Kohler's visions
Kohler's visions
Career changer, philosopher and secret king of Lake Tegernsee:
How hotelier Korbinian Kohler turned the playground of the rich upside down.
Paris, late 1980s. In the Rue Cambon in front of Chanel, a yellow VW Golf with a license plate from Miesbach is parked. A student gets out and enters the boutique—not to buy, but to sell: paper shopping bags like those typically used for packaging products. But since he comes from a family of paper manufacturers, the bags are made of higher-quality paper. And because he is a natural-born salesman, he has strong arguments to go along with them.
The student is Korbinian Kohler from Tegernsee. Even though he finds no success at Chanel or Yves Saint Laurent, other boutiques in Paris begin ordering their bags from him after his visit. This allows him to build a small business distributing paper bags while pursuing his postgraduate studies at the Sorbonne. When he sells the business four years later and returns to Tegernsee, he has earned the startup capital that, decades and many ventures later, will help make him the unofficial king of Tegernsee.
There was little early indication of this career. His father did own the Gmund paper mill, a niche producer of fine paper goods, but young Korbinian was a poor student. “Lazy and dopey, a late bloomer,” he says today. A teacher once told him: “We need people like you in the factory too, sweeping the yard.” Eventually, it was this very comment that motivated him to pursue higher education via the FOS (vocational high school).
Instead of studying, he preferred to explore the adventure playground of the paper mill and the banks of the Mangfall river. Summers in the 1970s were about fishing without a license, building makeshift rafts, and jumping into vats of paper pulp. His father, humorous yet disciplined, always had a phone next to him during lunch in the garden—the factory’s phone lines were rerouted to it during the break. “Customers must never be kept waiting,” was his mantra. These international customers—from France, England, Egypt—not only brought a touch of global flair to the Mangfall, they also provided Kohler with early internships abroad.
Today, Korbinian Kohler—tall, athletic, with shoulder-length hair—sits in a meeting room at his hotel, Bachmair Weissach. Outside, the usual Tegernsee traffic rumbles by. Kohler has clear ideas about it: raise parking fees, introduce boat transport on the lake like the Vaporetti in Venice. Every business, he says, should offer quality and something special—like his hotels, restaurants, or the paper mill now run by his brother.
Kohler worked ten years at the mill with his brother until he realized Florian had a better feel for the business. Meanwhile, Korbinian’s passion for real estate grew: his first properties in Munich required extensive renovations—a process he thoroughly enjoyed. Bringing "dead places" back to life became his signature.
In the early 2000s, Tegernsee was in a sort of slumber. The golden days with artists like Ludwig Thoma and Leo Slezak were long gone, the jet-set kids were partying in Ibiza, and the lake risked becoming a retirement haven. Kohler saw his opportunity: in 2004, he founded his company, KK Invest.
In 2010, he took his wife Susanne to the run-down Hotel Bachmair for dinner. Plastic flowers, Coca-Cola glasses—a disaster. Yet this very hotel had just been offered to him for purchase. After some hesitation and a twelve-hour notary session, the deal was sealed. When he got home, a service bell sat in the hallway—a symbolic installation by his wife: “We can do this.”
And Kohler got to work. First manically, then more systematically. Mistakes? Of course—like renovating while the hotel remained open. But he had a clear vision. No grand luxury, but elegant, international style. Light-filled rooms with oak furniture and fluffy comforters. A Japanese onsen spa, family-friendly services, childcare, and even an indoor playground. He has four children himself, and balancing family and entrepreneurship was no easy feat.
After five tough years, things began to turn around. A new clientele emerged: wealthy Munich families who found Stanglwirt too tacky and Schloss Elmau too elite. More projects followed: a lakeside property, an equestrian center, a clubhouse with Israeli cuisine, the Wallberghaus on the local mountain, and the Alte Bad in Wildbad Kreuth. Kohler "Bachmair-ed" these locations—with quality, conviction, and prices to match.
But not everyone in the region was thrilled. A man reshaping the lake for his guests? That caused some friction. Yet many of these places would likely have been forgotten without Kohler. And he serves on the municipal council of Gmund, making him, in a way, one of their own.
The most attention-grabbing project came in Bad Wiessee: the old Kirchenwirt hotel was transformed into “Hotel Bussi Baby” in 2019. With neon signage, rooftop parties, infinity pool, DJs—a scandal for some. But the concept worked: Bussi Baby became a hotspot for urban hedonists arriving in Mini convertibles.
Then came the next big step: the ducal family offered him a lease on Wildbad Kreuth—a place of CSU political legend. With architect Matteo Thun, Kohler plans to open a medical retreat there by 2029, focused on both body and mind. Megalomania? Maybe. But the Tegernsee entrepreneur is also a thinker, someone who doesn’t take things lightly. He trains for triathlons, studies philosophy—especially Aristotle. Together with Professor Wilhelm Vossenkuhl, now a friend, he organizes lectures at the hotel—free of charge, even for locals.
On one Friday evening, the ballroom is full. Kohler, in a blue blazer, welcomes the crowd. Sociologist Ruud Koopmans gives a critical talk on German migration policy. A lively, high-level discussion follows. Kohler moderates with sensitivity and returns to his relaxed self offstage.
At the gala dinner, a distinguished group is gathered: businesspeople, media executives, defense insiders, the Kohler family. Korbinian, the host, is the only one served a char—a silent nod of distinction. He ends the evening with an anecdote that captures his unique character: how he imagines his own death. It should be in September, under the plum tree by the lake. His granddaughter brings him a piece of plum tart with cream—and with one final flick of the tongue, he manages a last bite of the whipped cream.
Source:
Author: Max Scharnigg
Photo credit: Florian Peljak