recently returned from four and a half years in Germany with 3ID and VII Corps. Cath and I were stationed in Ohio and returned to Ottawa for the weekend of the reunion.

Me, About the Time of the Encounter 1984 or ‘85.

Me: “Sure. Where’s the National Guard meeting these days, and what kind of unit is it?”

Joe: “Oh no. We aren’t with the National Guard. We started a private group as a militia. We fire our guns on weekends and do some tactical training. We want to be ready to fight the communists.”

Me:

Joe: “It would be great if you came out to meet with us and give us a talk. I think you could provide some real inspiration!”

Me: “Really?! Where do you all meet?”

He gives me a location south of town in the country.

Me: “Hmmmm. That’s great, but rather than meet there, I think we should meet on LaSalle Street, not far from Bianchi’s Pizza.”

Joe: “Really? Why there?”

Me: “We could go the Army recruiter’s office on LaSalle Street and get you guys signed up. We are always looking for a few good men!”

Joe: “What?!”

Me: “We could meet at the Army recruiter’s office. We are always looking for a few good men to enlist. If you really want to fight the communists, we could use you. I’ll be deploying back to Germany in a year. We could probably even work it out for you to join my unit!

Joe:

Me: “That’s what I thought. See you later and quit bothering me… Bartender – I’ll have a gin and tonic please.

Yep. Those militia toy-soldiers who always say they are going to defend our country were around 40 years ago as well. They are still eager to play soldier these days, as long as they don’t have to do anything to, you know, actually defend our country as a soldier.

*** Feel free to share this blog. ***

Addendum:

  • I don’t recall Joe’s actual name. I just remember that he was in Cathy’s class and I knew him some from high school.

Tim and Bobby’s Visit

Tim and Bobby’s Visit

In the ‘80s when we lived in Germany, several family members and friends visited us. To “help” them overcome jet lag, we made sure the first couple of days were action packed with eating, drinking and activities to keep them occupied. It almost proved one friend’s undoing in 1987.

Our old friend Tim visited us several times while we were stationed in Germany. In 1987, he asked if he could visit and bring his friend/work buddy Bobby along. They planned to visit us, and then tour parts of Germany, Austria and Northern Italy, eventually arriving back in Germany for Oktoberfest in Munich. We of course said yes and looked forward to their arrival.

Tim and I at a Bierfest during a different visit.

They flew to Dusseldorf one morning in September and then took the train to Worms where we picked them up. Tim recently recalled the train paralleling the Rhein River for part of the trip, when all of a sudden the train shook a bit. He looked out the window and saw two F15s flying low, following the path of the Rhein as well.

After arriving at our home in Rheindürkheim, we ate lunch. Tim and Bobby may have slept for a couple of hours, although I don’t remember for sure. Later, we gave them a tour of town and walked along the Rhein River. That night, we went out for dinner at a local Gasthaus (pub) called Sportheim. We knew the owners, Vroni and Wolfgang well, and Tim knew them from a previous visit. It’s safe to say they greeted Tim like a long lost relative. It was a great evening and Bobby joined right in. We spent several hours at Sportheim and after many biers and wines, eventually made our way home. We may have drunk a brandy or schnapps, before making our way to bed and a good night’s sleep.

The next day, amazingly, none of us were the worse for wear. After a hearty breakfast with some good German bread, sausages and cheese, we drove around to show Bobby the area. We went into Worms, the city where Martin Luther made his famous statement “Heir stehe ich” (here I stand) before the Imperial Diet in 1521. Basically, it’s where and when Protestantism started.

That evening, we had a special treat in store for the guys. The Rheindürkheim Feuerwehrfest (Fire Department Festival) was going on in town. There were about 1,000 residents in Rheindürkheim and a majority of the adults would be at the Fest. It was a classic German wein festival with a huge tent, oompah band, dance floor and lots of adult beverage.

We made our way to the fest, found some local friends and settled in. Of course we drank our share, and ate brats and other German food, such as curry wurst or roast chicken. We also listened to the music and took turns dancing with Cathy and some of the other ladies in our group. It was a great time. Eventually it was getting late, and the fest was coming to an end. We were going to head home when one of our German friends, Michael, told me several people were going to an after party at the Zenit, basically a local Navy VFW club and wanted to know if we wished to join them. I’d been to Zenit several times and immediately said yes. For Tim and Bobby, it’d be an even greater look at the local culture. Cathy, always the wisest of us two, declined and said she was going home. We left the fest and after dropping Cath at home, walked to Zenit.

Now Zenit was actually a dry-docked ship that was turned into a club. Rheindürkheim, was on the Rhein River and traditionally, most young men of the town served in the Navy instead of the Army. That’s why their “VFW” club-equivalent was in a ship.

The Zenit in Rheindürkheim

As we arrived, we made our way to the bar and bought a couple of biers. I nudged Tim and pointed out a picture hanging in Zenit. Tim’s a history major and I thought his eyes were going to bug our when he saw who it was – Admiral Karl Dönitz*, supreme commander of the German Navy during WWII. Dönitz also took over the German government after Hitler killed himself and it was he was who actually surrendered to the Allies in May of ‘45.

