Autumn leaves flutter over the pavement, and the brick buildings on Zenettistraße are so inconspicuous this morning, as if they wanted to hide the fact that there is a matter of life and death behind them. The gentleman in the safety vest at the entrance to the slaughterhouse bobs from one foot to the other in the cold. From the soup kitchen on the cattle yard opposite, it steams into the gray November sky, the upscale Italian restaurant next door is receiving a delivery of vegetables. Mothers cycle past on cargo bikes, the children packed in the boxes. A poster on the wall advertises VeggieWorld Munich, "the fair for the vegan lifestyle". The contradictions that arise in this quarter could not be better illustrated.
When you think of Munich, one likes to think of a city full of very chic people, very expensive cars, very expensive footballers and very expensive apartments.
But Munich can also be very down-to-earth, still, one must say, for example in the former broken glass district around the slaughterhouse.
First of all, it's about the food
The Munich slaughterhouse has been located in Ludwigsvorstadt-Isarvorstadt for 142 years, since 1878 the smaller slaughterhouses of the bank butchers at Viktualienmarkt have been closed for hygienic reasons and the modern facility designed by the architect and town planning officer Arnold Zenetti was opened: right on the railway line, because the animals are like that They could be carted up in trains and driven down a ramp into the slaughterhouse.
These cattle transports were only stopped in 2006;
now trucks drive the animals directly to the halls.
In the Schlachthofviertel it is primarily about food, here the belly of Munich is rumbling, and the market parlor of the butcher Gaßner is open from 7.30 in the morning. The slaughter takes place early in the morning, the wholesalers arrive at five, and the workers and truck drivers are hungry. It is very busy, a blood and liver sausage with mashed potatoes and sauerkraut is available for 8.90 euros. Heartwarming monosyllabic Bavarian is spoken, which means that the parlor would have to be declared a linguistic island worthy of protection. In front of the shop there is a bulging vending machine, where neighbors and party people, policemen and craftsmen pull white sausages, bacon dumplings and goulash in the glass day and night. There is always something going on here, some work, others celebrate.Behind the parlor, a truck driver washes his empty van with barred window openings in the disinfection system on a ramp - and you immediately know that the involuntary passengers have just not died a nice death. The awareness of impermanence sinks down on the soul and becomes heavy in the abandoned garden behind the car wash; townspeople indulge in urban gardening here. Mangold with bright red stems freezes in raised beds, behind which the S-Bahn hisses past and cuts the time every minute.The awareness of impermanence sinks down on the soul and becomes heavy in the abandoned garden behind the car wash; townspeople indulge in urban gardening here. Mangold with bright red stems freezes in raised beds, behind which the S-Bahn hisses past and cuts the time every minute.The awareness of impermanence sinks down on the soul and becomes heavy in the abandoned garden behind the car wash; townspeople indulge in urban gardening here. Mangold with bright red stems freezes in raised beds, behind which the S-Bahn hisses past and cuts the time every minute.
But then the full life collapses in the form of primary schoolchildren who throw themselves with spray cans on the graffiti-strewn wall.
A workshop for children, led by the sprayer “Mister Sauer”, whose real name is Pascal Prümm, with a bad cold, but determined to start.
He is just explaining to a crying girl, tersely and politically doubtful, that an Indian woman knows no pain.
A rough sprayer environment, but with a heart, the little one is silent.