I keep seeing videos of drunk England fans in Germany. All appear to have lost cognitive function; their limbs have become floppy and movements uncoordinated. Some are worse still, fast asleep, the sound of car horns, crowds and drumbeats proving no match for their inebriation.
In one video, a man is slumped haphazardly on his al fresco bar seat and those around him, friends and passers-by are placing beermats on the top of his head. There must be around 20 of them balancing keenly while he snores like a veritable fool.
In another, a man is in perfect slumber on the front porch of a housing block somewhere in Frankfurt. He has clearly outdone himself, pints aplenty, and his bald head has proven to be the perfect foundation upon which to rest half a lager. It does not topple in the video, though at some point I’m sure it would have.
Intoxicated performances such as these are par for the course when it comes to football. We’ve all been there. Nothing wrong with it so long as violence doesn’t ensue. But these sleeping folk ought to remedy their zealotry by eating something. Germany is no France, Spain or Italy when it comes to food, but it offers much, generous and true, and its foodstuffs are perfect antidotes to beer.
My first adventure in Germany led me to Berlin. I love Hamburg and its herring sandwiches, and currywurst from just about anywhere in the country, but Berlin is where England fans will end up if we progress in the tournament. As I write this, we have just played out a dour, uninspiring draw against Denmark, but English football is nothing without blind optimism, especially in big tournaments.
Berlin is a wonderful food city. I’m not here to define its culture or cuisine – I’ve only been a couple of times – but one thing I would tell any travelling England fan to do is find a kebab. If doner meat thrust chaotically into fluffy bread is a surefire way to encourage sobriety in the UK, it is almost a religion in Berlin, where about one in 10 people comes from a Turkish background or has Turkish heritage.
I adore the kebab scene there. Shops appear fuzzily on almost every corner, many are open much later than those here – some are 24-hour – and even the ones without much of a reputation will probably serve you something acceptable.
After however many drinks, a tangle of meat-ribbons under garlic sauce and chilli, lettuce to soften, tomatoes to bring umami and onions for tangy thrusts of acid, all in soft bread that soaks up the grease, is a spiritual experience, a transcending one. The pleasure received from a kebab is mighty.
As I said before, for most England fans, I imagine any kebab shop will do. Those in search of something altogether righteous might listen to the sommelier Billy Wagner, from the restaurant Nobelhart & Schmutzig – number 43 on the World’s 50 Best Restaurants list 2024 – who recommends Izmir Köfte in Kreuzberg. It opened in 1993 and dishes out generous sandwiches and exceptional meat plates.
Tim Raue, one of Germany’s most successful chefs and owner of his eponymous, two Michelin-star restaurant in Berlin, suggests Mustafa’s Gemüse Kebap, also in Kreuzberg. It is apparently hugely popular with the Turkish community as well as those from other backgrounds.
Notable too – ask just about anyone – is Imren Grill, a small chain of kebab shops with sites across the city. Disappointment is never a risk, which sadly cannot be said about the England football team.
But my fondest memories were forged at Bistro Istanbul, an all-night location in Warschauer Straße, not far from the East Side Gallery and a famous super-club. It might not be the best, but it is a happy, soulful place, where portions are rambunctious and the meat fatty and robust in its haphazardness; the falafel are excellent, too, and service is speedy.
My last trip there was, as is so often the case in Berlin, hazy. It is a city that fosters such escapades: day blends charmingly into night, lights flash, shots arrive, sausages dance about the place in their spicy, cylindrical way. At the end of it all is a kebab. A fortifying, gratifying dish, best washed down with a sobering beer, the meat plunging down gently, bringing it – whatever it may be – home.
