Goodies First

Prime Meats

1/2 It's not really fair to judge things based on outdated notions. My first and last visit to Prime Meats was when the menu and space was a fraction of its current size. It's one of the closest (probably the closest after Frankies) restaurants to my apartment but I avoid venues that tend to have people waiting/loitering outside the door.

Maybe I give off this impression wordlessly too? I always thought I did a good job of masking my internal old and cranky self. At 7:30pm on a Wednesday (playing hooky from Spanish class--I hope no one there reads this) the dining room was less than a quarter full, and we were given a free-standing table for two instead of being fitted into the row of tables along the wall.

An applejack sazarac, sweetened lightly with maple syrup is a nice way to start. The cocktail, along with the stewy, braised, Germanic-leaning menu, also reinforced the disconnect between the season and the weather. Fortifying food makes sense in late January; less so as temperatures soar above 60 degrees.

A half-dozen savory oysters from New Brunswick (I zoned out on the name) seemed better suited for a bare-legged winter evening.

Ok, and a meat board, the so-called Vesper Brett. The selection included ham, calves' tongue, bacon, landjager (like a softer, fatter pepperoni), and chicken liver pate with assorted pickles and a milder "health bread" than the darker, denser stuff packaged into tight rectangles at certain grocery stores. Speaking of German-style bread, I'm kind of excited for Landbrot to open.

Somehow the sürkrüt garnie (no Frenchie choucroute here) managed to be light despite containing three meats: a small amount of pork belly, a bratruwurst, and a substantial slices of calves' tongue (yes, again) that I mistook for brisket in its pleasantly fatty, chewy texture.  When I say light, I only mean that in comparison to the version experienced recently at Renger Patzsch in Berlin. Unlike in Germany, though, I felt no strangeness in taking my leftovers home for dinner the following night.

Why not a shared side of gruyere-infused spätzle too?

You don't have to order German food (weird that I also ordered the exact same dish in 2009--I really like pork and fermented cabbage). That's just what I happen to like about Prime Meats and I wasn't up for paying nearly double for the goat special ($32 vs $18 sürkrüt garnie) even if it is my favorite underrated meat.  I could see myself going back on a weeknight, though I'll probably continue to stay clear of the  patrons spilling out onto the sidewalk brunch.

Prime Meats * 465 Court St., Brooklyn, NY

Schwarzwaldstuben & Renger-Patzsch

Schwarzwaldstuben and Renger-Patzsch are both solid neighborhood restaurants in opposite corners of Berlin. Neither are secrets with locals nor tourists. Schwarzwaldstuben, the more Williamsburgy of the two (though it's hard to tell where the rampant displays of antlers diverges from tradition into irony in Berlin) in Mitte (which I'd characterize as more of a Carroll Gardens) wasn't exactly a snap to get into.

Unlike, say, a Prime Meats, though, they do take reservations because Germans are reservations crazy, yet calling Monday while at JFK still couldn't snag us a seat any sooner than that Thursday. I think part of the issue is that unlike in NYC where tables constantly turnover and it's expected that you'll promptly vacate after eating, in Berlin, like much of Europe, you've essentially booked a table for the night. People get up, smoke, come back, take breaks between courses, order a round of drinks after eating, smoke some more, another round of drinks, no rush.

So, first we ate at the slightly less hectic, but reservations-needed Renger-Patzsch in Schoenenberg, a neighborhood I can't really peg because the walk from the S-Bahn was dark and kind of desolate with most businesses closed for the evening, everyone tucked into their apartments.

Gebratene Elsässer Blutwurst mit krossem Speck und Rahmsauerkraut. I love blood sausage from all cuisines, but this version was particularly good. Sliced into three pieces, there was more surface area to crisp up and caramelize. I just noticed that my copy and paste from their menu has creamed sauerkraut instead of the lentils I was served. I love pickled cabbage, but the more French leaning legumes were a solid pairing, especially with the bacon. 

Tarte flambée végétarienne: mit Lauch, Walnüssen und Bleu d´Auvergne. The menu has Alsatian touches like the extensive list of flammekueche a.k.a. tarte flambée. I love these thin, crackly pizzas but a whole square tart for one person is kind of too much with an appetizer even if the waitress says otherwise. I succumbed to this vegetarian one with sauteed leeks, walnuts, and Bleu d'Auvergne because I can never not order something that contains that soft Brie-like blue cheese. If it's in the house, I'll pick at the wedge until it disappears (usually, three days later). The American in me wanted to take my remainders for later, but that isn't done.

Elsässer Sauerkraut mit Schäufele, Eisbein, Kassler und Rauchwurst. An Alsatian pork platter with knuckle, smoked sausage, salt pork, and shoulder. Plus, boiled potatoes, sauerkraut, and sharp mustard on the side. This was not listed as charcroute garni, but isn't it?

Schwarzwaldstuben also served flammekueche, but the cuisine is supposedly more Swabian with pasta dishes like maultaschen, a ravioli-like dumpling, and spaetzle. The menu is not huge (and not online, so no German here) with no real appetizer/main convention, and revolved around a lot of bacon-studded potatoes, gravy, cabbage, sautéed mushrooms, and braised meats. And not particularly lightened-up nor downsized, which is not a complaint.

Schnitzels are also served, of course. I am still getting the variations straight and if I'm correct this pan-fried pork cutlet would be schweineschnitzel or maybe schnitzel wiener art (Vienna-style schnitzel).

I didn't mean to eat roast venison twice in a week; it just happened.

This was a special that was verbally described to me as "deer," (of course our server could speak pretty good English--and French in addition to German) after miming at the faux taxidermy (there were also real antlers, no heads). Stewed meat and cabbage might not sounds so alluring on paper, but with rich gravy and buttery spinach spaetzle, it's the best kind of cold weather food.

By the way, the other venison dish, the first thing we ate after landing, was at the Party Haus in the Alexanderplatz Christmas market. Late night, it's like the German version of a Jersey Shore club: bouncers, screaming, stumbling, fueled by Jägermeister.

At 6pm, it was groups of senior sipping Glühwein and us just pointing to something on the English-free menu: wildbraten, gefüllt mit Pilzen wurzigem kase, überbacken mit Preiselbeeren, Pfännchen, serviert. It turned out be a pan filled with venison chunks, mushrooms, peppers, corn kernels, bound by melted cheese with a blob of cranberry jelly, like the long lost brother of an Applebee's Sizzling Entree.

Schwarzwaldstuben * Tucholskystraße 48, Berlin, Germany
Renger-Patzsch * Wartburgstraße 54, Berlin, Germany

Nordsee

There are so many un-American things about Nordsee, the German fast food chain (though its mascot is very Spongebob). I can't see a fish restaurant not exclusively devoted to the battered and fried doing so well. Plus, real plates, glasses, and beer in a mall food court?

To be fair, there are plenty of fried options at Nordsee; the woman in line ahead of me was getting a very Brooklyn Chinese takeout combo of fried shrimp and fries. I was trying to not fill up so I could squeeze in a second lunch later, hence the petite sweet-and-sourish pickled herring, cucumber, and onions on a roll. I would totally buy this instead of those sad still-hungry-afterward half-baguette sandwiches from Pret a Manger that I occasionally get sucked into ordering.

