Travel
Franconia, a German region largely contained within northern Bavaria, is home to dozens of varieties of sausages. These are hyper-local specialities, often eaten only in particular areas, cooked using exacting methods, and featuring flavours from marjoram to cheese.
ByTom Burson
Photographs BySlawek Kozdras
Published February 17, 2024
This article was produced by National Geographic Traveller (UK).
“Welcome to the oldest bratwurst kitchen in the world,” says Sofia Hilleprandt, as I duck beneath the wooden ceiling beams. “This wood was cut in 1379.” One of the beams has a cushion attached to it, no doubt because it’s concussed a patron or two. On the walls are weathered pots and pans, alongside knick-knacks and trinkets such as old beer mugs and faded portraits.
Sofia runs Zum Gulden Stern, a 600-year-old bratwurst kitchen, or bratwurstküche, in the heart of Nuremberg’s Old Town. The building is so aged the brick facade leans inward, creating a simultaneously unnerving yet cosy ambiance, which pairs well with the open kitchen’s flaming grill. It’s just before noon and already the restaurant is buzzing with hungry diners. A few dozen sausages are sizzling on the grill. In Nuremberg, you don’t just order one sausage, you order a dozen, and as well as grilled you can order them smoked or ‘sour’ — stewed in white wine, vinegar and onions.
In Germany, sausage varieties are like dialects, and your preference often tells a story about where you’re from. Müncheners love weisswurst (white sausage); beef sausage is the choice in Frankfurt; and Berliners, especially, love currywurst, an uncased pork sausage coated in curry sauce. Meanwhile, Franconia — a region that predominantly encompasses the northern chunk of Bavaria as well as some neighbouring states (but don’t dare call the people here Bavarian) — is arguably the epicentre of the country’s contentious sausage debate. Locals pledge allegiance to obscure varieties that are, in some cases, known by perhaps a few thousand people at most.
“So many sausage varieties are crafted here,” says chef and TV presenter Alexander Herrmann, who operates three restaurants across Franconia. “But it’s not just about variety. You have craftsmen who make the sausages. They have experience, quality, craftsmanship that’s very well felt.”
At Zum Gulden Stern, the speciality is Nürnberger bratwurst, a pork sausage that, as per its EU protected geographical indication, must be no longer than 9cm, weigh no more than 25g, and have been produced within Nuremberg’s city limits to a traditional recipe, stipulated by the city’s butchers’ guild in 1497. Compliance is strictly monitored. The key ingredient is a hefty dose of marjoram, which gives the meat its signature flavour.
Sofia — who’s spent her entire life in the restaurant, even showing me pictures of her as a baby snoozing in a bassinet in the dining room — recommends I order the platter. It contains six grilled sausages, six sour and six smoked, along with sides of sauerkraut and potato salad, and a horseradish dipping sauce. I bite into a rostbratwurst — the grilled version. I’m smacked in the face by the marjoram, and impressed by the even crispness of the skin, every millimetre a burnt umber. “That’s how you can tell it’s fresh,” says Sofia. “It will brown like this if it goes on the grill raw and white. If it’s pre-cooked, it only browns on the top and bottom.”
Next is the sour version, which, Sofia says, “must be made with Franconian silvaner”, a local white wine. Visually, the pale sausages bear an uncomfortable resemblance to fingers, their skins taking on an almost bluish tone in the bowl of clear broth. But the dish is much more delectable than it looks, coating my mouth with the acidic tang of all that vinegar and wine. Sour is an understatement. As for the smoked variety, jerky is the closest comparison — something you might eat with your hands on a road trip rather than sitting down in a restaurant with a knife and fork.
As we eat, Sofia details the history of her family’s restaurant, how the city wanted to tear it down, a fire in 2015, and all the masonry her late father put in to preserving the place. It’s extraordinary Zum Gulden Stern is even standing, let alone operating.
