Do Your Wurst by James Henderson
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Arcotel Velvet Berlin
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Flying into Berlin, I began, worriedly, to think of a week’s worth of sausages and sauer krauts.
“Do your Wurst!” I decided, chuckling to myself.
And of course my admittedly ironic expectations were suitably pole-axed. In the week that I was there I ate extremely well, including one of the best meals of my life.
At first, arriving at Zur Letzten Instanz, I felt I was falling foul of the inscrutable German sense of humour. Surely no German restaurant would ever be inefficient enough to lose a dinner reservation. But no, they said, there was no record of me. Still, there was one space, said the waiter, pointing to a seat at a table for two. Perhaps I would like that one.
In fact the seat was more like a throne, a bench tacked onto the front of one of those magnificent German porcelain heaters. They’re wonderful to look at, and just the thing to give you piles on a winter’s evening no doubt, but sitting on it put me in mind of backing into an extremely ornate urinal. This one was in rich green with miniature curlicues and caryatids and tiny tableaux glazed into the tiles.
Once I had sat down it was of course behind me, so I didn’t care, but I expect I looked far more like an imp than an emperor. I say this because Napoleon sat here when he invaded Berlin two centuries ago. There was a small bust of him to commemorate the event.
Zur Letzten Instanz, the restaurant, calls itself the oldest hostelry in Berlin and it styles itself a typical German ‘Stube’, with stained wood panelling, elaborate Steins with hunting scenes and flip pewter tops, with general German drink-abilia all over the walls. Taken up with the enthusiasm of being in the capital, I started my meal with a Berliner ‘Weissbeer’. On no account should you ever do this. It is simply disgusting. The theory goes that Berlin beer is generally more bitter than that of the beery homelands of south Germany, so the Berliners sweeten theirs, like a Caribbean cocktail, with something red and sticky. Yuck. You can even have a green version if you like, made with extract of woodruff, whatever that is.
My meal was fairly workmanlike altogether but ultimately satisfying. I ate an Urteilsbegründung, a ‘basis for judgement’. All the dishes here are themed in legal terminology. Zur Letzten Instanz takes its name from two litigators who went to the wire but then decided, Zur Letzten Instanz - 'at the last instance' - that they had no complaint with one other after all. The Urteilsbegründung was a schnitzel of pork with butter beans and potatoes. After a sluggish, fruity and highly alcoholic Kaiser Kümmel, I tottered home, tickled with the place, just as a party of sixty arrived. I could feel a few beer songs on the way.
The highlight of my visit was Vau. I am not really one for flighty similes, but eating in this place really was like having fairies dance on your tongue. Vau is where Berlin cuisine hopes it’s heading - hip, refined and already the proud possessor of a Michelin Star. It is set in a swish barrel vaulted room inlaid with light-brown pear wood. They actually manage to make brown look cool in this place, off-setting it with creams, black and slightly bronzed cutlery and plates.
The menu is seasonal. I was treated to eight courses, starting with an amuse-bouche. The courses kept coming ‘just so’, and with just the right space between them. Red radish soup and smoked sturgeon, the most delicate potato salad with strips of john dory, marinated lobster with strawberry and melon (unexpectedly successful), local river-trout (from a chalk pond with very clear water, I was told, certainly strong on the tongue), with asparagus and orange and the tiniest touch of orange in the sauce.
I decided, in my current expansive mood, that I liked this place very much too, particularly for the mix of people. While I sat having a superb meal a couple of families wandered in, then some bohemian types, in T-shirts if you please. No apparent problem about dress codes; it seems the important thing here is the food. Then one of the girls in the family nearest me got her camera out and photographed her plate. Good for her.
The spike-quiffed sommelier kept me plied with suitable wines and of course, the courses kept coming: crisp mackerel with dandelion and caper and pine-nuts; venison done two ways (one so tender that it was like lamb) with chanterelles and pear; goats cheese and macadamia nuts and then, a fruit and chocolate pudding.
Again I wandered off into the night, this time teetering, with a fatuous smile of satisfaction glazed onto my lips. Unexpected, eating in Berlin. Nothing wurst about it.