More American was Papa Asada, the Tex-Mex restaurant, selling something that looked suspiciously like a Crunchwrap. In fact, it was called a Crunchwrap. It's also suspiciously absent from its website. Perhaps Taco Bell should look into a German expansion.

Nordsee * ALEXA, Am Alexanderplatz Grunerstraße 20, Berlin, Germany

 

Hofbräu Berlin

After reading about the Berlin arrival of Hofbräuhaus, a beer garden franchise from Munich that has outlets in Dubai and Las Vegas (maybe I'll pop in this weekend), I knew I had to pay a visit. If only because Bavarian kitsch in the capital might be akin to a Cracker Barrel in Manhattan (no one seems to realize that you can reach the country chain if you head west for an hour--no need to cross the Mason-Dixon Line).

The giant space designed to hold 2,500 wasn't even close to capacity on a dark, blustery Friday afternoon, but there was an oompah band (they had just left the stage). We were the only ones who didn't know the words to the songs.

The real reason I wanted to go to the Hofbräuhaus was because I needed a schweinshaxe fix. Berlin is known more for eisbein, a boiled pork knuckle, but I wanted a massive dose of lechon-like crispy skin and fat.

But I didn't want to seem like a total glutton. Even though I knew I was ordering something embarrassingly massive, I played it off like I was a naive American unwittingly picking random things. And oddly, this was the only restaurant I dined at that didn't have English menus or translations below dishes, and it was the most touristy place by far, right off Alexanderplatz, the metaphorical Time's Square of Berlin.

When it arrived and drew the attention of the neighboring group of German tourists who'd commandeered two big tables, I pretended like I was surprised. I may have even opened my eyes wider and held out my hands as if I were air-measuring the knuckle's girth.

Of course, I couldn't eat it all myself. There was no way the crackled hunk of meat was going to be to even be tackled fully by two people, and I didn't get the impressions that Germans, like most Europeans, engaged in doggie bagging. We did the best we could. I have to tamp down my food-wasting guilt on vacations.

I did not order the sausages and potatoes.

Hofbräu Berlin * Karl-Liebknecht-Straße 30, Berlin, Germany

Bier's Kudamm 195

Even if you don’t like hotdogs (I don’t—and while anyone who has only read things I’ve posted this week would think that I’m finicky, hotdogs and melon are seriously the only two foods I actively avoid) you must try a currywurst if you’re in Berlin.

Sure, it’s pretty much a fried wiener sliced into bite sized pieces, doused in ketchup sprinked with curry powder, and served with a roll on the side. You can order the dish with skinless or skin-on franks, though it was the grease-coated, crisped-up casing that I thought made the currywurst with a little textural contrast against the sweet, mildly spiced sauce. I only regret not ordering fries because the bright red goo would be a perfect dip.

You can find currywurst anywhere any time of day or night. I just happened to pick Bier's, just outside the Friedrichstraße S-Bahn station, because it was near where I was staying and I had heard they made their own sauce unlike many others.

If anything, I was impressed at the rampant use of real plates and glassware, here and at other fast food and outdoor eateries around the city (at the Christmas markets you had to pay a 1.50-2 Euro deposit on the gluwein mugs) as well as the local penchant for eating and drinking outdoors, despite rain and near freezing temperatures.

Bier's Kudamm 195, Friedrichstraße 142, Am Eingang S-Bahnhof Berlin, Germany

Drinking In Berlin

In Berlin you can drink on the streets, subways, pretty much anywhere you please, day or night. The beer of choice (and it’s always beer—though I did spy a group of possible Brazilians [there aren’t a lot of black or Portuguese-speaking people in Berlin] sharing a bottle of Jack Daniel's on the subway platform) is Berliner Kindl, not this generic bier that I couldn’t resist buying for the label.

You can also drink that green beer, but I didn’t get the chance to. While killing 20 minutes before my 10pm reservation at an American-ish burger restaurant (it had to be done) I stopped into a nearby bar and ordered the first beer I saw on tap. Only after I settled in did I notice Berliner Weisse, rot oder grün scrawled at the very bottom of the chalkboard above the bar. I never encountered those sweet words again.

You can drink Glühwein spiked with rum (or kirsch) from a little ceramic boot at one of the gazillion Christmas markets. You could also drink schnapps from strangers, but they might dose you with liquid ecstasy. Maybe that’s your scene?

If not, you’d better stick to talking, animatronic moose.

At Christmas markets you can also drink hot caipirinhas. Santa and heated Brazilian cocktails make perfect sense. I wouldn’t be surprised if hot mojitos existed somewhere in Germany, as well. From what I gathered caipirinhas are having a moment in Berlin, and bottles of cachaça (Pitu brand) were behind most bars. Good for them. In Puerto Rico I kept getting served caipirinhas made with rum because no one stocked cachaça, so no one should assume that geographical proximity has anything to do with authenticity.

You can also drink at a houseboat-like structure jutting out over a river. You can also eat quesadillas there, now a global bar snack, with a blanket on your lap while smoking in the heat-lamped but still freezing back room that’s open-air in the warmer months. New Yorkers are way less resilient to rain and chill.

You can drink something called a Watermelon Man, which as a melon-hater wound me up unnecessarily. I thought it was a fluke when I first noticed it on a menu at Ankerklause, then realized it clearly a standard when it also appeared at a chicer café and was mentioned in club reviews in around town guide in the hotel room. The vodka and watermelon liqueur cocktail seems to be a ‘90s holdover much like our dated cosmopolitan. Supposedly, Bar am Luetzowplatz invented this "classic."

You can also drink at a tiki bar where they only other patrons might be a couple drinking tea and a young man nursing a beer while reading at the bar and the music is off-decade big band and ragtime. You might also get booted out at an unreasonable 11:30pm and when you order an old fashioned it will arrive in a giant tumbler gussied-up like a tiki drink. Of course, Watermelon Man is also present.

You can drink champagne bearing the name of the department store you’re in, while eating oysters. Can you imagine Bloomingdale’s champagne or a raw bar upstairs?

You can ring a bell, luck out that there are two free stools because you didn't make reservations on a Saturday night, and drink serious cocktails described only in German even though the names are all in English at a speakeasy with only a picture of Samuel Beckett as signage. You could try a classic Blood and Sand or a more unusual Scotch-based drink softened with cream, the Bonnie Prince Charles (which is nothing like the similarly named beverage at Mary Queen of Scots).  I had an apple-y Widow's Kiss.

You could drink at another serious, i.e. Watermelon Man-free, though less subdued bar, Reingold, right after eating at nearby restaurant named Reinstoff, and wonder how many Rein prefixed establishments might be in the area. I did not encounter anything particularly German about any cocktails I tried—most were very much in the American canon—so I was happy when German language covers of Ozzy and Santana came on while sipping my Martinez. Punks and their parents were welcome. And obviously, smoking was too--I just realized there's an ashtray in practically every photo here.

You can drink in a Soviet-themed bar next to tank most definitely not filled with fish. After a while the albino tadpole-like creature might grow on you.

And the paintings.

You can drink a Hamburg pilsner just because the label is cute. The sports bar where it was imbibed, a British chain, attached to a hostel, was less cute but maybe you acquiesced out of curiosity and to appease a boyfriend’s wish to see the Redskins game (the only American football game was Cincinnati). I bet they served a Watermelon Man. They definitely served Jager shots.

What's In a Name?

