Hallmann & Klee, Neukölln, Berlin
I arrive at H&K shortly before 8PM in a buoyant state of mind, having just concluded a conversation with one of my favourite human beings. It’s a Thursday night, work is far behind me and I’m ready, ready, ready to dine.
An American man speaks to me in German and guides me to my table. He whisks away my coat and presents me with a small white card the size of a Polaroid, upon which the dinner menu is printed. I did go so far as to briefly look at the website before making this booking and distinctly recall there being an à la carte offering. However, it seems this evening’s options are a) vegetarian 6-course tasting menu or b) non-vegetarian 6-course tasting menu. The veggie route will seemingly involve an abundance of beets that I can quite happily do without, so I waste no more time arriving at this 95% foregone conclusion.
From a short list of aperitifs, I select a glass of Lena Noirs Blanc de Noirs Sekt Extra Brut, 2020. Sekt pleases me, mostly in reminding me of a nightclub I went to in Prague, circa 1997, where my Inter-railing buddy and I drank a few bottles of Krimsekt (a Crimean variation on the theme). The pound went a long way in Prague, back then. Lena’s offering is very mineral and unsurprisingly, bone dry.
Amuse-bouche #1 is served. Mini lángos; a warm mouthful of pillowy flatbread with very crispy exterior, made somewhat interesting with a cool garlic and chive cream.
The restaurant is Scandi-simple in design with polished, light wood wheresoever the eye comes to rest. Clever spotlighting really makes the furniture (human and literal) pop, so even the most unattractive dining companion is sure to look good here. I see several couples advanced in years sitting opposite me, a mother-daughter pair to my right, and one other solo diner to my left. To my dismay, I notice the latter is a knife-licker. This instantly explains and justifies her isolation.
Amuse-bouche #2 is served on a beautiful sky-blue disc of what looks like embossed leather; A small parcel, perhaps more of an envelope, of kohlrabi with avocado and roasted onion contents, and a drizzle of vinaigrette. It’s vegetable origami. Quite a feat.
Having sunk my Sekt, the sommelier (an American lady speaking fine German) appears and talks me through available wine & cocktail options. I resist the wine-pairing, since it’s a school night, and instead select a glass of Grappoli del Grillo, Sicilia, 2021, which turns out to be the best decision of the night. She leaves me with a thick Scheibe of sourdough and a confusing green glazed pebble or possibly a ceramic paperweight, onto which US-style whipped butter has been attractively piped. The bread is crunchy with strong lactic flavour, an appreciable step up from my own endeavours in sourdough baking.
The first course is Wagyu tartare with sunflower seed crème, fried Jerusalem artichokes, and something dashi. The beef is not minced, but rather sliced into fine, marbled ribbons. It’s delicate, non-specific, almost creamy in flavour. Surprisingly, it is not the star of the show, but merely a supporting artiste to the nutty sunflower and deeply savoury dashi pastes that are really bringing this home. Crispy artichoke accompaniments are mildy vinegared background actors.
I’m now being served by at least three trainer-wearing millennials, all of whom appear to have been dosed with an anti-anxiolytic that is giving them swan-like composure. At some point, the penny drops that I am not German, and thereafter our exchanges are conducted in English. My legs are outstretched (a sure sign of my unwinding), and as the tables are spaced so terrifically far apart, I do this without fear of tripping up or otherwise imposing upon my fellow diners. This feels good.
Now to the wine. It has a cereal nose that reminds me of Korean popcorn tea, which then gives way to lively sea brine. It’s a cool glass of joie de vivre. Glorious. This might be just the wine I need for 2024 sunny balcony afternoons.
Next up, scallop with yuzu, hollandaise and carrot puree. This is a dish, but equally an event. Silky slices of scallop moderate the tension between fresh, viciously tart yuzu foam and smooth, sweet carrots. Caramelised lemons further bewilder the tongue and I find I need several time-outs (i.e. wine-schlucks) to fully comprehend what is happening in my mouth. This is very clever, very impressive. I’m now completely onboard with whatever mischief the chef has in store. Take me there, I will not resist.
Course three (of six….hang in there) is a thick “soup” of heritage potatoes with emerald green lovage oil and whey foam. It’s a work of art, as I’ve quickly come to expect at H&K. A horizontal, triphasic lava lamp in a bowl. The potato soup is smooth and comfortingly hot, the whey gives sharp Bovril-like meatiness, while the lovage pacifies. It feels like everything is going to be alright.
I order a second glass of Grillo, as the first went down extremely well. Meanwhile, a palate cleanser course comprising shaved ice with lilac and rose kombucha does its job, with quite a bit of rose to spare.
The main course cometh….and when it lands, it really does feel like everything beforehand has been building up to this….squab pigeon étouffée with rhubarb and truffle, on a rillette of pigeon heart & liver. This is astonishing. The pigeon skin is seared to extra crispiness, whilst the meat remains barely cooked and succulent. A chunk of tangy rhubarb pole-vaults me high above the concentrated gaminess of the hearts and liver and I land slack-jawed in a mercifully truffle-light sauce. Extraordinary.
As I’m already near full, I decide to forego the optional cheese course. So, now I’m looking at two back-to-back desserts. The first one is a mixed citrus granita with nori powder and chilli. It is a splendid sunset of icy clementines and grapefruits (apparently from Perpignan), with just a suggestion of sea-saltiness. A nice dollop of whipped cream negates any silly ideas about healthiness and brings this right back to indulgent. I am no longer in Neukölln. I’m being served this on a sunny Mediterranean beach with a shot of cold vodka. Leave me be.
The next course, entitled “banana + dulce + sesame”, promises sweet relief. I have a feeling this dish was modelled on the Birth of Venus. An almond pastry case, inescapably vulval in shape, is served on a scalloped pale pink plate and filled with folds of banana ice-cream and miso-enhanced dulce de leche. The banana flavour is actual, the miso nicely tempers the sweetness of the dulce. Somehow, the pastry is incredibly thin and crisp, despite being filled with non-solids. And from some hidden compartment, I’m tasting the salt, malt, must of sesame. This is banoffee pie à la Botticelli.
Surprise! A third dessert. Blackcurrant crème with citrus Madeleine. Nice idea….ultimately pointless at this stage. I finish with some Waterford Fenniscourt Peated Irish whisky, and espresso, which comes in a fantastic zebra-striped cup. The Chief Crockery Officer at H&K is definitely over-achieving. The whisky was a good choice, but what’s with the lady-pour? It has a slightly sweet melon nose, some incense smokiness and makes me think of death, as all great whisky should. But for 12 bucks, this really should have been a double.
It's now 22:22. I feel like a lot has happened. I might have to introduce a new criterion to my reviews, a Solids / Non-solids ratio. Truthfully, I’ve lost count of the no doubt skilfully prepared pastes, purees, foams, oils and gels that I’ve tasted in the last two and a half hours. But I’m left wanting to stab something with a fork. With the exception of the squab dish, indisputably the zenith of this experience, my left hand has gone completely unutilized.
I would come back to Hallmann & Klee. I have gasped and grinned and felt things here. My taste buds must be in a hyper-proliferative state after the journey I’ve just taken them on. After swift payment, I’m reunited with my coat and the matter is concluded.
My final tally…..
Atmosphere 8/10
Food & Drink quality 9/10
Service 9/10
Value for money 6/10
8.0 / 10
“This is a treat, make it an occasion; prepare for sensory overload; don’t lick knives”