We had a good time at Zenit. The party was eventually winding down when our friend Hans approached me. He and his wife Inge were having an after-after party at their home and wanted to know if we wanted to stop by. Their home was actually on the way back to our house and I again immediately said yes. We joined a group of 15 or 20 people and dutifully walked or stumbled to Hans and Inge’s house.

At Hans and Inge’s there was no oompah music. What was playing on the stereo was the soundtrack from the movie “Dirty Dancing”, released earlier that year. I remember chuckling about it at the time.

I believe they served coffee and dessert for those who wanted it. I also distinctly remember Inge walking around with a bottle of homemade schnapps and pouring people small glasses/shots. Schnapps in Germany is nothing like the sweet stuff we think of as schnapps here in the States. It’s similar to Italian grappa or French marc and can definitely have a rough edge to it. She asked if we wanted some and of course we all said yes. Bobby didn’t yet know about real schnapps. We all toasted with a “Prost”. Bobby took a small sip and may have actually turned green. He looked around and saw a nearby plant, where he discretely poured the remainder of his schnapps.

A bit later, Inge came back by, saw Bobby’s empty glass and refilled. It. At that point Bobby looked at the glass and then leaned into Tim and said, “Tim, I don’t know that I can do this for the whole two weeks.” ;-).

We left a short time later and walked the 3 or 4 blocks home and immediately went to bed.

The next morning, everyone was moving a little slowly and there were probably a couple of hangovers among us, or at least there should have been. I also know this – Tim and Bobby were no longer suffering from jet lag. ;-).

They would leave us a day or two later and head south by train. We linked up with them in Munich for Oktoberfest about ten days later and they told us tales of their travels and the good times they enjoyed. At Oktoberfest itself, other than Cathy throwing her shoulder out on a rollercoaster ride with Bobby (another story, and no, alcohol wasn’t involved), we had a grand time.

Addendum:

  • * Dönitz was the architect of the German U-boat campaign during WWII. He was by his own admission, a dedicated Nazi and supporter of Hitler. Following the war, he was indicted as a major war criminal at the Nuremberg trials on three counts: conspiracy to commit crimes against peace, war crimes and crimes against humanity; planning, initiating, and waging wars of aggression; and crimes against the laws of war. He was found not guilty of committing crimes against humanity, but guilty of committing crimes against peace and war crimes against the laws of war. He was sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment. After his release, he lived near Hamburg until his death in 1980.
  • Here’s another story involving Tim and Germany – In 1986, we found a way to ship a Keg of German bier from a Monastery, home in a transport plane: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2019/10/09/shipping-bier-from-germany/

Returning Home from Germany

Returning Home from Germany

In June of ‘83, I returned to America after serving 4 1/2 years with the Army in Germany. At the time, the Post-Vietnam dislike of soldiers was still alive, a decade after the war. Returning to the States, I had a good experience at the airport that still gives me shivers today.

Captain Hall in Early 1983. Commander, HHC, 34th Signal Battalion.

It’s different now and we as a country, or at least most of us, have learned to separate politics from the people serving in uniform. Back then? Post-Vietnam? We weren’t so great about how we treated our soldiers. I remember someone spitting at me as a cadet while walking in New York City in the mid-‘70s. In 1979, right before we first deployed to Germany, a woman from our church commented to my mom about how terrible it was that they as taxpayers had to pay for Cathy to go to Germany with me, and for us to be able to take some of our belongings with us. AND this was a woman from our church I’d know since I was a child.

Of course most family friends, and our close friends were great with us, but past that? Things were often ambiguous. None of this was as bad as soldiers put up with during Vietnam, but it would be years later before we (as a country) really learned to separate politics and our respect for our soldiers.

In June of ‘83, I turned over my Company Command in Stuttgart, Germany. I had a couple of weeks of additional work I needed to do, so Cathy flew back ahead of me. Finally it was time for me to go home and I flew on a commercial flight wearing civies. We landed at Dulles and I made my way to customs where the line seemed about a mile long. Several flights arrived at the same time, and the line wasn’t moving.

As I stood there, I noticed a young lady walking down the line looking at people in the line. Eventually she arrived in front of me and said “Are you in the Armed Forces?” I’m sure my short haircut and bearing probably gave me away.

I answered “Yes ma’am, the Army.” and she said “Follow me.”

I walked with her for quite awhile and we finally arrived at the front of the customs line. One of the stations opened up and she walked me over to it. The guy behind the counter looked at me and asked for my passport, or my military ID and orders, which I produced for him. He took a quick look, handed my papers back to me and then said, “Thank you for your service. Welcome home to the United States of America.

I still get a shiver typing those words today. It was the first time someone went out of their way to thank me for what I was doing, and then welcomed me home to boot. It was such a little thing, but plainly had a huge impact on me. I remember it clear as a bell forty years later.

I’ve thought about this story lately. Probably since Panama in ‘89, and certainly since the First Gulf War, we’ve thanked our soldiers and shown respect for them. Unfortunately, an annual poll conducted last November by the Reagan Institute shows respect for the military dropping from 70% in 2017 to 48% in 2022. Much of the drop was attributed to people (from both sides) trying to politicize the military, or what the military was doing.