Maybe I’m just blanking-out, but I can’t really think of a slew of bars and restaurants in NYC named after famous people (Jack Dempsey? Chez Josephine?). In Berlin, homages run rampant. I’m certain there are many more than what I encountered during my brief visit because it wasn’t like I was seeking them out, I just stumbled upon them.

I ate at Renger Patzsch (flammkuchen!) named after a German photographer Albert Renger-Patzsch and had cocktails at a ring-the-doorbell speakeasy, Becketts Kopf, with the only identifier being a picture of Samuel Beckett in the window.

Also: Tarantino’s Bar, Jules Verne, The Oscar Wilde, Diener-Tattersal (Franz Diener was a German boxer), Newton Bar (as in Helmut), and Joseph-Roth-Diele (Jewish Austrian writer).

This is all I have time to say about food and drink at this very moment (other non-food-related Berlin generalizations are here). There are always photos, of course.

Henne

Fried chicken is not the first (or the second or third) foodstuff that springs to mind when I think of Berlin. Yet Henne, basic in menu (chicken, potato salad, cabbage salad, and meatballs are just about it) maximalist in décor (all of aged dark wood, stained glass, antlers, and steins Americans associate with Germany) turned out to be one of my favorite meals. I love excess and outré combinations, but sometimes simple is the way to go.

You have to drink Bavarian landbier in a chunky ceramic mug. You don’t have to order individual potato salads or the cabbage salad at all, though you might get a funny look from your waitress and you'll definitely be in the minority among fellow diners. One mayo-heavy kartoffel was plenty to share, I thought.

Do order your own half chicken, though, because that’s the whole point. Even knife-and-fork-crazed locals tear through the crackly, heavily salted skin into the juicy meat with their hands. The chicken manages to be different—hunkier and lighter—yet just as good as my favorite fried chicken at Willie Mae’s Scotch House.

I did wonder here and elsewhere  if the number of seasonal tchotkes (though it's not evident in this photo) and touches like the red tartan tablecloth were just for Christmas or permanent fixtures.

Henne * Leuschnerdamm 25, Berlin, Germany 

Bar Tartine

I managed to take part in Bon Appetit’s so-called “Germanic cuisine boom” in San Francisco despite having a contender two blocks from my apartment (two more days in Portland and I totally would’ve ended up at Gruner too). These things happen.

Bar Tartine struck me as more Austro-Hungarian than purely German. Some might say Cal-Hungarian. I wouldn’t, but that’s my aversion to the Cal prefix. James took to calling the hey-that’s-cool Bay Area style “Cal-tude,” which started getting on my nerves (him saying it more than the practice) but the service here was so careless and forgetful—we were given a free blueberry dessert, to be fair—that I kind of had to agree in this case. Cal-tude is not the same as the haphazard style that’s rampant in aggressively homespun/quirky Brooklyn restaurants because the venues—Bar Agricole was another practitioner—are polished in other regards.

I can easily say that I’ve never eaten food like this in NYC (maybe I should check out Hospoda?). The flavors—lots of hot paprika, offal, rye, quark—hewed traditional yet everything I sampled managed to be fresh and light instead of stodgy. And a little daring; I don’t picture goat meatballs or beef heart tartare being common in Budapest.

Bottarga, grilled bread, butter, radish. At first I thought the butter had been smoked Extebarri-style, the flavor was so prominent, but I think it was simply the heavily grilled bread. A simple open-faced sandwich was made special by the translucent slices of fish roe.

Grilled tripe, fennel, cabbage, coriander. This dish almost never came, but I wasn’t about to say, “oh, never mind” because I have a thing for cow’s stomach in all preparations and like to see how it’s handled in different cuisines. These tender strips were also given a serious grilling, and despite the presence of fennel and cabbage had a vague menudo quality thanks to a spicy broth and cilantro.

Kapusnica - smoked blood sausage, pickled cabbage, cherry, chili, hen of the woods. I’ll also always order blood sausage if I see it (I’ve never seen one quite this obscene) especially when paired with unusual mushrooms, a hit of spice and cherries (which I encountered time and again on this trip—you know you’re eating seasonally when the same ingredient shows up on your plate in numerous restaurants). The richness of the sausage still dominated, but wasn’t overly heavy.

Halaszle - Rock cod, Hungarian wax pepper, smoked broth, purslane, fennel, onion. Hmm…if they can smoke broth, maybe that butter was smoked, after all?

Bar Tartine * 561 Valencia St., San Francisco, CA

 

Alpenhaus

After so much gravy and fries, I just wanted something light and fresh like…fondue. Ok, what I really wanted was something old fashioned and festive. Alpenhaus more than met my needs.

Fondue is a confusing dish, though. I treat it as an entrée (American entrée, not entrée meaning appetizer like in the rest of the world including Canada). But it’s always on a menu with other big dishes, whether veal cordon bleu at a traditional restaurant or heritage pork cassoulet at a more modern one. Are you supposed to treat it as a starter? At Pain Béni in Quebec City (which I’m not blogging because I’m trying to be more restrained) a group ordered cheese fondue as dessert, which isn’t a bad idea.

I’ve never encountered a fondue for two as massive as the three-inches of melted Emmental and Gruyere that was presented to us in this weathered, red crock. We were warned against ordering a rosti and the large cheese-and-sausage heavy salad, and I can see why.

Nonetheless, the male half of a couple sitting nearby yelled out to the waiter, “Yes, now I do want the wienerschnitzel!” implying that his original order had been tamed, as well. He got his veal cutlet.

And we ordered the Alpenhaus salad anyway.

Alphenhaus * 1279 Rue St-Marc, Montreal, Canada

Der Schwarze Kölner

I wouldn't say that I favor beer halls over other drinking establishments, so it was odd that I ended up at semi-isolated Hungarian, Draft Barn, Friday evening and at Der Schwarze Kölner two nights later.

Fort Greene's German contribution isn't a true beer garden—there are smattering of outdoor folding tables and chairs facing Fulton Street—and food isn’t really the point, but the bar was just right for a Fourth of July stop, post-BAM.

No, I didn’t mess around with fireworks or barbecues this year. Instead, I witnessed my first Nathan’s hotdog eating contest in person, then sobered up with some bleak Americana while watching Winter’s Bone.

The dark (and extra echoey) room was the perfect setting to test out my new point-and-shoot, an uncharacteristic impulse buy. My old-ish PowerShot SD800 died last week and I could make do like the rest of the world who now seems to rely solely on iPhones for photos, but the quality doesn't cut it (plus, I don't have an iPhone). I'm not always in the mood for cramming an SLR in my purse, but still want to take casual photos on occasion. Things like pretzels and sausage that can only be so pretty.

And clearly, I still have some way to go in mastering this new camera. These are not glamour shots. (By contrast, the first time I ever used my SLR in the wild at Hill Country, my photos turned out well despite not knowing what I was doing—amusingly, one of these test shots was recently used in an Ozersky post).

True confession: I hate hotdogs. My patriotic eating duty went unfulfilled at Nathan's. That doesn't mean I dislike sausages, though. Weisswurst are more delicate and I kind of like their albino appearance. And no one can argue with a soft pretzel.

Obazda was completely new to me. The cheese spread, a sharp blend of cream cheese, butter, brie, beer and caraway, is like Bavarian pimento cheese, in a way. The radishes and dark Spaten Optimator added an additional layer of welcome bitterness to the dip.

