Breakfast at Rischart

I was spoiled for choice on where to go to break my fast, but one place stood out above the rest and closest to my tired feet: Rischart. Even on a quiet Sonntagmorgen, its wide, open Bäckerei facade gleamed bright and inviting, the glass windows revealing stacks of Brot and pastries that looked impossibly frisch and knusprig. A long but quick-moving Schlange of customers wound out the door, each person stepping up, ordering, and sliding aside in smooth, practiced motions. I joined the end of the line, feeling less like an outsider and more like part of the rhythm of the Morgen rush around me. People talked quickly, gestured to the baked goods, and moved forward with practiced efficiency. My eyes settled on the golden Brot, their crusts glinting under the soft Café lights, and my mouth watered.

Behind the glass Theke, the choices seemed endless. Rows of Brezn, some enormous and some small, sat alongside buttery pastries, fruit-filled tarts, and round loaves of Brot with dark crusts. The Brezn, however, gave me the biggest surprise. Not small and crunchy like the snack pretzels back home. But large and fluffy with huge salt crystals glistening on the surface. Some were simple, some were sliced and stuffed with cheese or herbs. My eyes settled on the Schnittlauchbrezn, spread thick with cream cheese and bright green chives. It reminded me of my favourite bagel back home, but also, not at all. They looked lecker beyond belief.

The Café itself was buzzing softly with conversation. Couples laughed over their morning Kaffee, friends chatted animatedly, and an older man read his newspaper while sipping from a steaming cup. The aroma of roasted beans mingled perfectly with the warm smell of baked Brot. I could get used to this.

Around me, people ordered with practiced ease:

"Eine Butterbrezn, bitte."

> "Noch einen Kaffee, nehme ich."

> "Zum Hieressen oder mitnehmen?"

I whispered the phrases quietly under my breath, lining up my order in my head. Zum Hieressen. For here. Bitte. Please. Don't mess this up.

When it was finally my turn, the woman behind the counter looked up, bright-eyed, and said: "Grüß Gott!"

Grüß Gott? No Guten Morgen or Servus? How many regional greetings does Bavaria have?

"Ja, Grüß Gott... eine Schnittlauchbrezn, bitte. Und einen Kaffee."

She smiled, nodding. "Mitnehmen?"

I felt a small thrill. I think I actually understood that! "Zum Hieressen, bitte."

Perfect. Well, at least, good enough. I'd managed to bestellen for the very first time entirely in German, hopefully without completely butchering the pronunciation. A small but hard won victory. Ordering in German wasn't just about the words. It was about timing, rhythm, and the confidence to sound a little stupid.

While I warten for my tray, I watched the people around me. Some waited patiently for their orders, tapping their fingers or checking their watches. Others moved with brisk purpose, nehmen their drinks and pastries and disappearing toward the exit. Finally, my tray appeared, balancing a golden, salzig Brezn and a steaming cup of Kaffee. How much did that kosten? I'd handed over a ten-euro note without really thinking about it. Probably around five or six euros total. Not bad for breakfast in the heart of Munich.

I moved toward a small table near the window. Upstairs, the light was softer, and the view of Marienplatz below made it feel like I had my own private observation deck. People bustled below, carrying trays, chatting, and laughing. A real German Frühstück scene.

I took my first bite. The Brezn was soft inside, chewy but not tough, with just the right crunch on the outside. Butter melted into the warm dough, and bits of Schnittlauch added a bright, herbal kick. I'd never thought much about pretzels before. But this one meal had more than changed that.

I sipped my Kaffee between bites. Essen and trinken felt different here. More intentional. Less like refueling and more like actually tasting something.

The Café continued its steady rhythm around me. A woman called out: "Zwei Cappuccino, bitte!" Another man shouted: "Ich gehe gleich bezahlen, warte kurz!" Every snippet of conversation was a chance to hear familiar words. Bezahlen. To pay. Bitte. Please. I caught frisch and knusprig in someone's commentary about the pastries. Hearing them in real interactions made them stick better than any textbook ever could.

The Morgen rush was visible but not overwhelming. Energetic, full of purpose, yet somehow calm. I watched a barista behind the Theke carefully arrange pastries, checking their colors and alignment, nodding to himself as if each croissant were a small masterpiece. Another employee carried a tray stacked with rolls, walking langsam, deliberately, making sure none tipped over.

Across the room, a group of coworkers argued playfully over whose turn it was to bezahlen, their laughter carrying over the soft clatter of cups and saucers. I smiled. This small Bäckerei was daily life in Munich, and for the first time, I felt like I was actually part of it.

Eventually, I finished my Brezn and Kaffee, feeling satisfied in a way that went beyond just being full. I'd ordered. Paid. Found a spot. Enjoyed my Frühstück. All in German. It wasn't perfect, but it was real.

I glanced around one last time, soaking it all in. The steady stream of customers. The rhythm of "Bitte" and "Danke." The smell of frisch baked Brot. This was what I'd come for. Not just sightseeing, but living.

At last though, the clock stuck three, and it was time to check into the hotel. I'd been carrying my luggage long enough, and honestly, I could use a shower and a moment to decompress. The bakery had been perfect, but jet lag was starting to creep back in around the edges. Better get settled before it caught up with me completely.

I stood, grabbed my bag, and headed for the exit. The woman behind the Theke caught my eye and smiled. "Schönen Tag noch!"

I smiled back. "Danke, Ihnen auch!"

Not bad. Maybe I was getting the hang of this after all.