To be quite frank, most people today have no connection with our armed forces. Their sons and daughters aren’t in our military. If fact, over 70% of American youth today aren’t qualified for the military. They are overweight, or are doing illegal drugs, or are doing legal drugs that make them ineligible for military service. I fear that for many, saying thank-you is a cheap and easy way to feel good, while not really caring about our troops. Maybe I have that wrong, but I’m not so sure.

As time progresses, I’m hoping we as a nation can adult enough to remember to mentally separate politics and the soldiers serving in the military. I hope that we can take a couple of minutes to genuinely thank our troops. Not pro forma, but really thank them. We continue to owe them that much.

Addendum:

  • in a side note, in the 4 1/2 years we were gone on that tour, I only made it back to the States once. That was to attend my sister Tanya’s wedding. When Roberta married the next year, we couldn’t afford another trip home. It was one of the many family events we would miss over the course of our almost 9 years overseas.
  • Thanks to my wife Cathy for input to parts of this blog. As an Army wife, she too remembers those days. Like me, she is also concerned about the lack of connectivity between our society and our military today.

Max

Max

I always suspected it might be true. Still, it was a bit jarring to find out it actually was true. Here in America, there are more dogs named Max, than people named Max. A lot more. In fact, there are about 8 times as many dogs as people named Max. I’m honored … I think.

Growing up in Ottawa, Illinois in the ‘60s, Max was a unique name. I believe I was the only Max at McKinley Grade School and it caused a bit of a problem. When filling out forms or headers for formal tests, teachers never believed my name was just “Max”. They were convinced it must be Maximillian, or Maxwell. I’d dutifully tell them no, it was just Max. I know at least a couple of them called mom, as I obviously didn’t know what I was talking about. Mom would let them know I DID know my own name, thank you very much.

Of course Maxwell Smart in the ‘60s, Mel Gibson as Mad Max and Russell Crowe as Maximus in Gladiator spread the name a bit more. And, Cathy’s Dad was named Max (I believe he was the first Max I personally knew). Over time, it wasn’t quite as unique among us humans.

As I grew older, one of the things many people said when they first met me was “Oh! I know a dog named Max!” We would of course have a chuckle. Sometimes they would ask if I could sit, or stay, and I’d do a reasonable dog imitation. I drew the line at rolling over.

Time passed. People became more inventive, or more sharing. I learned of several horses named Max, a Cat named Max and even a Guinea Pig named Max. And then of course there was the occasional person with a mother or daughter named Max. Years ago, friends in Germany wanted to name their beagle Max (pronounced Machs in German), but checked with me first to make sure I didn’t mind. I didn’t mind and thought it was cool, although they also pointed out they weren’t actually naming him after me ;-).

Max, the Beagle.

Which brings us to the present.

The Washington Post recently ran an article about dog and people names and the overlap between them. It turns out Max is the second most popular dog name in America right now. Only Bella (of Twilight Saga fame) is a more popular name for dogs.

Max is Pretty Popular as a Dog Name.

So how popular is Max? If you gathered 100,000 people and 100,000 dogs together in a park, 351 dogs would be named Max, while only 44 people would be named Max (for Bella, it’s 357 dogs and 20 people). At the other end of the spectrum, only 80 dogs, but 411 people would be named George.

Outnumbered a Bit on the Human Side.

Yep, if you know a “Max” (other than me), he’s more likely a dog than a human.

What’s in a name? Max means “The Greatest” and I agree it’s a great name for either a man or his best friend. The Baby Center, (an online site with a wealth of knowledge about babies, including names) had this to say – “Max is undoubtedly a cool name, but if you’re considering it, keep in mind it’s also a common pet name. In fact, Max is the most popular name for dogs in the United States, right up there with Toby, Bella, Riley, and Molly.

We should all be so honored and appreciated.

Addendum:

  • Thanks to our old friend Steven Buxton for sending us a picture of Max the beagle. We had so much fun with Steven and his folks Jim and Res back in the ‘80s.
  • It turns out this is my 300th blog. I started this effort in October of 2015 and it’s evolved over time. Back then, I’d push something out every couple of weeks, or when I could get to it. The last couple of years, it’s been more or less weekly. For better or worse, my topics have remained as diverse as ever. I’m still small scale, but 300 blogs and 7 plus years of continuity – I’ll take it. I think Live Life Exuberantly remains a valid title for the blog, and one of my ongoing life goals. Thanks to all who continue reading my wandering posts.
  • If you want to read the full WaPo article about dog and human names, you can find it here. (And check out how popular your name is as a dog name). You may need a subscription to read it, I’m not sure – https://www.washingtonpost.com/business/interactive/2022/people-names-for-dogs/

Eggs and Dichotomies

Eggs and Dichotomies

I recently enjoyed a fun and funny New Yorker article, by Rachel Syme. While reading, I became aware of two dichotomies simultaneously – First, she is a wonderful writer, whose prose blows mine away. Second, I know how to cook a perfect soft boiled egg, while she does not :-).