Der Schwarze Kölner * 710 Fulton St., Brooklyn, NY

Bei Otto

As has become de rigueur on Southeast Asian vacations, I ate at a German restaurant in Bangkok. Indulging in a little pork shank and sauerkraut doesn't make me feel guilty in and of itself, but I shudder at being pegged as a homesick tourist (that's what Sizzler is for). German food isn't any less foreign than Thai food to me; it’s the double-foreignness that makes it perversely fun. The sickest thing about German fare in the tropics is how heavy it is for the climate. On our stop early into this trip, I couldn't bear to sit in the front beer garden (we sat inside). By my last night in Thailand, two weeks later, I was drinking outside in the elements (at a Thai bar, thank you) like a pro.

These pretzel rolls were amazing. Why have I not encountered this warm, chewy bread before? They were also the first non-airline food I'd eaten in over 22 hours so my judgment could've been clouded.

Welcome to the pork shank. From this angle, the porcine hunk almost resembles a beige heart. Some of my favorite crispy pork preparations are Thai, so I knew they would get the tender-crusty contrast right. The dense, spongy potatoes had to have been instant (I have a fondness for instant potatoes but realize this isn’t a selling point for most). Luckily, they were the only dud and this meal was about the meat anyway. 

I don't generally recommend eating non-local food unless you're going to be in a country for at least two weeks. I couldn’t resist seeing how double-foreign food will turn out. There were no obvious Thai twists, the cuisine was very traditional. If I had more time to spare, I would've gone to Tawandeng, a brewery/entertainment center outside the city center that is more of a hybrid. They serve their deep-fried pork knuckle with a chile dipping sauce (and the requisite mashed potatoes and sauerkraut). I like my fatty meats cut with hot, sharp condiments like this. Now that I think about it, Bei Otto probably had sriracha sitting around—it’s not as if they don’t get Thai clientele.

Bei Otto * 1 Sukhumvit Soi 20, Bangkok, Thailand

Schnitzel Haus

I've come to this place in life where Friday night I want food I don't have to think about, wait 30 minutes in a bar area with one square foot of personal space or make reservations for. Last week it was bone marrow on toast and stout and Gouda fondue at Bar Artisanal (which I did not blog because I'm trying to value my time more in 2010).

This weekend was kicked off with a pork shank, only made German by its pool of brown gravy and side plate of red-skinned mashed potatoes and sauerkraut tempered by oily nubs of bacon. This is the medium, which will provide a generous dinner, late night snack the next night and a lunch 36-hours later. I have never been witness to the large or extra large. The bone-in meat cudgel will garner stares, of envy or disgust I’m not sure.

All I know is that the skin has been burnished to the consistency of caramelized sugar and that the dark, tender meat and fatty gelatinous folds within are far more exciting than any crème brulee.

Bay Ridge’s Schnitzel Haus doesn’t have the aged charm or impossible-to-get-to-by-subway allure of the Staten Island or Queens stalwarts, but those old-timers don’t have a pork shank. They also don’t have a photo of Donald Trump prominently featured in the front of the room.

Previously on Schnitzel Haus.

Schnitzel Haus * 7319 Fifth Ave., Brooklyn, NY

Gustav’s Pub & Grill

Did I love it? Not as much as The Rheinlander next door.

There are two reasons to go to The Rheinlander: fondue and Victor Meindl. Gustav’s, the adjoining cuckoo clock-free bar-centric offshoot (now a chain), only has the melted cheese in its favor.

Victor Meindl was the gangly Christopher Kimball-looking gentleman in lederhosen and a jaunty Tyrolean cap that roved around the restaurant playing accordion on our almost annual Christmas visits in the ‘80s. He was still there when I celebrated high school graduation at The Rheinlander. And he was still there when I was in my mid-20s and I thought I was too cool for him when he asked if had any requests. I brushed him off with a “No, thank you” then irrationally changed my answer to “Do you still play that Consider Yourself at Home song?” (Oliver—and Victorian England in general—always gave me the creeps) While being serenaded the confusion between kitsch and genuine love overwhelmed me and my nervous laughing turned to tears. That was over a decade ago, and the last time I saw him.

The Rheinlander wasn’t always the source of joy. In college my sister and I came along with my dad and his new family for dinner. The rotund druggie (I’m not svelte but I’ve also never been a meth addict and assumed the two went together) step-sister who wore Tasmanian Devil t-shirts down to her knees, demanded extra mushrooms in brown sauce and they actually brought her more in a little dish and her uncle got rowdy and angry when the waitress wasn’t familiar with a whiskey/beer drink he’d had in Germany while in the service. I wasn’t 21 yet and couldn’t drown my sorrows publicly but you’d better believe that when we had to spend Christmas with these folks my sister and I pillaged their well-stocked liquor cabinet (at the prompting of our step-sister who showed us where her wealthy grandparents—millionaires from the garbage business, trash genuinely—kept the booze).

Why didn’t I check in on Victor on my no-longer-recent Labor Day weekend visit? I think I was scared that he wouldn’t be there. But I also didn’t have the time to commit to a full-blown German meal. I was meeting one of my oldest friends before flying back to NYC in a few hours and The Rheinlander is only five miles from the airport. I thought I’d give Gustav’s a go once I saw online that you can simply order the fondue and that it would be happy hour.

Ah, the fondue, simple, sharp, creamy and served with a mix of pumpernickel and paler bread, none of that healthy vegetables and apples nonsense. If I’m correct this was the $4.99 version from the happy hour menu. There is a mini pot for $2.99 and you can also order add ons like sausage an pesto. As an old-timer pesto is just wrong. I’m torn on the new-to-me Dungeness crab and roasted red pepper version because that could be good if done right.

Imade fondue twice in the past two weeks and went totally classic: Emmental, gruyere, kirsch (ok, no Chasselas—I can’t even pretend to be highbrow now that you know I used Charles Shaw Sauvignon Blanc) and obviously good enough to prepare for two different sets of people. The Rheinlander’s version contains only Swiss cheese and no cherry brandy, and it doesn’t even matter. You’ll eat it and you’ll like it. This is Portland not Geneva. Wow, it’s all coming back to me; chef Horst Mager, used to (and still does for all I know) regularly appear in cooking segments on local morning news shows. It looks like he even has a self-published (Portland, always with the diy spirit) cookbook on Amazon.

The fondue is all you need to know about the food at The Rheinlander. The rest is just not that remarkable. However, I still went wild with a pre-flight repast ordering up a slew of bar snacks that I don’t recall from the original stodgier menu. Things like schnitzel fingers with honey-mustard, ketchup and thousand island. Both the fries and cutlet could’ve been crisper.

The potato pancakes with smoked salmon, chopped hard-boiled eggs and capers and sour cream were pretty good. I got these to share but no one seemed interested in them.

James picked a sausage trio (brautrust, weisswurst and smoked bier sausage) with potatoes and two types of cabbage.

What I learned from Lema, the only person I’ve known for over 25 years that isn’t family: the last time she was in the Philippines she and her mom visited a mystic four hours from Manila whom they call Angie. She made them turnaround and drive back to the city for a belt to use in a spell. Details are blurred but I think it was her dad’s belt and he stopped cheating after the ritual was performed so it was well worth it. Also, her 80-something grandfather has a 30-year-old girlfriend, which no one questions. Supposedly, she wooed him with her cooking, though I imagine his US citizenship has something to do with it. Her aunt, who had been trying to come to America since the ‘80s, was finally granted permission, got here, hated it and promptly returned to the Philippines.

