This past Saturday night in Munich we ate at a restaurant recommended by the receptionist at the (seriously cool) hotel we stayed at. Ja, nein. While the cole slaw was good, the pork with “cripsy fat, I mean, skin” was mediocre at best. The accompanying testicles, I mean, dumplings, one potato and the other bread were dismal. The potato dumpling had the consistancy of jellied fruit candy, like jelly beans or orange slices, and the bread dumpling was fine texture-wise but was completely overwhelmed with nutmeg. I like nutmeg, but not that much. The “crispy fat, I mean, skin,” ugh.
But if you like like cigarettes with your meal, this is the joint for you. We were overwhelmed with it and we were nowhere near the door (outside was a smokefest). It felt like they were smoking in the kitchen, which, in fact, they may have been because we were next to that door. We were in and out in 27 minutes which was fortunate because the seating, wooden, uncushioned, straight backed benches, was really uncomfortable.
I wanted to take it up with the hotel receptionist but, well, what’s the point? I’d just be the cranky, complaining aged American.