I subscribe to the New Yorker, which has great writing on a multitude of topics. One of the features of my subscription is that I receive emails a couple of times a week with reading suggestions. Last week, the email shared several food related articles, and one of them immediately caught my eye. Maybe it was the lead in … “The Ridiculous Egg Machine That Changed My Breakfast Game – It breaks all my kitchen rules, and yet, every morning, I make myself a fussy little hotel breakfast.” I’m not a kitchen gadget guy, but this sounded intriguing. I knew I was either going to love it, or hate it.

Both Reads were Good, but Syme’s Article Caught my Eye First

The article WAS good, and interesting. I enjoyed the way she wove the story of the egg machine into her own background and family history, while adding something we all crave – a little pampering while at a hotel. She talked about short getaways, and the enjoyment of coffee in bed, and wonderful little breakfasts, including soft boiled eggs.

It made me think of my own introduction to soft boiled eggs. Growing up, eggs were a family staple, particularly on weekends. Saturday mornings often saw eggs scrambled, over easy or sunny-side up, with toast and bacon on the side. Hard boiled eggs? Sure. Always at Easter, but also occasionally for a snack, and a big dose of them in mom’s potato salad. Soft boiled eggs? I don’t remember mom (or dad) ever fixing them. I believe the first time I ever ate one was while stationed in Germany in the early ‘80s. On one weekend trip, we spent the night in a small village Gasthaus. The next morning we came to the dining room for breakfast, where we were greeted with charcuterie, a cheese board, and thick slices of bread, along with something else – soft boiled eggs in small holders, with a tiny comforter over the top of the eggs to keep them warm. The presentation was funny, practical and magical all at the same time. The eggs themselves? Both simple, and delicious. I was hooked.

Of course, we then had to make them at home, which led to us buying the little egg cups, and the tiny spoons needed to scoop out that golden delight from the center of the egg. We made them for a year or two, usually on the weekend when guests were staying the night. Then, as is often the case, we got out of the habit, and eventually stopped making them. For thirty years.

The Egg Cups Sat Unused for Thirty Years

After retiring about eight years ago, I rediscovered the egg cups, and brought them back into use. I’m usually up earlier than Cathy, so we eat breakfast separately. Once about every week or two, I take the four minutes and fifty seconds needed to make a soft boiled egg. Just. The. Way. I. Like. It. A little bit of memory, delight and tastiness all in one egg.

Four Minutes and Fifty Seconds to a Nice Breakfast

Which brings me back to Rachel Syme and her article. The twin dichotomies we share are perfectly summarized in her breakfast description in the article: “Mornings at home were for English muffins with a scoop of marmalade, or muesli with a splash of almond milk. Low-risk stuff. Foolproof … What I kept fantasizing about was a perfect plate of soft-boiled eggs, with a silky, spreadable yolk the consistency of honey. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to manifest this fantasy on my own. Enter the egg machine.

In a million years, I would never come up with the phrase “…with a silky, spreadable yolk, the consistency of honey.” I mean, that is a perfect description. It makes me hungry just reading that line. And then, she adds the kicker “ I knew I wasn’t going to be able to manifest this fantasy on my own. Enter the egg machine.” I wanted to scream out “Rachel! You too can do this. All it takes is four minutes and fifty seconds! Really!”

So there you have it. We all have our talents, we all have our fantasies, and those of us who are lucky enough, recognize the limits of the former, while trying to reach the latter. If Rachel Syme can achieve breakfast nirvana with a DASH Rapid Egg Cooker, who am I to judge? In the meantime, I look forward to reading more of her wonderful writing, and maybe learning a thing or two along the way.

Addendum:

Lost in Translation

Lost in Translation

Our second favorite restaurant in Rheindürkheim, Germany in the late ‘80s was Pfeffermühle (The Peppermill). Das Letzte Essen (The Last Meal) didn’t occur there, but that is where the story started.

Recently, Cath and I were thinking about Pfeffermühle. I’d made Cathy a special meal one night for dinner, Steak au Poirve (Steak with Pepper Sauce). As we were eating dinner, she said “Do you remember the couple we met at…”, before she could go on, I finished her thought “…at Pfeffermühle? The ones who came to dinner?” “That’s them!”, she answered. “Do you remember her sayingDies ist das letzte Essen?”” (This is the last meal). We both started laughing…

Cathy and I About the Time of “The Last Meal”

Pfeffermühle was located just outside of Rheindürkheim, on Sommerdamm Strasse, the main road to Worms. It opened after we had already lived there for a year or so. Bruno, the owner, was from Italy and moved to Germany after spending several years in California. Although the restaurant was nondescript on the outside, once inside, the white tablecloths and napkins caught your attention.

The food made an even bigger impression. They served both pizzas and traditional Italian fare. Two great food memories that stay with me even today were their lasagna, and how good their pizzas were. One of the pizzas came with an over-easy egg in the center of it. Yea, I know it sounds strange, but it was really tasty. I’m not sure about now, but at the time, you always ate pizza with a knife and fork in Europe, so the egg was no problem.

