SERIES - Michelin-starred chef Tim Raue: "I've been eating in restaurants for 30 years. At home, I only cook for the dog."

Tim Raue is wearing a bright red, faded cotton tracksuit and a ketchup-colored hat with a label reminiscent of Heinz ketchup. He's impossible to miss. He's already sitting at the window of the Cantonese restaurant "Good Friends" on Kantstrasse in Berlin before the agreed time. The hat belongs to his wife; he keeps it on throughout the entire meal.

The restaurant has been around for 30 years. Back then, Kantstrasse wasn't yet the Asian boulevard it is known for today. Top restaurateur Tim Raue chose the restaurant because his favorite – "Do De Li," just a few doors down – is closed on Mondays. Moreover, "Good Friends" was his second home for a while. Raue lives nearby. He comes by taxi – he doesn't have a driver's license.

The man has no time to spare; he lives to a rhythm that can cause exhaustion just listening. He speaks quickly and a lot—you could leave this lunch after the 90 minutes of information he's planned without having asked a single question.

Raue places my order without even looking at the menu, after asking me if there's anything I'm not having. First up are fong-wong rolls, a kind of small, deep-fried spring rolls filled with glass noodles, carrots, shrimp, and chicken stuffing. "They're still a bit hot," he notes as they're served, stirring hot chili sauce into the sweet sauce that comes with them. They're crispy, delicious.

Raue has been coming to the restaurant since 1995. "My record is 231 visits here in one year," he recalls. That was about twenty years ago, when he was working around the corner at the Swissôtel. "I was the kitchen director there and did breakfast, lunch, and then, of course, dinner. In the first two years, I don't think I took a total of two weeks off."

He had to work hard for his success. There wasn't time to go home, so he simply came here for an hour. "And then they kept a tally." He says: "The 'Good Friends' is like having a mediocre housewife cooking at home in Hong Kong."

Tim Raue is 51 years old, one of Germany's most successful chefs and among the top 50 worldwide. He currently operates eight restaurants, his flagship being Restaurant Tim Raue at Checkpoint Charlie in Berlin-Kreuzberg. He holds two Michelin stars there. A dinner for two can easily fetch €1,000. His episode in the Netflix series "Chef's Table" also brings foodies from all over the world to his restaurant—about half of his guests come for this reason.

The waitress places three oval platters on the table: two pork and one fried rice. "What we have before us now is my favorite version of sweet and sour pork," says Raue. "Made with pickled ginger, with red and green bell peppers, and also with a bit of pineapple and pork, but not baked. And this is my version of fried rice. I love fried rice." This one is made with cashews, carrots, ginger, and coriander. "And here we have pork belly from the barbecue kitchen, which is then fried again with asparagus, ginger, and garlic."

The pork belly is crispy and delicious, the green asparagus is firm to the bite; everything appears harmonious and balanced. Good craftsmanship, but not fine dining. The NZZ's budget isn't overstretched either. "It's good, it's not very good, not even outstanding, but it's also great value for money, and I just really like it, and it usually goes incredibly fast." Given Raue's fast pace, it's no wonder he enjoys the pace. He's constantly on the move, appearing on television, on various juries, and in his shops on water and land.

He used to think that once he turned fifty, he'd just be sailing towards retirement, but: "The opportunities that have presented themselves to me in the last twelve months alone – unbelievable," he says. If he had the manpower, he could open ten restaurants immediately, in Singapore, Hong Kong, London – "you name it." From wine glasses to glasses and cashmere scarves, he could currently sell anything with his name. He hardly has any free time, and he wouldn't know what to do with it – for him, it's clear that only performance counts. That's how he defines himself, he says.

The top chef views the younger generation with some incomprehension. "They think that with four days and six hours a day they can maintain the comforts that their current life offers them, but that won't be the case." He has no empathy for people in their early twenties who aren't prepared to invest time and effort, but that's their problem, not his. His only problem, he says, as an employer, because he has to find staff who strive for perfection. Every detail on the plates at Tim Raue's restaurant is just right. It's no coincidence whether there are three or four chervil tips on a dish.

In April, he opened his fifth onboard restaurant on a cruise ship in the TUI fleet, "Mein Schiff," and in June, he took over the restaurant on the Berlin TV Tower. It will open on June 3rd. He had promised his wife he wouldn't do another project. But the TV Tower! It had to be done. There was no other way. After all, he's from Berlin. The operator, Magnicity, approached him. The company specializes in operating observation decks and restaurants in tall urban buildings and operates six locations worldwide.

Does he even cook anymore? "Constantly," Raue assures us, "the question is which kitchen," he says. He regularly visits his restaurants, including those on the ships. He was on the road for 220 days last year, taking 171 flights. He designs the menus while on the move – if something occurs to him, he sends himself an email with the idea; each restaurant and its concept has its own email inbox. When he wants to update the menu, he checks the respective email inbox and pulls out his ideas. There's no wasted time for him when he travels.

Being an entrepreneur means, for him, that the shops have to run even when he's not there: "I've always made sure to recruit the best talent, let them grow alongside me, and give them responsibility," says Raue. The dishes he designs are rehearsed until everything is perfect, and then he approves them. Then, when he's away, things run smoothly without him.

Today, the only drink is water – at room temperature. The fact that it's lunch suits Raue well; he doesn't eat breakfast and hardly eats anything in the evening either, making lunch the central meal of the day. His freezer at home contains ice cream, and the refrigerator mostly contains only food for the dog. He's given up the habit of nighttime binges and has lost 16 kilos.

"I've been eating in restaurants for 30 years. At home, I only cook for my dog," says Raue. In the middle of the conversation, his wife calls, as if to prove it. Their conversation briefly turns to the "food." He's already finished it. The dog has chronic pancreatitis and can only tolerate a low-fat diet.

