It’s not quite a barbecue, or perhaps its version that is both deconstructed and uninhibited.
It’s not quite a Saint John’s Day bonfire, more of a Saint Bartholomew’s bonfire, the patron saint of butchers.
It’s not the result of a witch’s trial, we prefer pig fat to unholy bacon…
But the Speckfest is all that at the same time, and delights the members of the Moselle associations and festival committees: the festival consists of getting together to grill bacon and sausages on a large pile of embers with a simple branch cut into points into the nearby forest. An outdoor lunch that echoes an ancient custom practiced by lumberjacks. A raw picnic, a “Game of Thrones” version of barbecue.
The Speckfest is mainly held in dense and game-filled corners, as you have understood, at the edge of the forest. The East Moselle and Bitcherland are therefore excellent playgrounds.
In front of the flame, we plunge into full regression, not very far from the Cro-Magnon man. Sinking your teeth into a slice of speck is a fundamental, instinctive joy, probably equivalent to that of singing in chorus or dancing in the rain. And listening to the sizzling of fat in the heat, a rare music that can only be experienced at a Speckfest or on the beach of an all-inclusive club full of Germans, in Marbella, what a joy. With a branch cut into a point, we are all Tom Sawyer, or Baden Powell, ready to sing “Stewball” (“Fleischbällchen”, in German)…
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