Bruno worked the front of the restaurant, while his wife was the chef in the back. He was quite the host and spoke fluent Italian, English and German. He made everyone feel welcome when they arrived, and Pfeffermühle soon became popular. If you were there on a Friday or Saturday night, the place was always jammed.

We became regulars, and as is often the case, over time, would recognize other regulars. There weren’t really any Americans, but Germans came from several nearby towns, and we became friendly with a few couples we ran into regularly.

One evening it was turning late and only a few tables were still occupied. We recognized a couple sitting at a table near ours, and started talking with them. They invited us to their table for a nightcap, and that’s how we first met Gerhard and Hannah. We shared a drink or two, and everyone agreed we needed to get together some time in the future. With that, we all said good night and didn’t think any more about it.

Except…

We ran into them the next week, and then again two weeks later. That night, I bought the drinks. As the evening was ending, Gerhard invited us to dinner at their home in Osthofen a week later. We readily accepted.

The following Saturday, we drove the three kilometers to Osthofen, where we ate a wonderful meal. I don’t remember what we had, but I do remember he served French red wine with the meal. At the time, we didn’t know any Germans who did that, and it made an impression. The Germans make wonderful white wines, but their reds? There weren’t too many of them, and they weren’t that good at the time. Usually, you drank white wine or beer with dinner, no matter the meal.

Of course we wanted to return the favor, and invited them for dinner a couple of weeks later.

Cath and I stressed a bit about what to cook, as we wanted a nice meal. I don’t remember what we did for an appetizer, but we finally agreed the main course would be “Steak au Poirve” from a cookbook a friend had recently given us. It was a bit elegant. It was also the first time we would ever make it. For dessert, we would make a “Champaign Granita”.

Charollais is a Specific Kind of French Beef

The big night finally arrived and Gerhard and Hannah arrived at our home. We served some drinks and were bringing out appetizers when Hannah said “Dies ist das letzte Abendmahl”. What? Did we hear correctly? “This is the Last Supper”?** Was today some German religious holiday we were unaware of?

Was hast du gesagt?” (“What did you say?”)

Heute ist das letzte Abendmahl. Das letzte Essen.” (“Today is the Last Supper. The last meal.”)

Oh man, we must have screwed something up. Today must be some important holiday of which we were unaware. Either that, or she was going away somewhere and this was her last real meal. What were we going to do? And then she explained…

…The next day, she was starting a diet. Tonight’s dinner was her last meal before going on the diet…

Cathy and I started laughing, and they gave us a look. We then explained our lost in translation problem with “The Last Supper” and the religious connotations, and they started laughing as well.

The dinner went well, and the “Steak au Poirve” served with potatoes turned out to be a fine last meal before starting a diet. I followed Gerhard’s lead from the previous dinner and we drank some kind of red California Cab I’d bought at the military Class 6 store. The dessert wasn’t perfect, but we served it with Sekt (German sparkling wine) and no one seemed to mind. Over dinner, we all made a couple of jokes about the last supper, and whether this was worthy. Eventually, after coffee and schnapps at the end of the meal, they left and drove home.

Steak au Poirve

We saw them occasionally after that at Pfeffermühle and had a late evening drink with them a time or two. Perhaps six months later, we returned to the States and lost track of them. Pre-Internet, there was of course no exchange of email addresses or cell phone numbers.

This story is really about just a bit of nothing, but we still remembered the evening, and chuckled about The Last Supper, although it’s 44 years later. Even small old memories can be good for the soul, especially when they come out of no where.

Addendum:

** – For those who may not be aware, The Last Supper is the final meal that Jesus shared with his apostles before his crucifixion. It became the basis for the holy communion. In the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus prays thanks for bread, divides it, and hands the pieces of bread to his disciples, saying “Take, eat, this is my body.” Later in the meal Jesus takes a cup of wine, offers another prayer, and gives it to those present, saying “Drink from it, all of you; for this is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins.” It is immortalized in DaVinci’s famous painting. Our dinner wasn’t anywhere near Easter, but the Germans have A LOT of religious holidays, which is why we thought we may have been unaware of some other holiday.

Lariat Advance

Lariat Advance

The call came at about 3:40AM in late February, 1979. I answered the phone, “LT Hall.” – “Max, this is Captain Ward. A Lariat Advance Alert was called at 3:25AM this morning.” – “Got it sir – on my way.” I called my Platoon Sergeant, Paul Teague to notify him, and kissed Cathy goodbye, with a “See you when I can”. I was out the door for the drive to Hindenburg Kaserne by 3:50AM.

We lived in the little town of Helmstadt, Germany, about 15 minutes from Hindenburg Kaserne (Barracks, or Army Post) in Würzburg. My mind raced on the drive to the barracks.

LT Hall in 1979

This was my first Lariat Advance. I’d joined the 123D Signal Battalion, 3rd Infantry Division in January of ‘79. A Lariat Advance was a US Armed Forces Cold War mobilization alert in Germany. The thing was, you never knew if it was a drill, or in response to a real world situation. If just a practice, it might be called off after a couple of hours. BUT, you could also deploy and link up with the unit you supported (2nd Brigade, 3ID in my case), or even deploy to your General Defense Plan (GDP) location. For my platoon, that was near the village of Hof, and the Hof Gap on the the Czech/East German border. The Hof Gap was considered a major Armor Route for a Russian invasion of West Germany. The pucker factor increased significantly if you deployed there on an alert.

