There was a time when he was ubiquitous. Alfons Schuhbeck’s name was on ice cream parlors, books, mortars and spice mixtures. Now the public prosecutor’s office accuses him of tax evasion in the millions. The kitchen secrets of a man who could lose everything.
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Franz Kotteder, Klaus Ott and Annette Ramelsberger
On the snack board, the radishes pile up over the meatballs, in between the freshly cut radish weeps. And of course there are also Schuhbecks country liverwurst and Schuhbecks lard. He smiles at you from the cans, his face is omnipresent even on this board. Above them white-blue garlands, hop blossoms, pretzels. Alfons Schuhbeck invites you to the Munich event tent “Teatro” on the Oktoberfest weekends, the band plays songs by Spider Murphy Gang until Rolling Stones, and of course Schuhbeck greets his guests personally. “Have you never tapped a keg of beer?” he calls out to a few employees when tapping doesn’t work on the first hit. He stands in the middle of the tent in his white chef’s jacket, cheered on by people in dirndls and lederhosen. Then he heats up the musicians: “Now step on the gas. Get in there so that there’s a mood. Otherwise let’s play a record.”