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It would be doing Herr Sorgenpfennig an eternal injustice did we pass over it in silence, more especially as he boasts of it as real “North German fare.” Here we have it: raw herrings to begin with. Bah! I confess this does not sound well upon the first blush; but, then, a raw dried herring is somewhat different to one salted in a barrel. To cook it would be a sacrilege, say the Germans.
And our “Licht Braten?” Herr Sorgenpfennig rubs his short, fat hands, and his round eyes twinkle again, as he tells his little cluster of “Herren Gesellen” that there will be a feast, a sumptuous abendbrod, to inaugurate the commencement of candle-light. The “Licht Braten,” as this entertainment is called, is one of the old customs of Hamburg now falling into disuse.
We endeavour so far to conform to the rules of propriety as to escape the imprisonment and other penalties that await the “unruly journeyman.” The table of Herr Sorgenpfennig is our own, and a very liberal one it is esteemed to be. Let me sketch you a few of its items: delicious coffee, “white bread and brown,” or rather black, and unlimited butter, make up our breakfast.
We have heard the little jangling bells in the church pews, and they will not ring in tune, although they tell the deeds of charity; we have marched staidly home, and joined in Herr Sorgenpfennig’s blessing over the midday meal;—Herr Sorgenpfennig delivers it with the presence and intonation of an Eastern patriarch, standing among his tribe;—and the delicacies of German cookery having fulfilled their purpose and disappeared, with a whispered grace and a bow of humbleness, we sidle out of the room, and leave the “Herr Meister” to his meditations and his punch.
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