My unit, B Company, 2nd Platoon, was always the first unit scheduled for departure, as we had farther to go. We would depart two hours after the alert was originally called. In this case, we needed to be lined up at the Kaserne Gate and ready to go at 5:25AM.

Main Gate, Hindenburg Kaserne

I arrived at the Kaserne a few minutes after 4:00AM. As I climbed out of the car, I promptly locked my keys in the car. “D@mn!” I stood looking at the car, shaking the door when one of my squad leaders, Sergeant Santos ran by and called out – “Yo, L.T. (Pronounced Ell-Tee), what’s up?” – “I locked my keys in the car.” He stopped, looked at me for a second and then said, “Forget ‘em. We’ll get them later – we gotta go!

He was right, of course. I left the car and ran to the Company HQ and checked in with the CO. Next, over to the Armorer, where I picked up my .45 pistol, and finally, I ran back outside and over to our Platoon Bay. It was probably about 4:15AM.

Sergeant Teague had also just arrived and he gave me a status report. About 80% of our troops were on the Kaserne, with the others expected shortly. We then looked at our vehicles’ status. Our platoon had around 20 vehicles in all – a combination of jeeps, a 2 1/2 Ton truck (the Deuce) and several Gamma Goats. Gamma Goats were six wheeled vehicles that could, at least in theory, perform off road much like a tank, or other tracked vehicle. We needed to determine which deadlined vehicles could be made readily available, by cannibalizing* other deadlined vehicles. We agreed that of our four deadlined Gamma Goats we could maybe get three ready, and still make the 5:25 departure time.

A Gamma Goat, with Comm Shelter

The next half hour was total chaos. By then, all of our troops but one were on the Kaserne and had picked up their weapons. We continued loading both personal and platoon equipment into our vehicles. Cases of C-rations were loaded into the Deuce, along with other supplies. Two of the deadlined vehicles were fixed, but we were still having problems with the third. Somewhere in there, we received word we would deploy to Kitzingen, and link up with 2nd Brigade’s HQ elements. It was now 4:55AM, a half hour before departure.

Suddenly, a feeling of great calm and clarity settled over me. The world seemingly slowed down. Sergeant Teague and I agreed it was too late to fix the last vehicle and to hell with it, we would roll with what we had. We held a quick meeting with our three section leaders and strip maps to Kitzingen were passed out for each of the vehicles (remember this was all pre cellphones or google maps). We lined up the vehicles in the motor pool and proceeded to the gate, with my Jeep in the lead. Sergeant Teague was in the last Jeep at the end of the convoy. At 5:15, we were at the gate where the Battalion Commander, Colonel Swedish and Command Sergeant Major Johnson greeted us. We spoke briefly and they wished us good luck.

5:25AM came, and we rolled. The rest of the day passed in a bit of a blur. Google maps says the drive from Würzburg to Kitzingen takes a half hour, but at convoy speed, it probably took us about an hour. We arrived and I reported in to the 2nd Brigade Operations Officer (S3). Then, as is often true in the Army, we sat and waited. And waited. I stayed in touch with the Brigade S3, and also with my Company Commander via FM radio. After a couple of hours passed, we received word it was a drill, and perhaps another two hours later, we were released and returned to Hindenburg Kaserne.

The drive back took another hour. Once back at Hindenburg, we offloaded all of our equipment, washed our vehicles, and then topped all of them off with fuel, so they were ready to go. Cannibalized parts were returned to their original vehicles. A weapons count was done by the armorer, and it was verified all weapons were turned in and accounted for.

I reported to Company Headquarters that all recovery tasks were completed. Once all three platoons were finished, Captain Ward let me know we could dismiss the troops, which I did.

By now, it was late afternoon or early evening, and my keys were still locked in the car. I started thinking about how I was going to get home, when Sergeant Santos came up. “Hey L.T. Let’s get those keys.” – “Sure, how are going to do that?” Ramos just smiled, and then pulled a Slim Jim** out of his jacket. Two minutes later, the door was open, and I had my keys. I thanked him, and decided right then and there, I didn’t need to know why he owned a Slim Jim.

A Slim Jim – Need your car door opened?

With Russia and the Ukraine in the news, I was thinking about that first Lariat Advance. Forty years ago, we were concerned about, and prepping for war with, the USSR. After The Berlin Wall fell in 1989 and the Cold War ended, I thought those days were behind us, at least for Europe. With Mr. Putin’s current aggression, that no longer seems the case. I’ve been thinking about an Intelligence flyer that came out, right after The Wall fell, warning us about the long term goals of the Russians:

“We will Smash them with our clenched fist.”

It is no longer Communism against capitalism, but it is still Russia versus the West. Sometimes the more things change, the more they stay the same. I’m wishing Godspeed and safety to all of our troops.

