the knife. ‘Do you know why you’re here?’
Kapur gulped, his heart pounding in his throat. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘One more question,’ Mueller said as he turned off the flame and faced his guest for the very first time. ‘Do you enjoy curry?’
The topic caught Kapur off guard. ‘Excuse me?’
Wearing a white apron over his dress shirt and tie, Mueller carried the platter of sausages across the kitchen and set it on a large butcher’s block. Made of maple, it sat in the centre of the workspace and was partially covered with kitchen equipment. ‘It’s a simple question, really. One I thought you could answer without much difficulty - especially considering your heritage. You are Indian, correct?’
Kapur nodded from the opposite side of the wood.
Mueller, a fit German in his forties with a military haircut and eyes as black as coal, glared at his guest. ‘I believe I asked you a question. If you’re unwilling to answer me verbally, my men will gag you once again. Is that what you’d prefer?’
Kapur shook his head. ‘No, sir.’
A smile returned to Mueller’s face. ‘Good. You are Indian, correct?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Mueller stared at him, sizing him up. ‘Do you enjoy curry?’
Kapur nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Very much, sir.’
Mueller leaned closer. ‘Do you like it … spicy?’
‘Yes, sir. Very spicy.’
Mueller considered Kapur’s answer, then nodded his approval. ‘This restaurant, once the renovations are finished, will serve the finest currywurst in all of Germany. Are you familiar with the dish?’
‘No, sir.’
Mueller gasped in surprise. ‘You are an Indian living in Berlin, and you are not familiar with currywurst? How can this be?’
Kapur swallowed hard. ‘I haven’t been here long. Only a month.’
‘A month,’ Mueller echoed, letting the words hang in the air like smoke from the grill. ‘You are correct. You have been here a month. One month exactly. One month to this very day.’
Kapur nodded. He was very aware of the date. ‘Yes, sir.’
Mueller took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, trying to control his rage. ‘Even so, you cannot go anywhere in this city without passing a currywurst stand every fifty feet. I am surprised that an Indian, such as yourself, did not smell the spice and stop for a taste of your homeland. To me, that’s inconceivable. Tell me, are you a vegetarian?’
Kapur shook his head. ‘No, sir.’
‘Wonderful!’ Mueller exclaimed as he jabbed one of the sausages with his knife. ‘Then allow me to make you a plate. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but you are the only Indian I know. Personally, I feel it would be a wasted opportunity if I didn’t get your opinion.’
‘Of course, sir. Whatever you want, sir.’
Mueller reached to his right and grabbed a metal contraption that Kapur had never seen. It had a wide opening on top, a handle on the side, and several blades in the middle. ‘A woman named Herta Heuwer invented this dish way back in 1949. As you probably know, Berlin was in horrible shape after the war, and supplies were at a minimum. Herta had a street stand in the Charlottenburg district where she grilled pork wurst for construction workers rebuilding the city. One day she was given some ketchup, Worcestershire sauce, and curry powder by British soldiers and decided to make a sauce to pour over her wurst.’
After sliding the sausage into the top of the machine, Mueller placed a dish underneath the contraption, and then pulled the handle with a loud thwack! A second later, several bite-size pieces of sausage tumbled into the dish.
Mueller grinned with delight. ‘Currywurst was so popular with the workers that word spread round the city. Within two years, she was selling over ten thousand servings a week. Her recipe was so beloved she had it patented. To this day, there is still a plaque in Charlottenburg that marks the spot where her stand once stood.’
Mueller momentarily turned his back in order to get his sauce from the stove. Kapur, who was still completely naked, eyed the knife on the butcher’s block but thought better of it. Even if he managed to stab Mueller, there was no way he’d get past the guards, who were watching him from the far side of the kitchen.
‘Obviously,’ Mueller said as he grabbed the saucepan from the stove, ‘many chefs have tweaked Herta’s recipe over the years. Nowadays there are all kinds of variations. Some are made with paprika. Some are made with onions. Some are made with tomato paste. As hard as this is to believe, over eight hundred