Meanwhile, I’m toying with idea of going to Manila in February. Years ago Lema told me that she knew someone who had his hand outside the window of a car and a passerby chopped it off to get his expensive watch (she also has an unbelievable tale about a prostitute and a randy tapeworm). I don’t wear a watch.

The tenuous Filipino/German connection: When I ate German food in Hong Kong I ordered the monstrous pork shank like the Filipinos at the table next to me (not like the Filipinas on stage singing “We Are Family”). They stared at me in a possessive way that questioned, “That American likes lechon?” But see, it wasn’t lechon because it was German food in Hong Kong. Neither of us owned it.

Gustav’s Pub & Grill * 5035 NE Sandy Blvd., Portland, OR

Nurnberger Bierhaus

1/2 Like many rewarding experiences in life, the most fun are often those you never saw coming. While errand running in New Jersey I didn't imagine that by 11pm I would be surrounded by karaokers in a Staten Island German restaurant. It happens.

Relying on a GPS for food advice has rarely panned out. With its perpetual crowds out the door, cheap Tex-Mex go to, Jose Tejas, is unapproachable before 9:30pm. We turned to the Garmin Nuvi to find other nearby Mexican/Spanish options (I'll never understand why people think burritos and paella come from the same geographic region) and were directed to downtown Linden. I love the township's down and out fading Polish main drag and was once lured into a tavern, but wasn't sure I wanted to eat in the neighborhood (I only recently read about White Diamond and can't figure out why I hadn’t encountered them yet). It turned out that both recommended restaurants, Don Alex and suspiciously named, The Mexican Restaurant, were nowhere to be found. Thanks for nothing, GPS. 

Apropos to nothing, I decided I could use something porky and big mug of beer. Easy, we have to go through Staten Island to get back to Brooklyn, anyway. My only sadness with Staten Island German (Killmeyer's being the other) is that they don't offer pork knuckle, one of the finest examples of porcine extremes: the crackliest skin housing a mound of tender, moist meat. I just realized that I've bemoaned the lack of pork knuckles and shanks in practically every German write-up I've ever posted. I guess I really like pork knuckles. They do a great rendition at Bay Ridge's Schnitzel Haus and possibly the best version I've had was at King Ludwig's in Hong Kong. Yes, Hong Kong—I can't live on congee and dumplings, alone. 

Instead, I settled for kassler rippchen, smoked pork chops. They’re nothing like a knuckle, all soft and yielding with little textural contrast, but there is charm to salty smokiness buffered by a scoop of mashed potatoes and a bed of mild sauerkraut.

Hmm, I thought we asked for the game sausage trio, the same appetizer we had on our last visit, but were presented with three all-the-same sagey links that I figured out where rostbratwurst, baby brautwurst. I'm not sure if we were misunderstood or if after 10pm (the remaining tables were all wrapping up by the time we sat down) you get what you get.

As we finished up leisurely, half the waitresses began changing out of dirndls and into street clothes and some of the staff began pushing dining tables to the edge of the wall and setting up speakers and lights. A new boisterous crowd, composed of quite a few revelers who barely looked out of high school, supplemented by a few middle aged men, slowly started trickling in. Laminated spiral bound books were being placed on tables. Ah ha, karaoke.

"Ok, time to go" immediately popped out of James mouth.

Not so fast. I wasn’t feeling so quick to flee. "No, we have to stay for at least one song," I pleaded.

"This is going to be bad," James countered, not instilling confidence with his kill joyness.

"No, this is going to be good," I affirmed. And another beer would certainly improve matters, so we shifted to the bar to watch from a safer distance. I don’t sing. 

I will admit to brief hesitation, my only ever NYC neo-nazi encounter occurred in an outer borough German bar attached to a restaurant, but I can judge each far flung German bar in the city as an individual.

Would it surprise you that the first song was "99 Red Balloons?" Thankfully, that was the bulk of '80s nostalgia, things sped rapidly into the '90s with the exception of an older gent's rendition of The Eagles' "Take it Easy," a song I always associate with being made to jog in circles around the gym in grade school. (In a similar not terribly blood-pumping vein America's “Ventura Highway,” somehow managed to get on my iPod shuffle I use at the gym and nearly conjures P.E. nightmares.)

No pork chops after 11pm, that's when the bar menu inserted on the front page of the song choice guide, becomes standard. I’m still marveling over the concept of "Bavarian Bizza." (6/14/09)

Prime Meats

I’ve been feeling guilty for ignoring restaurants within a three-block radius of my apartment for those in neighboring states. I can dig the Brooklyn scene, too. Or at least I can try.

I showed up to Frankies 457 when it first opened, liked it fine, yet didn’t return for four years. So, who knows if my urge to finally visit Prime Meats will garner a return visit any sooner than 2013. If you’re lucky like me, the Portland Coffee Messiah will pass you by as you stroll down lower Court Street.

Initially, we were scared off by the quote of a 40-minute wait at 9:05 on a Thursday. It’s not a big place so I ordered a Prime Manhattan (Rittenhouse rye, Buddha’s hand bitters and some sort of vermouth, I assume) and figured if I finished it before being seated, we’d move on to another plan. I don’t have a problem eating at bars but I do like to sit when ingesting more than snacks or finger food, and Prime Meats is stool-less for the obvious issue of space constraints. I was still sipping about 20 minutes later when we were whisked to the outer edge of a table for six already occupied by a young couple in the attached corner booth. Perfectly bearable wait.

We just ordered two things from the brief menu. A red cabbage salad that was slicked with just enough oil and punchy vinegar. The walnuts were the right finish, and they tossed in a few more than were probably necessary, which is absolutely how I would’ve made it.

The lighting is abysmal (for food photography, not romance, but I wasn’t there for romance, in fact I got into a tiff over something stupid…James having no opinion on which salad to order. I’m not passionate about salad either, but you must know which one of the three choices sounds the most appealing, right? Ok, I’m a snap decision beast) so despite the fact that I’ve gotten quick and stealthy with my largish camera since acquiring it at the beginning of the year, I was stuck taking candlelit photo after candlelit photo to no avail. Pure blur.

This is what prompted commentary from the peanut gallery at the other end of our table, “She’s Twittering her meal.” Ugh, boo to communal seating. “Dude, you’re supposed to talk behind people’s backs not in front of their face.” And clearly I’m blogging it. Twittering? Come on now.

It’s hard to order choucroute garni and not think fondly of Irving Mill’s charcroute plate, but the two restaurants are vastly different animals and must be judged on their own merits. There was a nice variety of meats—brisket, pork belly, super sagey weisswurst and bratwurst--swimming in a pool of sauerkraut soup. The combo needed mustard and brown bread. Oh, the paying for bread debate. They did have it for a charge and I’m not against the practice, but with a cash only policy I had to be careful with the extras.

Prime Meats * 465 Court St., Brooklyn, NY

Eurotrip

*At some point Eurotrip renamed itself to Korzo.

There seems to be an Eastern European culinary renaissance going on. I used to practically equate the post-3am East Village with pierogies and it’s not like cabbage and dumplings have ever gone out of style in Greenpoint and Ridgewood. But that’s old world. 