Addendum:

Cannibalize – If a vehicle was determined to have a safety issue, or something major wrong with it during operations or an inspection, it was put on the deadline report and the appropriate parts were ordered. You were not allowed to drive deadlined vehicles, until they were repaired. In the event of an alert, you “Cannibalized” one of the vehicles to remove parts to put in the remaining vehicles. It might be something as simple as a brake signal bulb (safety feature), or something more serious like a transmission problem. Cannibalization was frowned upon, as you could literally reduce one of your vehicles to a pile of parts in order to fix other vehicles. That one vehicle would stay on deadline forever. This is why we were to return cannibalized parts to the original vehicle when we returned to the Kaserne.

• **Slim Jim – For those unaware, a Slim Jim is a slender device used to break into a car by fishing down the side of window and into the door for the locking mechanism.

Erbseneintopf

Erbseneintopf

The oldest recipe in my recipe collection is for Erbseneintopf – a German Split Pea Soup. It came from The Stars and Stripes newspaper in Germany in ‘82 or ‘83, and is now a bit tattered. The first time I tasted the soup in a Gasthaus, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. Getting the recipe was a bonus.

Erbseneintopf. The word and the soup are both a mouthful. Erbseneintopf literally translates to “Pea One-Pot”, and is really closer to a stew. Made properly, it is a thick soup with little chunks of sausage or ham hock in it. I’m not talking the puny American ham hocks, but the big German kind – meaty and smoky. The meat gives the stew a wonderful flavor. It’s a simple, hearty meal.

I believe the first time I had the dish was in a little village near Stuttgart, although I can’t remember the name of the town, or the Gasthaus, for the life of me. At the time, we often went for a walk in the woods on a Sunday afternoon, as many Germans did, and then would stop at a nearby Gasthaus for a late lunch, and a beer or two. We’d usually have some sort of simple meal – a bratwurst, or goulash soup, or some charcuterie and cheese. On one of those trips, it started snowing. Eventually we made it back to the village and the Gasthaus, where Erbseneintopf was on the menu, and despite the green color, I gave it a try. It was delicious. It became one of those dishes that stayed in my mind and I started looking for it on the menu anytime we went to a new Gasthaus – especially in winter.

Cathy, Top and I, probably in ‘82, outside a Gasthaus as it was snowing one Sunday

There were a few other dishes that stuck in my brain back then, and I would stalk them for a while – eating the dish anytime I saw it on a new place’s menu. One of those was Cordon Bleu. I spent a couple of years looking for the perfect Cordon Bleu during our travels across Germany, France and Northern Italy, and dragged visiting friends with me on my quest. Another dish was Käsespätzle, basically a German adult version of Mac ‘n Cheese, with homemade noodles, onions and cheese – It was total comfort food and a bazillion calories.

Cordon Bleu, käsespätzle, schnitzel, wurst, certain kinds of steak, pommes frites (french fries) and a host of other dishes all became a part of our life. We loved German food, but never tried cooking it at home. I’m not sure why. Maybe we knew we couldn’t match what we were eating in the Gasthauses.

Then one day, the world changed. Around 1982, our local military newspaper, The Stars and Stripes*, started a monthly feature with recipes for different German dishes. Some were simple, some more complicated. I’d read the recipes, but didn’t really think much about them, and then one day, they published several soup recipes – Gulaschsuppe, Linseneintopf (Lentil Soup), Tomatencremesuppe (Tomato Soup), and at the bottom of the page – a recipe for Erbseneintopf! I promptly cut the recipe out of the paper.

A little faded, and tattered, but the recipe works just fine.

This was most excellent. I spoke with a German friend about the recipe and she thought it looked authentic. Her one suggestion was to swap out the boiled ham called for in the recipe and replace it with chopped up ham hock, or some smoky local German sausage. It was a good suggestion.

A week or two later, we made the dish for the first time and lightning struck. We couldn’t believe how much it tasted like the restaurant version. The ham hocks provided the smokiness, while the “Melbutter” (see recipe – a mixture of flour and butter) thickened the soup. This baby was a keeper. At the time it was actually one of the very few dishes I cooked, or could cook. Yea, I did steaks, burgers and brats on the grill, but cooking something in the kitchen? I was out of my league there. This soup was probably just about it.

A bowl of Erbseneintopf. Still delicious, after all these years.

Erbseneintopf has remained a part of my winter repertoire ever since. I’ve only made one change since cooking it that first time. Here in the States, it’s sometimes hard to find good German sausage, or ham hocks with a bit more meat on them. As a result, I often substitute a smoked turkey leg for the ham hocks. It gets the job done.

Looking for a good winter soup on a cold, snowy day? Erbseneintopf might be just what you need. It’s peasant food at it’s best. As with many soups and stews, it’s even better on the second day.

Addendum:

⁃ * The Stars and Stripes newspaper was first published during the Civil war. Later, it was delivered to US forces in France during WWI, and became an overseas fixture during WWII. It continued through Korea and Vietnam, and is still published at overseas military locations to this day, although there were discussions during the Trump presidency of cancelling it (it wasn’t). It operates from inside DoD, but is editorially separate and independent from it. The newspaper has been published continuously in Europe since 1942.

