The Best of the Wurst

 

 

Ladies and gentlemen . . . welcome to . . . the wiener fest. 

That’s right . . . because this blog doesn’t have enough dick jokes.

This . . . is The Best of the Wurst:  annual sausage festival in Hermann, Missouri.  Meat shops from all over Missouri and Illinois show off all the different kinds of sausage they make; you try, you buy; and of course, there’s a competition to see whose wurst is best.  Six bucks for all the wieners you want to taste in your mouth; eleven vendors; two-hundred twenty-three different varieties.  More meat than the average person can handle.  In the mouth.

Really had you guys goin’ there, with all that “on a break from meat” stuff, didn’t I?           

            Hermann, Missouri, is a town rife with tradition and culture.  An old town; a town with great appreciation for times long past, when life was simpler; people took their time, did things right, and—is that guy peeing?  That guy is totally peeing.

 

 

            Hermann is an old town that has preserved much of its German heritage, but Hermann is also a tourist town; its wineries and antique shops thrive off the many bachelorette parties and other groups of traveling drunkards that frequent the town.  I suppose our little crew falls under the latter category. 

We arrive early and set up camp.  We are the only tent campers; everyone else brought RVs.  Four people in one tent.  Things are going to get . . . cozy. 

            We waste no time and seek out the nearest tasting venue immediately.  The line’s not bad, we chat with a few other meat lovers as we move along, and soon we are toothpicking our ways through several sausage samples. 

            Little-known fact about The Butcher’s Apprentice:  I have never liked bratwurst.  That is, until a few weeks ago when I finally tried the apple cinnamon brats that we make at the shop.  After Tommy cranked everything out of the Dick Machine that he could, there was still about a handful of grind left in the bottom.  Burt formed that into a patty, smoked it, then slapped it on a plate and said, “There’s your lunch!”  And it was sweet and juicy and smoky—I’ve never had anything like it.  They’d make great breakfast sausages.

            I know there are lots of types of sausage besides bratwurst, but I had no idea there were so many different flavors you could infuse into sausage.  I mean sure, you have your cheese, beer, and jalapeno brats, your Cajun brats, your Andouille, your Chorizo, Italian, Bockwurst, Knackwurst, Kielbasa; but I’d never even conceived of some of the other flavor combinations:  Supreme Pizza Brats, Chili-Cheese Brats, Bacon-Cheeseburger Brats, Blueberry Sausage, Buffalo Blue Cheese Brats, Jalapeno & Peach Brats, Cherry Brats, Chicken Bacon Ranch Brats, and popular this year is the Rueben-Style Bratwurst . . . I even try a brat with Gummy Bears in it.  It isn’t that great; it isn’t like they repurposed the Gummy Bears for their flavor, it’s just whole Gummy Bears cooked into sausage.  It’s crossing genres (I have a thing about crossing genres—don’t get me started on barbecue chicken pizza IT’S NOT PIZZA); the tastes don’t blend. 

I learn something new about myself:  I like sweet brats; my favorites including the Cranberry Raspberry Chipotle Brat from Stonie’s Sausage Shop, Wright City Meat Co.’s Smoked Polynesian (honestly I liked every Polynesian sausage I tried), the Honey Mustard Brat from Schubert’s Packing, Hermann Wurst Haus’ Caramelized Pear and Gorgonzola Cheese Brat (bought a package), the Sun Dried Tomato Brat from Swiss Meat & Sausage Co. (to me that’s the only one that actually tasted like it had Sun Dried Tomato in it), and Heintz Processing’s Ukranian Ham Sausage. 

            A recurring problem I encounter is that almost every time I taste something that I can get at my shop, I think, “It’s okay, but ours is better. . . .”  None of the beef jerky even comes close to ours.  Same with the apple brats; ours stand out for the visible chunks of apple in them.  We normally have a sampling stand at the event, but this year Burt is still confined to his orthopedic boot, and Cory is out of town at a barbecue competition, so no one’s available to work a table. 

 

(Sassiges, sassiges, everywhere!) 

            Upon exiting the first venue, we come around the side of the building to a massive cauldron, bubbling and steaming.  We all poke our heads over it to try to see what’s cooking, and one of the “chefs” happily grabs a straining spoon to show us.  He lifts a pig head, ears, and trotters, along with cow tongue from the roiling juices.  Tomorrow they will be making head cheese, and tongue crostini.  Yum!

            Just behind this, a sausage-making demonstration is about to take place.  Our little group gathers around, and Bubba—the large, overall-clad gentleman at the helm of the Dick Machine (which is nothing at all like our Dick Machine but by this point “sausage stuffer” and “Dick Machine” have become synonymous in my mind)—points at me and says, “There’s our next volunteer!”  I stop in my tracks.  I’m not really the volunteer type; I’m typically a back-of-the-class kid.  My friends laugh.  I take off my bag and coat and reply, “You know me well sir!”

            Bubba cocks his head to one side, silently inquiring what I mean.

            I explain, “I work at a shop that normally has a table here.”

            His eyebrows raise.  “Really?  So you’ve done this before.”  At first he seems excited, then a bit disappointed; I imagine the sausage making demo isn’t as fun when the petite young woman he chooses to pick on isn’t going to be grossed out by handfuls of raw meat.

