Beautiful, cultured, sophisticated Lubeck. Home to one of the best run of basic pubs since the Offerton crawl last year left Mrs RM in a state of shock.
After four nights in a Danish Youth Hostel, my good lady went upmarket with this booking as prices dropped sharply in Germany. Even so, the Phoenix Hotel looked a bit more expensive than my usual Travelodge, with chocolates on the pillow, working Wi-Fi and bits of ancient Greece in the spa bath.
Promising the boys some authentic German cuisine later, we popped out to explore the UNESCO World Heritage site. The astonishing thing is that this is the city whose targeted bombing by the RAF in 1942 led to the retaliatory Baedeker raids. You’d never know.
Beautiful or not, Mrs RM and her foot weren’t too happy about the narrow cobbled streets I’m always keen to explore, so it was a case of “closest pub now !”.
As always, the European Beer Guide is our starting point, even if it is a bit old now. Closest, and therefore first up, is the traditional one, Brauberger. An authentic non-authentic brew gastropub if ever I saw one.
You know it’s traditional, as when you stand at the bar you get fairly sharply told to sit down and wait for the waiter. It’s no wonder Germans get confused over here;
How do you know what to do ? Sometimes in Germany I’ve just sat at the bar and ordered a beer and paid for it.
The Zwickelbier (from a Hobson’s choice) is fine, served from the barrel. And we get to sit at a barrel while Mrs RM passes comment, BRAPA-like, at a stream of elderly frau coming and going.
“They’ve just had their hair done”
“Look at those matching beige cardigans”
Good observations, though sadly no translation of banter from Mrs RM. My own observation was that this was a place that older women were coming to on their own, putting it firmly into the Wetherspoons category.
We felt very young, and Mrs RM’s foot felt better, so we pressed on towards something better, and headed towards Tibia Tick, perhaps the pub name of the year.
Halfway down Doktor Julius Leber Straße it becomes apparent we’re in a special place just by looking at the stickers on lamp posts..
Lemmy’s Pub isn’t in The Guide, but you’re not going to walk past it, are you ?
It’s a German parlour pub, of sorts. To the left, a few locals are watching a German quiz show where idiots get to lose vast sums of euros they thought they’d won.
At a small bar full of tat, a long communal seat tight to the wall (below) just invites you to sit and talk Brexit (not really) to the very lovely landlady.
It is wonderful, our English attempt to converse in German about the Berlin Wall and just how dull Cambridge really is.
We give up and watch a German idiot being consoled by a German Chris Tarrant. No doubt one of you can identify the show from the blurred image.
Here, we ran a tab, marked on a tiny scrap of paper in pencil, rather than the beer mats our host couldn’t have reached.
Two tiny Kolsch for me, a large Furstenberg for the lady. Mrs RM is really getting into this #BeerForHer thing.
“Would you like some parika crisps ?”
Would Mrs RM like crisps. Even in a blue bowl, yes she would.
We never did find out the Lemmy connection; perhaps our landlady plays bass in a local Motorhead cover band. Nothing seems impossible in Lubeck.
Before we left her to her furious glass cleaning, she offered us some fluorescent sweets to take back to the boys. They might conceivably constitute dinner.
We paid the bill. Five euros and ten cents.
An absolute gem, with even better to come.