You could take my parents out of Europe, but you couldn’t take Europe out of my parents. 

My mother and father both were born in Germany.  They came to the United States in 1941, separately and by completely different routes, at 19 and 20 years old, respectively.  As young people, they did what they could to live “normal, American lives.” They tried, but they were always a bit European.   They spoke perfect English, but much to their dismay, it was with German accents.  Their background affected their preferences in culture and entertainment, as they preferred the philharmonic to pop, and ballet to baseball.  Neither ever wore jeans.  That background of course had an impact on my life.  It affected our customs, activities, politics and approach to education.  Of course it had an impact on food as well, both because of what we ate, and in what setting it was consumed in.  We didn’t do “fast food.” Europeans tend to dine, not just eat, which is why we usually sat at a set table for meals.  European cuisine is based more on the subtle flavors of herbs and seasoning.  They don’t use hot sauce, which is why our house never saw a chili pepper.  My mother, who did the marketing, knew where to find her favorite dill sauce, but she wouldn’t have had a clue as to where to locate Tabasco.   

That same approach to food applied to sweets and desserts.  We had plenty of both. But the preference was for dark chocolate that was not quite as sweet as the usual American version.   There was nothing gooey.  There might be Almond Roca, but no marshmallows, and certainly no Snickers, Three Musketeers or Mounds.

My parents loved to host family dinners.  Whether it was a holiday, birthday, anniversary or perhaps Mothers’ or Fathers’ Day, they loved to have my family over.    In doing so, one could always count on a few things:  There would be a beautifully set table and a several course meal.  There would be bread, with real butter.  In addition to a well-prepared meal, the dining experience always included dessert.  No true meal is complete without something sweet to end it with.  What became routine was for my mother to frequent her favorite European bakery and bring home a German hazelnut cake.  She knew I liked it and always wanted me to have that luxury, increasing the odds that we’d return soon. This authentic confection consistently was absolutely perfect.  It was a perfect mixture of ground hazelnuts, mixed with cake and a light chocolate cream filling, all perfectly iced.  It was always perfectly round, with perfectly even layers of cake and filling, mixed together perfectly to make for a great dessert. It was beautiful and tasted as good as it looked. Add some coffee and it was in fact a true treat.  The flavor was not as intense as an American brownie or chocolate cake.  But for this European raised palate, it was great.

I practice medicine in Los Angeles.  It’s not exactly a farm town, so our patients don’t bring in chickens or eggs to pay their bills.  However it is not uncommon for them to bring in baked goods and the likes.  I had an older partner; he was an old-school doc in every way.  And old-school docs have old-school patients.  So one day, his patient, Fannie, came in for an appointment.  Now you know by the name that Fannie was not young, nor was she born in the United States.  Fannie was in fact a Survivor.  She loved and admired her doctor.  As an expression of her appreciation for him, that day she brought in something special for my colleague.  Word got out that she had awakened at 4AM to prepare a cake for him. It was a labor of love. 

It was morning in the office and word quickly spread that there was a freshly baked cake in the back room.  It sounded like something worth checking out.  So I headed to our kitchen area only to run into one of our staff on the way out.  She too had been interested in a mid-morning treat.  But as she was leaving the room, she emphatically exclaimed that the cake is “terrible.  It doesn’t taste like anything,” she said.  But I was still curious.  I proceeded to the kitchen.  And there it was.  I hadn’t seen one in years.  An actual German hazelnut cake.  Unlike what I used to get at my parents’ home, it didn’t stand up perfectly straight, the layers weren’t exactly even and the frosting wasn’t perfectly applied.  Still, I needed to give it a try.  I sliced off a piece, gave it a taste….and it was PERFECT.

Mark G. Bamberger, MD

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