            We all listen and watch as Bubba does his spiel about using wine to lubricate their sausage grind (some is used on the sausage; a lot is used on the sausage maker).  He doesn’t let me do much, other than crank the handle on the small Dick Machine.  However, I did learn a new way to twist sausages two at a time.  You fold the encased meat back on itself so it lays on the table in a U shape, start at the bend in the U, and twist both arms of meat simultaneously.  Then you pull the end of one of the arms in between the two links you just formed to secure them.  Can’t wait to show Max and Tommy. 

 

(Let’s face it:  vegetables will never be this sexy.) 

            We hit up two more sausage houses, then the local brewery, which is (thankfully) hosting a blues band because I can’t take anymore polka.  Leave it to me to find the one blues band in a town full of polka bands. . . . and leave it to a brewery in Hermann to only have one of their own beers on tap.  They dropped the ball on that one big time.  Here we run into the couple we stood in line with at the first sausage venue; turns out they’re microbrew enthusiasts from St. Louis.  (Leave it to us to have to drive two hours away to meet people from our own town. . . .)  After a few beers we are all very good friends, exchange phone numbers, and hope to see each other at the local breweries when we get back home. 

            Finally, we hit the custard shop, and a few antique shops before heading back to camp.  Even on weekends, this whole town shuts down at 6pm.  Storm’s rolling in, so we halfheartedly try to find firewood on the way back, unsuccessfully.  At the gas station nearest the park, I am commanded:  “You’re cute; go inside and find out where we can get some wood.”  Oh, you want some wood?  I’ll get ya some wood.

            I enter the gas station to find two female attendants behind the counter.  I got this shit. 

            “Excuse me, ladies; do you happen to know where I could buy some firewood?”

            “Are you over in the park?”

            “Yup.”

            “Hang on one sec, hun, let me write down Big Ron’s number for ya.” 

            That’s what I thought.

            “Just call that number, and he’ll deliver the wood right to ya.” 

            Just as it begins to rain, Big Ron backs his truck across the grass right up to the fire pit; curbs and grass mean nothing to this man.  He jumps down from the cab; tall and lean, grey hair, leather jacket.  While we unload the logs and stash them under the picnic table to keep them dry, Big Ron throws some kindling in the fire pit, and arranges a few logs on top.  Then he produces—seemingly from out of thin air—an unmarked Tupperware container filled with a dark liquid, which he immediately and unquestioningly dumps all over the wood.  He pulls a lighter from a pocket inside his leather jacket, and whoom—we have fire. 

            In a deep, gravely voice he asks, “Any a’ ya’ll ride motorcycles?”

            Everyone looks at me.

            “I do.”

            Big Ron looks a little skeptical.  He holds his fists out in front of him, in the universal gesture signifying motorcycle handlebars, and asks, “You ride?”  He thinks I look more the type to ride on the backs of bikes. 

            “Yeah.”

            “What kinda bike?” 

            “Honda Rebel four-fifty.”

            He pulls out his phone and proudly shows me pictures and videos of his 1100cc baby (bit larger than mine).  We bond instantly. 

            As he hops back into his truck, he says, “Any time you guys are in town, gimme a call and I’ll take care of ya.”  And off he goes, into the night, back from whence he came.

            Big Ron is all right in my book.   

            Next morning we wake up to three inches of snow on the ground, a relentless wind, and snow still furiously falling.  A little precipitation doesn’t ruffle our feathers, though; we break camp and head in town for breakfast at the firehouse:  eggs, locally made sausage, pancakes, Bs & Gs—they’re not as good as mine, but they’re not bad.  We are the only non-locals there; the snowstorm seems to have scared off all the other out-of-towners. 

            “Okay, what next?”

            “Well the antique stores are all closed.”

            “And the army surplus shop.”

            “The head cheese demonstration’s been cancelled.”

            “The tasting houses are all . . . shut down.”

            We drive around a bit, and see a sign by the side of the road, partially covered in snow and tilted almost horizontally by the wind, but the sign says “Open,” so we park and enter an old red brick building that has been beautifully refurbished. 

            A lone voice calls out, “Must be some brave souls to be out in this.”  The only other warm body in the building is a balding, bespectacled man hammering sparks off a red hot piece of steel rod. 

            We have stumbled across the blacksmithing demonstration.

 

            For the next two and a half hours, we watch this guy forge candle snuffers, steak flippers, picture hooks, bullets, crosses, swords, and other trinkets.  He talks about the building’s history, the town’s history, the history of blacksmithing . . . the building also has a whole tin pressing set up the blacksmith uses to make his own cookie cutters, lamps, gutter covers, and countless other things.  He also owns an antique shop in town (I wager that if we’d gone in there, we wouldn’t have come out till next week).  This guy has stories, and they’re good stories, so we listen.   

            Finally, we decide it’s time to head home; we’ve had our fill of meat, and the storm’s not supposed to let up until tomorrow night, so we have a long road to home.  I can’t be sure, but after stuffing myself with all that sausage, I might need to lay off the meat for a while. . . .

(Inside the brewery.)