⁃ I also struck pay dirt a month or two later when The Stars and Stripes published recipes for Spätzle and Käsespätzle, and our friends Jim and Res bought us a Spätzlemaker for Christmas. The Spätzlemaker is 40 years old now, and in great shape. We still use it a couple times of year.

⁃ My friend Tim Stouffer reminds me occasionally about my Cordon Bleu quest. He visited Cath and I several times throughout the ‘80s. On at least a couple of those visits, I know I inflicted my obsession with Cordon Bleu on him.

Zman is Gone

Zman is Gone

It’s always tough when a West Point brother dies, but this one hit me harder than most. Zman is gone. I’ve lost other classmates over the years, but Zman was the first from my company, and I felt a great sadness on hearing the news. I suppose it was sadness both for his passing, and the passing of our youth.

Dan Zimmermann was a big guy with a big personality. The kind of guy whose good mood was infectious. We had some good times at WooPoo U (West Point) our Firstie (Senior) year, although I also remember him studying a lot – he was taking P Chem, a class not for the faint of heart. Still, I remember an evening or two (or three) of partying.

Dan’s Graduation Picture

After graduation in 1978, we reunited several months later in Wurzburg, Germany. I was stationed with the 123d Signal Bn (3ID) at Hindenburg Kaserne, and he was across town with a Chemical unit. I can’t remember now if he was a part of 3ID or some other unit. Over the next three years, we managed to hit more than a few Bier and Wien Fests together in the surrounding area.

I remember one evening in ‘80 or ‘81 when the town he lived in held something called a “Heckenwirtschaft.” In Franconia, a part of Bavaria, small towns would occasionally allow the small wine growers to open their homes as limited seating “pubs” – an event called a “Heckenwirtschaft”. Dan’s landlord was one of the people who opened their homes. We spent the night wandering from house to house, and in their cellars or kitchens sampled some good white wines and wonderful homemade foods. It was a great time – one of those evenings when it’s just you and the locals, and because of Dan’s landlord, we were treated like locals as well. Nights like that don’t come around all that often and I remember it to this day. We may have overserved ourselves a bit that evening.

We lost track of each other after our next assignments and didn’t see each other for a couple of decades. In 2015, Cath and I held a mini-reunion for my West Point Company, B-3. There were about eighteen of us here for the weekend and Dan joined up at the last minute for the two nights of festivities. It’s funny, but the whole group of us clicked back together, as if it was Firstie year in 1978. There were stories told, both old and new. The bonds we’d forged decades before on the banks of the Hudson River still held strong.

We saw each other for what turned out to be the last time at our 40th reunion at West Point in 2018. He had become the National Sergeant at Arms for the American Legion, and told us about escorting both candidates, Secretary Clinton and Mr. Trump, to the stage in 2016, when each spoke at the Legion’s National Meeting prior to the election.

B-3 Classmates at the 40th Reunion in 2018. Dan is in the Center in the Back.

In 2020, Cathy and I were going to hold another mini B-3 reunion in May here in Warrenton, Virginia. Dan and I traded emails and spoke, and he was planning to come. Unfortunately, in April, we cancelled the get-together due to Covid. Dan called me after that and we talked for about 10 or 15 minutes about Covid, along with this and that. It was the last time we spoke with each other. He didn’t mention the lung cancer he already knew he was dying of.

It’s Forty-some years since our graduation from West Point in 1978 and those years have passed much too quickly. I think of Dan, and my other classmates, both living and dead. Our class will still have plenty of good times together, and many more reunions. Having said that, the chapel service honoring our departed classmates at those reunions becomes just a little sadder each time.

I’ve also been thinking about the great Dire Straits/Mark Knopfler song, “Brothers in Arms” and it’s refrain,

You did not desert me

My brothers in arms…

Whenever I hear the song, I think of both West Point and my time in the Army. The song is bittersweet, and also a testament to those who have served, and the brotherhood that exists between them. Released in 1985, it also reminds me of my 8 1/2 years with the Army in Germany that decade.

And of course, I can’t help but remember the song “The Corps” from West Point. It celebrates the continuity of The Long Gray Line, past, present and future.

Grip hands with us now tho’ we see not. Grip hands with us strengthen our hearts … Grip hands, tho’ it be from the shadows…

Rest In Peace Zman, Rest in Peace. You are gone, but not forgotten.

Grip Hands …

Addendum:

– You can read Dan’s official obituary here, if you so desire. https://www.mvfh.org/guestbook/daniel-zimmermann . Dan is survived by his wife Mary Lepley, and three children.

– My classmate COL Chuck Allen (Ret) captured that 2015 B-3 Company get together pretty perfectly in this article: https://cumberlink.com/print-specific/article_9ce2a381-0218-5973-b12e-1196218b230d.html . Chuck is still doing great work and teaching Leadership at the Army War College.

– Thanks as always to my friend Colleen for her super editorial assistance. I’m alway thankful for her corrections to my poor English. I’m better than when I started this blog 5 years ago, but still have room for improvement. Thanks Colleen!