Rolf Babiel, Wiener-Schill Extraordinaire

Prior to the European Security Conference meetings of 1975, former East German leader Erich Honecker was pressured into granting exit visas to a few thousand of his country's discontents, and Rolf Babiel was among the lucky troublemakers allowed to migrate to West Berlin. Five years later he moved to New York and became a construction worker.

Appalled by the hotdogs and wet knishes that New Yorkers ate for lunch, Mr. Babiel gave up construction and in 1982 he began selling wurst and potatoes from a pushcart outside the University Club on 54th St. "I never had a chef's training, but I have a good tongue." He called his pushcart Hallo Berlin.

At 2 o'clock the line in front of Mr. Babiel's pushcart is still more than 10 people deep. "I missed you over the summer," says a customer. Mr. Babiel replies that he was in Germany for a sausage convention. After the rush dies down I ask him about the convention: "It's a joke! I went to see my parents."

While we're talking, a handsome black man in the crisp blue livery of the University Club stands at the pushcart grill and fixes himself a snack. His name is Correll Jones and he can't find the mustard. "Where is the mustard?"

Mr. Babiel says, "For 20 years I am working here und for 17 years this guy is the doorman. For 17 years he is bothering me. Everybody thinks he must be my boyfriend."

"Boyfriend!" says Jones. "I'm your lover."

At this juncture the man working the hotdog stand on the corner approaches. He wants some fried potatoes, and Babiel begins to tease him. Jones puts down his snack and rushes to join the conversation. "Don't let this German talk to you like that. Call him Schwartze. You know what Schwartze means in German? It means motherfucking piece of shit!"

The hotdog man laughs. "Shut up, Schwartze," says Babiel.

An elderly gentleman in a three-piece suit is leaving the University Club. He is unsteady on his feet and he breathes gin. He stops in front of the pushcart. "I came to the club for lunch and I saw your line. I said, How come there's such a line for this cart and there's nobody in the fucking club? What is this?"

"You want a little German soul food?" says Babiel. "I give you the Dictatorship Special."

"What's that?"

"It's whatever I feel like giving you."

The elderly gentleman seems confused. "I live on 70th and Park. Do you deliver?"

"No!"

Babiel does not deliver from the street, but in addition to the pushcart he now owns three Hallo Berlin restaurants, two on the west side and one in upstate New York. One of the restaurants is run by his wife Bernadette. Babiel keeps a picture of her taped below his menu board. She is Haitian. I asked him how they met. "My wife, I met her at the pushcart. She liked my sausage. Ha, ha. You see it has two meanings."

With three restaurants to look after, Babiel spends much of his time managing employees. He laughs to think that so much German food is prepared by Bangladeshis and Latinos, and says that running a restaurant in New York is like running the United Nations. As I write down his remarks he peers over at my notebook and frowns. "You have terrible handwriting. I would never hire you."

Babiel has a method: "If somebody comes in for a job, I ask them to write something. I can tell from the handwriting. If you write sloppy you will work sloppy. All of my employees have good handwriting." I ask if his wife has good handwriting and he sighs, "Not so much. Unfortunately not. My wife thinks she's a doctor."

Last year Babiel served wurst to former German finance minister Theo Weigel. He has also been on Japanese television, and tourists tell him he is well known in Japan. He's made a success of his restaurants. I wonder if he's not tempted to give up the pushcart. He says no. He likes the street and he is used to cold winters and hot summers. He puffs up his chest and laughs. "We Germans lost a war because we are soft. Now I have to be a tough German! A dedicated German!"

The pushcart is open Tuesday through Friday.