Helmut was a banker from Nuremberg and he was on the eve of departing along the haute route armed with a gigantic Bavarian sausage. I pulled out my own shorter, slightly mottled, flaccid saucisson.
‘It’s too soft!’ snorted Helmut. ‘It’s not good for walking.’
‘It’s not going for a walk; it’s going to be eaten.’
‘I know, I know,’ replied Helmut, waving his enormous truncheon. ‘But you must see that your sausage is soft. It is a soft sausage. It will not last as long as my sausage.’
‘It is a fresh sausage,’ I countered doubtfully, trying to hold my saucisson in such as way that its limpness would be minimized.
‘That is why it will not last long,’ triumphed Helmut. ‘Because it is fresh. This is the problem with your sausage. You must see that my German sausage is old. That is its strength,’ he continued, shaking his Wurst to emphasize its rigidity. ‘It will keep like this for days and days. For weeks!’
These two sausage-comparing boys meet up later at a mountaineering hut:
Sitting at the only vacant table in the dining-room was Helmut. During the meal Helmut pulled out his sausage: ‘Still, I have a long sausage!’ he said, loudly.
‘Yes,’ he continued, grasping the tube of meat in his right hand. ‘Is a gut sausage. A hard sausage!’
At the adjacent table a young Frenchwoman watched Helmut with her mouth open as a slice of veal slid backwards off her fork and slapped on to her plate.
—Nicholas Crane, Clear Waters Rising: A Mountain Walk Across Europe