Thanks to merze (Flickr)

One of the really great things about Germany besides – obviously – the beer, is its penchant for seasonal vegetables. Germans really understand just how pleasant it is to punctuate the otherwise somewhat amorphous flow of the year with food: while other countries speak of winter, Germans talk of the Grünkohlzeit or “curly kale season”; what the British or French might call late spring/early summer is known here as Spargelzeit or “asparagus time”. And what other people generally refer to as “the onset of spring” is known throughout Germany as Bärlauchzeit.

To those of you with basic German scratching your heads and wondering whether it really is what you think it is, yes, Bärlauch does literally mean “bears’ leek”. Generally in etymology, words never come from where you think they do, especially in terms of food: a Jerusalem artichoke, for example, is neither an artichoke nor from Jerusalem – and what is more, the epithet “Jerusalem” was not mistakenly applied by people who thought that the plant in question came from the holy land. No, it is more likely a corruption of the Italian girasole, which means “sunflower” and was probably applied to the big yellow flowers of the Helianthus tuberosus (to give it its correct name).

Bears’ leek, however, is bonafide. Allium ursinum, as it’s also known in Latin, really is a favourite of Paddington & Co., who need fresh greens packed with vitamins after their long hibernation. Furthermore, bears’ leek really is closely related to leeks, being part of the allium genus, which contains leeks, onions, garlic and chives.

Indeed, in Britain it’s generally known as wild garlic or ramsons – not that the English really use the word much. In fact, I’d never come across the stuff until I started living in Germany and the vegetable man at my local farmers’ market got uncharacteristically excited one chilly late-March morning, thrusting a bunch of the bright green leaves into my hands and going on and on about the start of spring.

At the time, I didn’t quite get the excitement. The following years, however, I’ve spent the first weeks of March pawing at the vegetable man like a hungry bear, begging for Bärlauch. Why this obsession for ramps (as they’re known in American English), then?

Courtesy of Catalinr (Flickr)

Well, if, like me, you try to limit yourself to a diet of locally-grown fruit and veg in Northern Germany, you’ll soon start feeling it too. The Northern winter is long, very long, and after the last Grünkohl is gone, there is very little that is fresh and green available. Every week, the beetroot gets slightly duller, the cabbage gets scrappier and the potatoes greyer. All of them are perfectly edible – tasty even – but they’ve been in storage for months and somehow lack the freshness-factor. You’re dying for something new, something colourful, something that can be eaten raw.

Non-German simon_aughton (Flickr) has also been converted to the Bärlauch religion

Then comes Bärlauch! It’s the first fresh crop of the season – often growing through the last snow – and is a deep, bright, attractive green color. Its leaves are long and succulent, the stems firm and juicy – it’s spring on a plate. When I see it, I kind of feel like a bear waking up from a long sleep, rubbing his eyes in the bright light and realising just how hungry he is.

And around this time of year, Germany is, in accordance with the coat of arms of its capital city, a nation of bears. The proliferation of recipes for Bärlauch is incredible, with cook books offering instructions on everything from wild garlic soups and salads to dumplings and bread made with its leaves. Not only that, you’ll see a variety of products on sale – Bärlauch-Pesto for example, or Bärlauch spreads for bread and toast. Health magazines fuel the trend, espousing the benefits of the blood-pressure-sinking Bärlauch for breakfast.

"A healthy body loves wild garlic" – and so does Flickr's frollein2007

Ramps for breakfast? Why not! You needn’t worry: one of Bärlauch’s many admirable qualities is that while tasting like a heavenly mixture between onions, scallions and garlic, it can be eaten raw without giving you bad breath.

Which brings us to the big question: why is it just the Germans who go so wild for wild garlic? They grow in damp, dark patches of wood all over Northern Europe and would seem to be a natural choice for, say, the English – we have our fair share of rain and cold after all. Well, perhaps the answer is that another old colloquial name for wild garlic in England was “stinking Jenny” – a somewhat unfortunate moniker. Forget Jerusalem artichokes – there’s a case of false etymology if ever I saw one.