Another of the city’s few remaining classic bratwurst houses is Bratwursthäusle bei St Sebald. Sausages have been grilled here since 1312, and the tradition’s still going strong. Men sit at high tables outside, guzzling the signature rotbier (red beer) as visitors try to gauge how many sausages is too many; as tradition dictates, they’re sold by the half-dozen (though there’s also the option of ordering a drei im weggla — a roll stuffed with three grilled Nürnbergers). I order two dozen, along with potato salad, a pretzel and a glass of riesling. The sausages, which arrive on a kitsch heart-shaped plate, are crisp and bathed in a wonderful dose of fat. By the time I finish my meal I realise I’ve also polished off the jar of mustard that was on the table.
Sacred sausages
From Nuremberg I travel west to the imperial city of Würzburg, where I begin a cycle ride along the river Main, crossing miles of vineyards. I pass through medieval wine towns including Sommerhausen, with its centuries-old, pastel-coloured houses, where little plates of fruit sit on porches as offerings to passersby. I stop at a cafe to enjoy a glass of bacchus before reaching Sulzfeld am Main, a village full of family-run wineries and timber-framed buildings with colourful bouquets bedecking each windowsill. I’ve come here to try the town’s famed meterbratwurst, a sausage invented at local restaurant Zum Goldenen Löwen in the 1950s, and whose almost-too-literal name reflects its length.
“As legend goes, a local canoe club from Würzburg stopped by for lunch, and one patron loved the sausage so much that he said he could eat a whole metre of it,” Peter Stark, who heads up the restaurant’s kitchen, tells me. “‘No problem,’ says my grandfather. ‘Come by next week, and I’ll give you a whole metre.’”
Peter grew up here, cooking his first meterbratwurst at the age of 10 but not managing to finish a whole one until he hit 14. He estimates about 30 or 40 customers order it per day, with most finishing it off, and one diner even managing a record seven metres.
The sausages are prepared simply: seared and served with a choice of sides. Peter places a dollop of potato salad on my plate and tops it with the snakelike, coiled sausage. I tuck in and it’s surprisingly light, with firm skin, a peppery flavour with a hint of marjoram, and a pleasingly coarse texture. This is no mere novelty — it’s tasty, and I have no problem scarfing down the entire metre, the vinegary potato salad and a glass of silvaner. After the meal I hop back on my bike, and suddenly fullness hits. I decide to take the train to Coburg instead.
For 50 years, Ralf Boseckert has been a master of the Coburger bratwurst. He’s 67, a pensioner, and — unfortunately — one of the few remaining butchers making his city’s eponymous snack. He estimates he’s made roughly five million bratwursts in his lifetime. Much like the Nürnberger bratwurst, the Coburg version dates back over 500 years, with the first recipe appearing in 1498. It’s as sacred to Coburgers as the Morizkirche — the church where Martin Luther preached in 1530 — and at the top of the city hall is the ‘bratwurstmännle’ (little bratwurst man), which has been there since the 18th century. In the statue’s right hand is a rod, generally recognised by the people of Coburg as the official bratwurst measure, 31cm.
“We have a strict recipe,” says Ralf, sternly. “There must be no ingredients in it that aren’t natural. No artificial flavours, additives or phosphates. Only natural spices and meat.” The composition is roughly 80% pork and bacon and 15% beef, with the remainder made up of fresh egg, a touch of lemon and seasonings such as salt, pepper and nutmeg.
I head to the city square, where a little stall sells rows of Ralf’s sausages, grilling over pinecones — the traditional way of cooking them. Every so often, a trickle of fat drips into the fire and a plume of smoke emerges. I buy one for €3 (£2.60), and its presentation is comical. A small, round roll barely contains the long, blackened sausage, which droops down from each end. What’s more, the bun is sliced across the top, rather than the sides. “It’s practical because you can eat from both sides and occasionally bite into the bun,” Ralf says. The bratwurst is coarse — so coarse you can see specks of bacon fat — and the texture resembles minced meat. The flavour of the pinecone smoke is intense, but slightly sweet.
Food of the people
From Coburg, I amble across the countryside, passing wheat fields, forests and small farms. Every so often a village or town appears, often marked by a derelict factory on its outskirts, followed by red-tiled roofs and a towering cathedral. At one point I spot beer tents, from which young men in lederhosen and women in dirndls emerge, stumbling about with helles — pale lagers — in hand.
