Only 5th?

Winzer Stube
516 2nd Street
Hudson, Wisconsin

Near my house in San Antonio is a taquería that was once selected, by a supposedly reputable national food magazine, as the Best Taco House in America. Most of us taco aficionados in that part of the world didn't even consider it the best taco house on that street, let alone in the country; so I have some personal experience that leads me to question the value and significance of such titles. Now I come to the pleasant little burg of Hudson, Wisconsin, and find this German restaurant claiming, with almost unbelievable pride, the title of 5th Best German Restaurant in America. My lord, they even print it on the check! They never say who, exactly, awarded them this title, but it doesn't really matter. The point is, they believe it, and they are proud of it.

What's that mean?

Me, I'm not so sure. I think they might be shortchanging themselves. Admittedly, I haven't been to the higher-ranked German restaurants; don't even know where they are. I'm only sure that there ain't one back home, because I've been to all the better German restaurants there (and San Antonio is a city with a strong German heritage that most outsiders are unaware of), and none of them comes close to Winzer Stube for quality food, ambience and authentic German-style service. 

For starters, there's the location in the cellar of a building in the quaintly gentrified center of Hudson, a town with the youthful exuberance of trendy parts of Minneapolis but without the traffic. You open the street door and are faced, unexpectedly, with two staircases, one going up, one down. After a moment's uncertainty, you notice a sign indicating your objective is down. Very much a rathskeller feel. You enter the bar room, a long bar fading off into the distance, a few tables on a raised platform to the right. Posts and bracing emphasize the underground feel. From that vantage point you don't realize there's more to the dining area, and an aura of charm settles around you; a feeling that lasts even when you notice how much larger the space actually is.

We were settled at our table and presented with cards showing the daily specials, a bound drinks list, and menus elegantly printed on scrolls. They list an interesting and mouthwatering collection of foods for every course, making choosing a meal here one of the toughest restaurant decisions I've had to face in quite a while. In the end, I went with a cup of Hungarian goulash, followed by Schlemmertopf "Weiskirchen". My tablemate chose the cream of mushroom soup with his entrée of Koenigsberger Klopse, translated simply as "meatballs." What prodigious pleasure lay behind that mundane word!

But I'm getting ahead of myself (and if I keep this up I will have to put off writing to go heat up the leftovers in the fridge downstairs). First, the soups.

The goulash was delicious. Thick. Meaty. Seasoned, with paprika and caraway. I want more. It was, though, not the best choice as a first course. I probably would have been better off having a lighter soup, just enough to whet the appetite. But I'm glad I tried it nonetheless. My friend's cream of mushroom soup would have been a better choice, for example. Despite being made largely from cream and butter, it was a light broth with excellent, even delicate flavour and remarkable body. Both soups were nicely complemented by a heavy German bread.

I don't know what "schlemmertopf" means, but suspect it means something like "pot" or "saucepan." Tells you nothing about what's in it. Hiding inside (it actually is served in a covered saucepan) are several thick, exquisitely seasoned and grilled chunks of beef tenderloin, a great many thick slices of fresh sautéed mushrooms, and a smattering of spaetzle, those thick German noodles that my Italian relatives would jealously dismiss as mere artless dumplings. All this was lightly coated with a surprisingly light cream sauce. (That surprising lightness seems to be a theme here, doesn't it? Maybe that's because it goes against the reputation of German cuisine.)

The schlemmertopf would have been the highlight of any other meal I've ever had in a German restaurant, in the US or abroad. But in this case it was overshadowed by my friend's meatballs. The dish consists of four large balls of pork and beef in a cream-and-capers sauce, served with parslied potatoes. These things were incomparable. The seasoning of the dish was impeccable, and the sauce was rich and (here's that word again) light. The meatballs were cooked through without the least bit of rubberiness or crusting. All in all, a magnificent accomplishment that, sadly, is not on the regular menu. 

The service here was, as I said earlier, authentically German. That can be a double-edged sword, perhaps, as the Germans are not noted for their cheerful, easy manner.* It may be that the waitstaff here are not of the cheerily bubbly sort that is expected in American restaurants; but it was polite, effective, attentive and prompt, leaving me with nothing to complain about.

Nothing, that is, but the up-charge of $1.50 for the choice of goulash as my soup. My dish came with choice of soup or salad, and the goulash is listed as a soup on the menu, so I would expect it to be available at the same price as any other soup. At the very least, I would expect to be told that there would be an additional charge, but was not. A small grumble, really just enough to satisfy my curmudgeonly urges, but a valid one. 

I feel better, and not just for having said that; also for having nipped down to the kitchen during the writing of this for a bit of that leftover schlemmertopf Weiskirchen. Mmmm. 

