Just when I was beginning to despair of fine food in literature from Northern Europe, I come across Bernhard Schlink's Self's Deception, in which an ex-Nazi public prosecutor-turned-private-eye likes to devour delicacies in the midst of antagonising his girlfriend and making enemies of various other folks. Gerhard Self lives in Mannheim, and he wants to have a spot of breakfast.
On the third day, I was in the mood to go out for breakfast. Since the Café Gmeiner has been replaced by a restaurant serving foie gras in Jurançon gelée and monkfish slices in mustard seed and similar fripperies, I go instead to the Café Fieberg in the Seckenheimer Straße. The waitress there is a boisterous but kind soul who has taken me under her wing and has made sure that the kitchen knows how I like my eggs - fried eggs flipped over just before being served.
She brought pepper and nutmeg. 'Another pot of coffee?'