A few more farms and fields later, I make a pit stop in Kulmbach to try one of the city’s famous bratwurst stands. There, the choices are the classic grilled sausage or the more daring ausgstrafta, which is simply raw pork topped with onions. As I still have an hour or more on the road, I play it safe with a bratwurst, which comes wedged into a long, aniseed-coated bun and topped with a ribbon of mustard. It’s shorter than a Coburger and the meat’s more finely ground, with veal finding its way into the mixture, too.
My next destination, Hof, is a place that’s as much about the spectacle as the sausage. The tradition of the wärschtlamo — the ‘sausage man’ in local dialect — dates back to 1871, when sausages were first sold on the street here. The goal was to bring sausages to the people, rather than relying on foot traffic to the butcher. In Hof’s old town there’s a wärschtlamo on nearly every block, identifiable by their coal-fired brass cauldrons filled with an array of sausages. Some are chilli-spiced, others cheese-stuffed. There are skinny wieners and Hungarian debreceners. I opt for a chilli sausage, a spicy chilli-cheese käsedebreziner, and a cheese-stuffed käseknacker. Because the sausages are steamed and their fillings finely ground, there’s minimal crispness beyond the snap of the skin, but, after one bite, cheese oozes out of both the käsedebreziner and käseknacker, and I know I’ve made a good choice. The chilli in the debreceners, meanwhile, provides less fiery heat and more paprika-like smokiness.
After a visit to the wärschtlamo statue to pay my respects I begin my journey back towards Nuremberg, stopping along the way at Alexander Herrmann’s two-Michelin-starred restaurant, Posthotel, in the village of Wirsberg. Here, the chef serves haute renditions of home-style Franconian dishes. The menu, though, is complex, emphasising fermentation, pickling, smoking and salting. And, of course, bratwurst remains close to his heart. “It’s the food of the people,” Alexander says. His take is a schiefertrüffel bratwurst, a sausage infused with a variety of black truffle native to the forests around Wirsberg. The coarse pork sausage is rich, with the truffle adding an earthy, mushroomy flavour. The plate may be part of a €219 (£190) six-course menu, but, to Alexander, it serves as an homage to the landscape and heritage of this remote village.
By the end of my trip, I’ve seen so many iterations of sausage that I’m surprised butcher Ralf is concerned about its future. “I’m afraid that in 10 or 20 years, we’ll have almost no butchers and only large sausage factories,” he tells me. In Nuremberg there were once hundreds of bratwurst houses. Today, just a few remain. Ralf’s son has shown little interest in following in his father’s footsteps, but Ralf holds out hope that he’ll pass down the family recipe.
Alexander is more optimistic. “Here in Franconia, we have so many small farms that are heading into the next generation with young farmers, and many are trying to adapt to the cuisine. This is really extraordinary,” he says. “You can’t do this anywhere else because nowhere else has the diversity and infrastructure of the farmers.”
It’s easy to see why Franconians are so combative about their local sausages. For many people, they’re not merely fast food or something to whack on the barbecue. They’re the taste of home.
How to do it:
Kirker Holidays offers a six-night tour of Franconia with stops in Nuremberg, Würzburg, Bamberg, and Bayreuth for £2,659 per person including flights, six nights’ accommodation with breakfast, three dinners, all entrance fees and gratuities.
Getting there
Rail travel from London to Nuremberg is possible with Eurostar and German ICE trains, transferring in Brussels then Frankfurt or Cologne. British Airways flies direct from Heathrow to Nuremberg and Ryanair from Stansted. KLM flies with one stop from UK airports including Bristol and Manchester.
Where to stay
Das Paul Restaurant & Hotel in Nuremberg has doubles from €94 (£81) a night, room only.
For more information visit tourismus.nuernberg.de
This story was created with support from Nuremberg Tourism.
Published in Issue 22 (winter 2023) of Food by National Geographic Traveller (UK).
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