Recently, schnitzel and goulash has shown up at places like Fort Greene’s Catherine’s Caffe, Draft Barn in Gowanus, and Eurotrip in South Slope giving nearby Café Steinhof some competition. You could even toss in Ost Café, even though I think they only serve Hungarian pastries not hot meals.

I’ve been curious about Eurotrip, as well as its location choice because it fits in with the smattering of Slavic holdouts in what some people like to call Greenwood Heights (technically Sunset Park starts at 16th St. but everyone seem averse to calling it like it is. Ack I sound elderly when I get tough about neighborhood boundaries). Slovak/Czech Milan’s is just down the street, Smolen, a Polish bar, is on the same block and Eagle Provisions is also in the vicinity (it’s a little musty and overpriced but they do have a good beer selection—I used to buy chopped liver and poppy seed sweets there on my way home from the gym, sabotaging my workout and then some).

Honestly, I’ve never had much interest in Austro-Hungarian cuisine because it seems so bland and heavy (as opposed to Scandinavian fare, which I unfairly ignore because it seems bland and light). And I’m still not convinced otherwise. At least I chose one of those nearly-single-digit-degrees nights to find out for sure. 

My goal to try and not bulk up over the winter was not helped by the langoš, a.k.a. fried pizza. Yes, yes, I could’ve ordered the quinoa with flame-grilled paprika shrimp and microgreens but doesn’t that kind of defeat the purpose of even going to an Eastern European restaurant?

The fried dough was good in the way that fluffy, yeasty batter crisped up to goldenness should be. Instead of the purist butter and garlic version we tried the simply named pub style, a totally americanized treat oozing with Edam, tomato sauce and spicy German sausage. Just like I believe Sriracha goes with pizza, I can get behind pickled cabbage too. This condiment would never be right with thin crust, but the pillowy richness needed some bite.

While the chicken schnitzel took up much of the space on the plate, the accompaniments hidden in the photo were more interesting. The breaded chicken cutlet was kind of dull, not dried out, thankfully, just not exciting. Beneath the splayed out poultry were wedges of red potatoes and a pile of soft sauerkraut (I do love sauerkraut) that I thought were studded with juniper berries. Hard on the teeth, but the nuggets turned out to be crispy pork bits. Nice. Sugary, pickled cucumber slices rounded out the dish.

There was also a plate of geographically diverse sausages involved. Poland, Germany and Hungary were all represented. All of this combined with a pitcher of Krušovice, the house lager, make dessert an impossibility. I wouldn’t mind knowing what’s included in the $5 tray of homemade cookies, though. 

Eurotrip * 667 Fifth Ave., Brooklyn, NY

King Ludwig Beerhall

While I love Asian mall food, I also have a fascination with pockets of moderately upscale Western food. Clarke Quay in Singapore is overpriced and kind of obnoxious, plus I don't find sitting outdoors in 90 weather to be luxurious. Sure, I'll eat a bowl of laska in stifling humidity, but not a three-course meal with wine. They do have a Hooters, though.

Knutsford Terrace in Kowloon, however, kind of charmed me despite its veering toward tackiness. The collection of restaurants, including fare such as Spanish tapas, Russian I'm-not-sure-what, French bistro and Australian steak, is built onto a steep hill and painted in sunny pastels to evoke a Mediterranean plaza.

 

We had to pay a visit, especially since it wasn't too far of a trudge from our hotel. Hong Kong is very walkable and the mild winter weather (you barely needed a light jacket) was energizing instead of the island's usual life-draining climate. It was hard to make up our minds where to stop and it's hard to focus when you're being constantly touted Sixth Street style. I was thinking tapas because I was curious about what cured meats and cheeses they would have, though I was also kind of wowed by Bahama Mama's and Que Pasa not so much for a potentially amazing meal but to see how Chinese might interpret Latin fare.

Then I remembered reading about a German beerhall and that was that. Even though we originally were looking for snacks not a full on meal, the siren song of the massive pork knuckle was too powerful ignore. But we couldn't find the restaurant anywhere. It turns out that King Ludwig is a chain affiliated with the same parent company, King Parrot, the Chinese B.R. Guest, as many of the Knutsford Terrace restaurants but wasn't on the premises. Even better, it was directly across the street from our hotel via an underground footpath. We hotfooted it back quickly as it was getting late for a Sunday.

The upstairs section was surprisingly full, and no, not with expats, but predominately Asian patrons, possibly tourists but definitely not horrible Westerners who can't bear to eat local food. These multi-culti restaurants are really geared towards Hong Kongers and I had no problem justifying bratwurst over lap cheong for a night. We were seated on the less populated main level near the long wooden tables, semi-open kitchen and stage, yes, stage. I had been surprised the entire vacation how Christmas decoration crazy they were in S.E. Asia, and King Ludwig's was no exception. I wouldn't have imagined anything less from a pseudo-German establishment.

And it wouldn't be Hong Kong without a live Filipino band (it's a known fact that they are the showmen of the continent). This group appeared to be made up of three sisters and a middle aged dude on a keyboard, for all I know he was their father. James was the only one in the entire restaurant who clapped after sassy renditions of Bette Davis Eyes, Daniel, and We Are Family.

So, pork knuckle was a must. That would've been plenty for the two of us, combined with a pint of house brew. But James also ordered a spicy sausage that turned out to be an unusually long chile-flecked hot dog. I didn't sample any because frankfurters always give me a stomachache and I'd already suffered enough intestinal trauma that week.

You wouldn't think there was much affinity between German and Asian food but compared to Filipino lechon there is middle ground with the pork knuckle. I've also had a version in Hunan restaurants. And interestingly, we were sitting next to a Pinoy family who yep, had the meaty dish on their table. It was certainly large enough to feed a small group. And our santa hat-clad waitress even carved it tableside for us.

Our neighbors seemed surprised that we also ordered the pork knuckle and kept ogling us, which weirded out James because he's a grump and has childhood issues. When he was a kid Filipino relatives made a fuss over him liking rice, "oh, look he eats rice" like only Filipinos eat rice, when duh, the entire world enjoys the grain. This was similar to what appeared to be going on here, like only Filipinos eat pork knuckle and how could we know about it. Personally, I don't care who wants to claim what food. Like I said, issues.

(Speaking of the Philippines, at some point during this trip James mentioned possibly visiting Manila on business during 2009 because his company had acquired another in that city, and that maybe I could tag along and we'd schedule a side excursion to Thailand to make up for our disappointing vacation. When I brought this up later, he pretended like he hadn't said it so I am repeating it here so that it becomes public record. I've always wanted to go to the Philippines and just to be a pain he's vowed to never set foot in the country. We'll see.)

The pork was all I had hoped for, the right balance of crisp skin to fatty bits and juicy meat. Even the potatoes were winsome; I'm pretty sure because they were deep-fried. Why not Bavarian treats in the tropics?

Strange solo alfresco table.

King Ludwig Beerhall * 32, KCR East TST Station, Hong Kong

Killmeyer's

1/2 Googling killmeyer's vs nurnberger bierhaus recently brought someone to this site, and strangely, I had the exact same question last week. This is German food weather, but where to go?