* In Germany, I once met a man in the tourist business in Latvia who told me that in his home town of Riga, "We get a lot of German tourists. You can always tell them from the others, because they never smile."

Grandma Lives!

Audie's Restaurant
314 North Nicolet
Mackinaw City, Michigan

We opted for dinner at this local family-style place at the recommendation of our hotelier. The ambience is middle-class-comfortable, clean and well-maintained, not the least bit pretentious or trendy. Solid and reliable, I suppose,  are the adjectives they're going for, and they succeed.

They have a full bar, and my driving obligations for the near term consisted only of the three-block trek along near-deserted streets, so my friend Kirby went for a vodka martini (yes, yes, I know: if it's not gin it's not a martini. Pace, fellow curmudgeons), while I did the beer thing. Since they actually carry my favourite brand (Killian's Irish Red, in case anybody's looking to supply my wants), it put me in a rare good mood.

The menu carries all the usual stuff for this type of restaurant, although the heavy presence of smelt and whitefish is a local thing. Those breeds of fish are, along with midges, the main foodstuffs produced locally. Kirby chose chicken primavera, one of the day's specials, while I picked lasagna after being assured that it was made in-house.

The house salad I got as a first course didn't bode well for the evening's experience. Not that anything was wrong with it; it was just ordinary salad mix pulled by the handful from a big plastic bag, then decorated with a sprinkle of cheddar cheese and a couple of rings of red onion so it would look, you know, like they really made the effort back in the kitchen. The honey mustard dressing on the side was thick and tangy, and the salad ingredients were reasonably fresh, so it gets a passing grade. (Kirby got a trip to the salad bar with his meal, and fussed about having to do the work himself while I got mine delivered. He has been learning to grouse from me for several years now.) The rolls served with the salads barely pass, being the kind that come in a big pan, are heated in the kitchen, and dry out as quickly as they cool.

What's that mean?

The chicken primavera was a little heavy on the alfredo sauce, but otherwise somewhere between good and superior. Lots of vegetables -- asparagus, cauliflower, mushrooms, squash and green beans -- mixed with rotini underlay a nicely grilled chicken breast. It was served with a heavily buttered slice of garlic bread, and nearly proved to be too much for one person to eat.

But the star attraction (in addition to excellent service overall) was the lasagna. I would not have expected to find a lasagna in an out-of-the-way burg like Mackinaw City, Michigan, that could rival my grandmother's excellent, excellent version, but there it is. A large bowl of noodles still al dente despite who knows how long warming in the kitchen, interspersed with layers of cheese and meat and topped with a tomato-based sauce that was seasoned to shocking perfection. Magnifico! And it was such a large portion that I have enough for a second meal, although the lack of a refrigerator in my motel room probably will defeat that plan, and it will go to waste with my fullest regrets. Unless I eat it now....

The prices were pretty good, even by my miserly South-Texas standards: entrées are ten bucks or less, and drinks prices are moderate.  All in all, a solid three and a half chili peppers out of five.

Still --- STILL That Good!

Mike's In The Village
Bulverde Town Square
Bulverde, Texas

(a couple of miles west of US 281, on FM 1863)

This place is just not to be beaten. It may not be the only place serving food I rate at 5 chili peppers out of 5 (I don't know; maybe it is), but it's certainly the only place that's gotten that rating out of me three times: in my original blog post in December 2010, and in an update on Urbanspoon two years later. 

What's that mean?

Last night's great treats were, after the obligatory cup of outstanding chicken-and-sausage gumbo,  a perfectly cooked filet mignon with garlic mashed potatoes and green beans (or, as the waitress called them, "haricots verts green beans," unaware of the redundancy, kind of like those people who give us "shrimp scampi"); and a chicken breast, lightly breaded, pan-fried, then stuffed with tomato, mozzarella, herbs and a lovingly thin slice of prosciutto before being roasted. Fit for the gods, it was, a heavenly state helped by the bed of cappelini beneath it.

Köln cathedral

On this occasion, the entire experience of dinner at Mike's In The Village was improved (insofar as that was possible) by the offer of a beer, made by a new-ish brewery in Boerne, called "Denim-Hosen." The drinks card described this beer as being in the Koelsch style, and ever since I discovered that type of beer a couple of years ago, it has been a clear favorite for me. Sadly, though, Koelsch beer is only made in Cologne, Germany, and only sold in the establishments that manufacture it. But the promise of the advertising was too great to be ignored or resisted; and while the first sip managed to excite vague memory, by the bottom of the first glass I could imagine myself stepping back into the fabulous reconstructed cathedral; by the end of the second I was halfway through a tour of the city's Brauereien. If I wasn't driving, I may have finished the trip.