Raue has a wife and an ex-wife, and they both take turns caring for the dog. He doesn't have children; he says it's "biologically impossible" for him. Does he think that's a shame? He doesn't question it, he doesn't argue or complain; it's a fact, and why dwell on it for so long? If he wanted to, he could adopt, he says.

The thought lingers for a moment. Tim Raue's life takes place at a maximum distance from my own. I'm almost always at home, I have many children, and if I meet a sleepless high school graduate at the fridge at night, we cook a pot of spaghetti instead of ordering from a delivery service.

Tim's harsh childhood was marked by poverty and lovelessness, and by the brutality of his abusive father. He makes no secret of the fact that it was terrible. The boy was left to fend for himself from an early age. He was given nothing to eat; the refrigerator only offered him the leftovers section; a loving gesture or a comforting hug was out of the question. Only when twelve-year-old Tim could fight back effectively did his father let him go. He had learned this in a street gang, the "36 Boys."

The migrant gang at the old Kreuzberg 36 is part of the legend. It's a long way from underdog to shining star in the kitchen. Everyone loves stories like that, but does one really have to advertise one's own suffering like that? Raue describes, without any discernible emotion, the worst beatings his father suffered; as a boy, he was severely injured and in intensive care several times.

One story tells of how his father beat him with a wooden spoon, leaving marks all over his body, which the sports teacher then noticed. To this day, he doesn't understand why his father wasn't sent to prison. In between, he takes calls, speaks briefly with business associates, then picks up the thread again and describes the specific marks left by blows with a wooden spoon.

"If you don't have anyone in your childhood who gives you a constant feeling of trust, security, and an unshakable, fundamental love, then you're rootless. I was rootless," says Raue. It's no problem for him to love—but allowing himself to be loved was difficult. In the morning, he puts on clothes made of soft materials that feel good against his skin in his walk-in closet, he says, preferably cashmere. "Like the hug I often wished I had." He's kind to himself.

Let amateur psychologists try their hand at combining the use of a wooden spoon as a torture instrument with childhood hunger and its significance for career choices. Raue isn't the type to get publicly sentimental. Of all the family members, only the grandmother comes out well. Her Königsberger Klopse (a type of meatball) is still on the menu today, including at the new restaurant in Berlin's TV Tower. It's called "Sphere."

Raue has no use for whiny newcomers who find the job too intense and demanding. He conducts a preliminary phone interview before every interview, no matter where in the world he is, to avoid unnecessary time loss. If someone comes along with a work-life balance and a four-day week, the interview is over.

Anyone who overcomes this threshold is allowed into the kitchen. "Just work a trial shift, that explains everything. Under the pressure of speed and perfection, you can see whether people's eyes light up and they're having fun, or whether they're complaining and overwhelmed," says Raue.

This problem doesn't exist on cruise ships. People from Indonesia and the Philippines work six-day weeks with 14-hour shifts without complaining and are happy about the high wages. "They just say: The moment I get to the next position and have €500 more, that means I can pay off a house at home and be an invaluable member of my family, even if I work ten months a year."

The waitress serves another platter. "That's lamb chops, by the way," says Raue, and lists: "Salt and pepper, they're fried, chilies, spring onions, and ginger." Two of the three dishes served aren't on the menu. The somewhat dry chops are best eaten with the hands because of the bones. For everything else, Raue uses a spoon, rarely chopsticks; he eats directly from the platters, without detouring through his plate. He collects many heads of green asparagus. I imagine the chef dipping the tasting spoon into all the pots.

Does the mood in the restaurant industry also allow conclusions to be drawn about the general economic situation? It's an "absolute barometer," says Raue. It's always been this way. "If we look at the golden era of the 1980s and 1990s, up until the stock market crash, top restaurants in Germany were almost universally sponsored." Entrepreneurs with too much money squandered some of their money on a restaurant that their bored wives had set up.

Those days are over. You have to know what you're doing to make a restaurant work – what seating height is needed, how much space the guests need. "There can't be too much space, otherwise the energy of a restaurant is lost." And of course, the competition is enormous; you constantly have to look left and right to see what others are doing, and in his case, even now, to see what the younger generation is doing and whether he should learn something from them.

That's how the "Königsberger Klops Oma Gerda" came onto the menu. Raue didn't want to let young, immigrant chefs with a local obsession take away his authority on Berlin, Brandenburg, and Prussian cuisine. Is this more a case of mutual inspiration than competition? "No, it's brutal competition; we don't need to talk about it," he states.

The pandemic was a nightmare for the restaurant industry, from which it hasn't recovered to this day. The current poor economic situation is adding to the pressure. "Last year, we had 27 star-rated restaurants in Berlin. Nine of them no longer exist." They either changed their concept or closed because they lacked outside visitors, Raue analyzes. "If you look at the airport's data, we have over a quarter fewer business class guests compared to before the pandemic. Before the pandemic, Berlin was one of the most hyped cities in the world. And as is always the case with any hype or trend, it only lasts temporarily."

As for restaurateurs, many arrive with high expectations and leave without having those expectations fulfilled. They misjudged the type of clientele from the outset. "Berlin doesn't wait for you, and it doesn't matter whether you come from France and had three Michelin stars there, or whether you come from Buxtehude and want to make the best burger in the world here—you always start from scratch."

And that's where we're at right now. The restaurant industry is currently at its lowest point. This is especially noticeable with wine – bottles for mid- to high three-figure and low four-figure euro amounts are being ordered less frequently. And even in shops like "Good Friends," which used to be open until 2 a.m., it's dead at 10 p.m. Raue is on his way to bed by then anyway. His days last from waking up before 6 a.m. until around 11 p.m.