Melt, Galettes & Crêpes, Friedrichshain

You know how when you are waiting for a bus, nothing comes for an hour, then out of nowhere 5 of them appear? Berlin’s got the “no bus - Op! too many buses’ syndrome.  I’m not talking about obvious things, like curry wurst or burgers, rather more fringe snacks like bubble tea.  These days I can’t walk down a street without seeing a shop announce “New! Bubble Tea!” (oh and I totally own up to the fact that as I type this, I have a Bubble’s Tea loyalty card in my wallet. What can I say?  It keeps me young, to behave like the young.).  Crepes is another one, most neighborhood markets will have one guy doing crepes.  Given that reality, it’s hard to get motivated to go have a crepe. To go to Friedrichshain and have a crepe.  Twice. Because the first time I went they were closed.  As was Factory Girl and I really wanted to know what this whole Magnolia thing they keep going on about is? Say Magnolia to me and I think of Tom Cruise, it’s raining frogs or red armadillo wedding cake and Julia Roberts looking fresh and happy, like a bright yellow daffodil (obviously less so by the end of the movie).  But neither of those two images come into play, at Factory Girl, Magnolias are a riff on tiramisu but with flavours like apple crumble or cookies and cream.  They come dolloped on top of bespoke ceramic square plates.  I was served by a very friendly man, who kept plying me with free samples of Magnolia in a bid to get me to commit to one, which I couldn’t because although they are pleasant, they don’t have much texture, like Eton Mess without the meringue and I am always going on about how I’m a texture girl.  I ordered a coffee to go.  It wasn’t stellar.

Cruelly I am at once entirely addicted to coffee (seriously, I wake up in the morning thinking ‘coffeeeeee!’) while being simultaneously very sensitive to the effects of caffeine, meaning I am dead tired yet hyperventilating lying down.  Not fun.  Therefore, if I’m going to mess up precious R.E.M time (not the shiny happy people kind) then it’s gotta be - outstanding!  I won’t go so far as to say ‘God in a Cup‘ level but let’s say, I’m discerning.I take my Factory Girl coffee for a walk around Friedrichshain.  It’s keeping my hands warm but I’m not drinking it, which is making me feel guilty about having spent 2 Euros whatever and then not drinking it (Sometimes I think  I could run circles around Woody Allen’s racing thoughts).

I see Melt.  I walk in.  I set my cup on the counter.  The young French man who owns the shop comes over to me and says hello (auf Deutsch).  ’Hi!” I chirp (in American), it comes out a little loud, perhaps a bit black labrador seeing it’s about to be taken out for a walk.  There’s a split second where he realizes I don’t know what I want yet, there is a flicker of annoyance, perhaps it’s his nostrils that flare.  All of a sudden I am back in Paris, where this kind of subtle jousting between customer and shop owner is a given.  It’s not rudeness, no it’s more elusive.  It’s a weighing up that takes place in a matter of - well in a second, where they decide how they will interact with you.  Possible categories include, like a piece of gum lodged in the grooves of their shoe, like an imbecile, like you are a C. Deneuve - although it goes without saying that the last one almost never happens.  I take a few moments to reminisce about my University days in Paris.  He tidies.  He has that clipped walk that I remember so well.

I get his attention and order in French.  A galette with Emmental, ham and egg.  And I ask him to throw away my cappuccino and order a cappuccino.
“It’s full?” he inquires.
“You didn’t like it?”
“No.”  I throw down my gauntlet.
“You will like ours.’ he picks it up, dusts it off and hands it back with chin held high.Alrighty then, how I miss the psychological finesses of Paris.  Well, sometimes, when I’m being romantic about it and because I don’t live there anymore.

He makes me a coffee with a perfect micro-foam and pours it into the smallest cappuccino cup I’ve seen for some time, which makes me glad, I hate too much warm milk sloshing around in my stomach.
“Caramel?” He asks.
“No.” I think of Starbucks, chai, caramel, sickly stickiness.
I doubt my decision instantly. ”Ok, maybe a bit.”
“It’s French caramel not too sweet, not like the American kind.” clearly a small slap in the face with the afore-mentioned gauntlet, just to keep me on my tippy toes, because he thinks I’m American.  He pours out a curly cue and it’s not too sweet, I enjoy my coffee.I also enjoy my galette, cooked for me by a young English girl with black nail polish, made with Treblec buckwheat flour.  I see the effort that goes into every galette or crepe that she makes.  The man next to me orders an apple crepe.  She makes it, shapes it into a pentagon, fills a metal ring with baked apple, swipes across it with slashes of caramel and then takes a Physalis, opens up its papery skin, and twists it on top, like a jaunty quiff.  The man next to me eats it very fast.

That story you just read, it is possible that I imagined that whole thing and in reality; girl walked in, ordered a coffee and a crepe, she got it, she ate it, she paid for it and she went on her way.  But who would want to read that?

In other news, I made these peanut butter and chocolate chip cookies that I read about over on Orangette.  They are…delicious.  If you have any kind of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups leanings, this will be your thing.  

Melt, “Eat Crepes not Crap”
Grünbergerstr. 40
Mon, Wed - Thurs: 8:00 - 20:00
Tuesday: closed
Fri: 8:00 - 0:00
Sat - Sun: 9:00 - 20:00

Factory Girl
Krossener Straße 16
030 2977 0225

4 Responses to Melt, Galettes & Crêpes, Friedrichshain

  1. ceciliag says:

    GREAT! and I love that you bought a coffee that you did not like and then took it into the next place and plunked it down and said get rid of it! .. or did you.. mmm..nice cookies! c

  2. Sasa says:

    I’m sort of yelping and snorting - your writing is getting more and more hilarious…Or I could be getting a little hysterical here in study hell. No, I think the first thing.

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