Currywurst Curse: A Tragic Tale of Love, Loss, and Sauces

Bernard Bertrand Bernstein here, and I'm back with more tales from the streets of Berlin. This time, it's not just another tale of the city's infamous history, but a cautionary story about the perils of a good currywurst.

As a seasoned traveler and foodie, I've had my fair share of currywurst. But little did I know, it would become the bane of my existence. It started with a seemingly innocuous visit to a local kebab shop, where I indulged in a few too many of those sweet, sweet sausages.

Next thing I knew, I was stuck in a cycle of cravings, constantly on the hunt for that perfect blend of spices and sauces. I tried every corner shop, every food truck, every street cart. But the more I ate, the more I craved. It was a curse, I tell you!

That's when I stumbled upon the infamous Curry 36. Their sauce was like nothing I'd ever tasted. It was as if the gods of Berlin had smiled upon me and poured all their love into a single bottle.

But with great love comes great cost. My love for that sauce consumed me whole. I became a slave to the taste, a prisoner of the spice. My friends and family grew worried, my wallet suffered, and my pants... well, they didn't fare so well either.

And so, I'm here to warn you, dear reader: be careful what you eat, lest ye be consumed by the very thing that brought ye joy.

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