Fränkische Bratwurst

Fränkische Bratwurst belongs to Franconia, not to the beer-tent postcard. It sits on market squares, weekday grills, Kirchweih festivals, and simple family tables, usually in a split Weggla, a crusty roll, with mustard sharp enough to wake up the pork. This is not one German sausage. Im Norden anders, im Süden anders. Nuremberg makes them small and serves three in a roll; Coburg grills over pine cones; further west they run longer, coarser, and more strongly marjoram-scented.

I cook it the way a home stove allows: poach first, brown second. The poach sets the sausage gently and brings the middle to temperature before the pan starts shouting at the casing. Throw a raw Bratwurst into a hard hot pan and the outside splits before the inside is done, and then the fat runs out. That isn't browning. That's waste.

Keep the water below a boil. A tremble is enough. Then dry the sausages well and brown them slowly in a little fat until the skin turns deep gold with dark spots and feels tight under the tongs. Mustard from a jar is allowed here because mustard is a condiment, not a fake sauce. The sausage still has to be good. Nicht aus dem Glas does not mean you make every spoon in the cupboard.

Serve it in a warm roll with sauerkraut if you want the larder on the plate. Weggeworfen wird nichts: leftover poaching liquor, if it is clean and not too salty, can loosen kraut or start tomorrow's lentils. Schön ist, was schmeckt.