Manhattan just doesn’t work, though I’ll admit that I haven’t given it a chance. I probably would appreciate the kitsch factor at Rolf’s, especially this time of year. Queens is rife with options, and part of me is curious about Manor Oktoberfest since it’s in that bizarro Atlas Park Mall...um, and they serve a Cuban panini. Schnitzel Haus is Brooklyn’s only contender (and might just have the best food of any I’ve tried so far--two words: schweinshaxe “hofbrauhaus" a.k.a. pork knuckle ). But really, the best ambiance is in Staten Island, yes, Staten Island.

Killmeyer’s is barely even in the city. After winding for miles on woodsy dimly lit Arthur Kills Road, you could practically be in the Black Forest. If you really pushed your imagination, this isolated pocket could even be the setting for my favorite Grimm Brothers' fairy tale, "The Bird, the Mouse and the Sausage."

Due to its inconvenient location (though there are bus stops outside) the crowd tends to be very local, and on a Saturday night the bar was more crowded than the dining room. I sipped a Bitburger at a lone unoccupied table while waiting for friends to arrive (the same ones that I’d randomly ran into at Wegmans just a few hours earlier).

I wonder if forcing the staff to wear festive costumes is key to the experience? Maybe that’s why I shy away from Manhattan…too much dignity. But what is German food without a Snow White-style building, moose heads and dirndl-clad lasses? (I’m seriously looking forward to Hua Hin where I’ll be in two weeks because the coastal town is thick with German expatriates who run businesses staffed by Thais in lederhosen and the like. So wrong for the tropics.)

Potato pancakes with the requisite sour cream and applesauce were shared by all. They were a little oily but not offputtingly so. 

I was a little disheartened that there wasn’t any pork knuckle on the menu (I checked Nurnberger Bierhaus’ and Zum Stammtischs’ too and same deal. Sure, Schnitzel Haus seems oddly located in Bay Ridge, but they have the massive, crispy, fatty pork knuckle!). In order to try and satisfy my pork tooth, I opted for the farmer’s feast, which includes pork loin, smoked pork chop and pork sausage with sauerkraut, red cabbage and potato dumplings. It’s a lot of food. I could’ve survived on sauerkraut and kassler rippchen, but was happy for variety (and lunch the next day). The overall effect was sweet, tart and salty. Perfect with dark wheat beer whose name I’ve forgotten but in a style called dunkelweizen.

Sausage trio for a recently lapsed herbivore. On my last visit to Killmeyer’s I was accompanied by two vegetarians and it was tough going variety-wise. They do have a vegetarian plate, if need be.

Sauerbraten. This looked wonderfully dark and rich. I always intend to branch out into something non-porcine (though chicken or fish is pushing it) but after once ordering a lackluster sauerbraten at Schnitzel Haus instead of my favorite dish, yes, that damn pork knuckle, I was deeply disappointed. No German beef ever again.

There was no need for dessert and yet James was swayed by ridiculously fluffy overflowering sundaes being brought to tables throughout our dinner. No, there’s nothing particularly Bavarian about ice cream covered in walnuts and Bailey’s Irish Cream. But seriously, look at that thing. 

Is black forest cake authentic or one of those regionally whack things like English muffins or Singapore noodles?

I can’t help but notice the “Book your holiday party now!!” plea on their website. I wish. After last year’s foodie-planned office party fiasco at Bacaro, someone else took over holiday celebration duties and we’re now going to someplace I’ve never heard of called Kemia Bar where I doubt squid ink, head-on sardines or chicken livers will make an appearance. (11/15/08)

Schnitzel Haus

1/2 I’ve never actually eaten a schnitzel at Schnitzel Haus and that’s because the pork shank, a.k.a. schweineshaxe (I can’t believe I’ve been able to use that word twice in a month) is so irresistible. And yes, I’m still doing my part to hype up German food as the new culinary hotness.

Because I was feeling gracious I allowed James to order the pork this time and I branched out with the sauerbraten. This was a dry, boring mistake. While the sauce was tart and meaty and the dumplings were carby fun, the meat was kind of eh. I don’t buy into that death of entrée bullshit but I did get bored after a few bites.

The schweineshaxe was as decadent and crackly as ever, though there was one obvious change from last year’s visit. What used to be the standard size is now listed as a special for twenty-something dollars while the version on the regular menu is a little cheaper, tinier though hardly dainty. I did say that the original shank easily made three servings, so they must’ve wised up.

We tried the smoked trout appetizer, which pretty much tasted like smoked trout. I’m not sure what was in the spread that accompanied it. If I didn’t know better I would say it was cream cheese whipped with horseradish and something sweet like applesauce, though I doubt they actually used applesauce. My only gripe was that you need something starchy with smoked meats (at least I do) and we asked for bread and no one could seem to get around to doing this, despite a breadbasket sitting on everyone else’s tables. Complaining about bread and moderately slow service is very old-lady-ish but I can’t help myself.

On this particular Friday night we were treated to a full band warbling Steely Dan and Jimmy Buffet renditions (more and more it seems that Mr. Buffet is the prime choice for cover bands) and Killepitsch girls (who looked nothing like the model on the brand site) trying to sell promotional shots of herbal liqueur. I was curious, but not $5 curious.

I hear there is a buffet on certain weeknights. You don’t see many, if any, German all-you-can-eat offerings in NYC, and it’s doubtful there’s much demand either. But if unlimited spaetzle and brats are your thing, Bay Ridge is the place to be. (12/12/07)

Keeping it simple with my nymag.com review

Thomas Beisel

Nothing like a little post-Brokeback Austrian meal. The Rockies...The Alps...whatever. I, like most New Yorkers, probably don't eat much German or Austrian food. Mainly because it's few and far between (and yes, I know the two cuisines aren't the same). Here, German tends to be outerborough and kitschy while Austrian leans toward pricy and gilt.

After a BAM matinee it became a toss up between Thomas Beisel and Junior's. Since I've been to the latter countless times TB's seemed in need of trying. It was a good choice, as it was early evening and not terribly crowded. We got a two-seater that temporarily (it was soon filled by a young couple who appeared to be on a first or second date and the guy went on about his firsthand knowledge of Austrian beers and the girl, who appeared to be Russian, filled him in on all her bouts with mental illness and eating disorders. Just so you know, now when she wants cake, she eats it and it's ok) had an empty table next to it with more than six inches of space.

We both started with a hearty gruyere-topped onion soup because that's hard to resist when it's icy outside. With a large glass of Hefeweizen, that would've been a meal in itself, but I wanted to sample the entrees. I went classic and ordered pork cheeks with sauerkraut and dumplings, which was even better than I'd expected. I thought the knoedel would be airy and boring, but they were dense, chewy and carmelized, if that's possible. I suspect the main ingredient was potato. They weren't little and round, but large, thick, flat ovals. James ordered a nutty special of halibut with scallions and ginger. I would've steered clear of Asian touches, but he seemed to like it, even though the fish was oddly matched with potatoes and sweet-sour red cabbage.

For some reason the restaurant strikes me as an older person's haunt, as if the flavors are more suited to a middle aged palate. Strange assessment, I know. Maybe I'm equating Thomas Beisel's clientele with the typical BAM-goer, which isn't unreasonable.

Thomas Beisel * 25 Lafayette Ave., Brooklyn, NY

Lederhosen

German food just doesn't garner the same excitement as flashier cuisines in the city. I guess its perceived as stodgy, heavy, unhealthy. Not trendy like Japanese or perennially popular like Italian. And honestly, my knowledge doesnt extend much beyond bratwurst and schnitzel. (I'm curious about the food scene in Germany because Berlin is totally hip--they must be doing innovative things that Americans are completely obvious of.  Sure, Spain gets all the press, but maybe its time for the Deutsche to do their thing.) But I'm interested, nonetheless.

Rarely setting foot into the West Village, I was trying to come up with someplace to eat and drink, with an emphasis on drinking, on a Friday night that wouldn't be obnoxious or entail the words caliente or cab. Newish Lederhosen, which hasnt gotten any press that I'm aware of, seemed to fit my needs.

The restaurant almost seems out of place for the neighborhood. When I think sauerkraut I don't think Bleecker Street. Most others don't either judging from their empty dining room. The bar up front had its stools filled, but it was a tiny bit off putting being the only food seeking customers in the picnic table and giant alpine mural back space. At one point, an after work group piled in, and after being seated, left. I think from the street you get the impression there's a back garden and this causes disappointment. Maybe German food is synonymous with beer garden.   

But I loved the vibe, very down to earth, German pop music (from the '70s it sounded), friendly staff, bathrooms like it was someones home, maybe your grandmas: Kleenex box, air freshener can, pink cotton towel with a butterfly appliqu on a silver wall-mounted loop (the mens had a blue towel). Definitely not trendy or trying too hard. I'm not sure who the target audience is, which makes me worry that this place wont last.

The food is straightforward, traditional and reasonably priced. Usual suspects like sauerbraten and wiener schnitzel are on the menu. Almost everything is under $12, and many items well under that mark. I had a bratwurst on a roll with shared potato pancake and spaetzle on the side. Simple, carby and good.

Lederhosen * 39 Grove St., NewYork, NY

Rheinlander

The family favorite for winter holidays and once-in-a-lifetime events like high school graduation and deflowerments (ha, joking). We'd order "The Feast," a multi-course barrage of sauerbraten, schnitzel and strudel. I couldn't tell you how authentic the food is, but I will say that it's not terribly similar at all to the offerings at Zum Stammtisch and that none of the Queens German joints I recently checked out serve fondue. Fondue is Rheinlander's raison d'etre. Or maybe it's just my raison d'etre.

Rheinlander* 5035 NE Sandy Blvd., Portland, OR

Sunshine

No one told me that Hua Hin was a German enclave. Or for that matter that like 85% of the foreigners in Thailand are German. Why? What's this about? But then, why ponder such questions when seeing Thai waitstaff in lederhosen and dirndls make you forget. 

We tried Sunshine for breakfast. The offerings were pretty basic: simple omelets and Museli. No gut-busting plates of bacon, hashbrowns, buttered toast and pancakes here. There was an abundance of Maggi sauce, which I don't get. Is it for Asians or Europeans? It's soy based, correct? I definitely know it's not for Americans. 

The open-air restaurant also housed a bakery and internet café. The bakery was doing a brisk business, selling heavy brown breads, cheese and sausages. So seemingly incompatible for the sweltering S.E. Asian climate, yet so amazingly popular. Most of these Austrian, Germanic joints also do Thai food, which I was too chicken to try. What there ought to be are Thai-German fusion restaurants. Yeah, it'll be the big food trend in 2004.

Sunshine Restaurant & Bakery * 130 Naresdamri Rd., Hua Hin, Thailand

Zum Stammtisch

I'll admit my knowledge of German cuisine barely extends beyond what I grew up with at the debatably authentic Rheinlander in Portland, Oregon. I used to go nuts for the fondue (and middle-aged, lederhosen-clad accordionist who's been there for like 20 years, is still there, and once made me laugh so hard I cried by playing my request of "Consider Yourself").

Zum Stammtisch has neither fondue, nor accordions. However, they do go for the full Teutonic, taxidermy and cuckoo clock treatment, and serve plenty of goodies no one in Portland would dare touch like head cheese.

I went whole hog and ordered the Bayerische Bauern Platte filled with potato salad and sauerkraut and topped with a bratwurst, kassler rippchen (smoked pork loin) and leberkase, which I couldn't for the life of me figure out. It tasted sort of livery, but the texture was springy like bologna. I found out leberkase translates literally as "liver cheese" and that sounds about right. On the opposite side of the spectrum, Jessica, the unfortunate vegetarian in tow had only one choice (amusingly, "vegetables available by request" quietly sits at the bottom of each page of the menu) and what a peculiar one. A strangely non-German grilled camembert, consisting of two rounds of breaded, fried cheese on english muffins topped with jellied cranberry sauce?!

Oh my, they know how to do it up in Queens. Really, I've been thinking about returning ever since.

Zum Stammtisch * 6946 Myrtle Ave., Glendale, Queens

Gebhardt's

I was kind of nervous, seeing how this was supposedly a German restaurant though they had a "Bistro Bar Menu," advertising a blooming onion. But they did have a German section on the regular menu, so I opted for an acceptable sauerbraten with pretty good sauerkraut. Things got scary German when James insisted our waiter, who did have a clean-shaven head, was a skinhead and had Aryan Nation tattoos. I didn't really believe him, he just looked like a youngster who might be into metal, and it's not like James knows Nazis. I mean, I'm the one from the NW where Aryan youth run rampant. However, things got much freakier a few nights later when I returned to the neighborhood to try another German restaurant, Von Westernhagen's, and there was a big, loud, middle-aged, crew-cutted Nazi-esque figure at the bar. He plainly said "sieg heil, white power" numerous times and matter-of-factly made his feelings known about the black character on "The Green Mile," which happened to be playing on TV. They do say Queens is the most ethnically diverse county in the entire United States, though you might not guess in Glendale. (9/26/02)

Closed: It's been gone awhile, but I just remembered. I'm pretty sure they have a Long Island location, though. (6/6/05)

Gebhardt's* 6506 Myrtle Ave., Glendale, Queens

Cafe Steinhof

1/2 I was thinking this place would be more like Zum Schneider where I had a traumatic semi-meal (through no fault of the restaurant--a stoned, birthday boy friend starting digging into my plate of food) a few weeks prior. I was thinking beer and sausage, but it's a little more refined.

Initially, I was a little thrown off by the distracted, cross-dressing host. He had this mild Liza Minelli meets Riot Grrl look that I couldn't figure out. He's the effeminate type I can't put my finger on, the kind who might get all crazy and try to give me an exotic foot massage without my consent.

So the restaurant is Austrian, not German and what do I know about authenticity? James insisted there was nothing Austrian about the food, but he's got his culinary history all wrong, claiming paprika's Indian when everyone knows it's associated with Hungary. And that's what I had, the chicken paprika with spaetzle. It was very rich in a dark red sauce, more sour creamy than spicy as I'd expected. Not a big noodle fan, the spaetzle still hit the spot, and tasted even better re-heated as leftovers. James the sour puss (ok, fine, fried cod might not be an Austrian specialty) had sauerbraten with red cabbage. Items that struck me as Austrian: Black sausage strudel, liptauer cheese, Gulash, Linzer Torte and Rosti. It's all German/Swiss/Hungarian mish mashed, but so what. They also had a cocktail called the Klaus Kinski. While a scary man, at least it wasn't the Arnold Schwarzeneger.

Cafe Steinhof * 422 Seventh Ave., Brooklyn, NY