Irma la Douce Schöneberg, Berlin
I love surprises. I prefer never to see other people’s photos of places I one-day hope to visit. I refuse to look at a menu before I go to a restaurant. And as you’ve perhaps noticed, I won’t take photos of dishes I order (however artfully presented), because I wouldn’t dream of taking from you, or indeed the chef, the opportunity of a surprise. This is a surprise review; this dinner was planned by a friend and completely unresearched by me. I arrive early and am instantly delighted to see rows of bright, white tablecloths looking at me. I feel the Universe has handed me an opportunity for an impromptu Tischdecken review.
If you’ve been reading chronologically, you’ll know that so far, my reviews have all been solo missions. The idea of reviewing (which involves introspection and extensive note-taking), whilst simultaneously pumping out sparkling conversation, has so far seemed implausible. Time to test this theory.
Happily, my dinner companion Sal is impressively late. This gives me plenty of time to settle myself in and start to feel Irma’s vibes. I’m enjoying the upbeat, mood-elevating Euro mix of music as I survey my surroundings. The restaurant is gorgeously appointed. Seven feet tall, tiled mirrors adorn the long wall in front of me and behind, bouncing lovely warm light between one-another. A grand black & white train station clock reads “IRMA” and is stuck at one minute past midnight. Doomsday? Irma is extremely classy and banishes the grubbiness of Potsdamer Straße from sight and mind. I’m sitting on a long green leather upholstered bank, quite comfortably, that is until I’m handed the wine list.
“Wow” is the only word. My eyes are rolling in my head as I leaf through pages of marvellous sounding champagnes, some of which have four-digit price tags. Oenophiles take note, this is the place for you. I have never seen such a wine-list anywhere in Berlin. The vast majority are French in origin, but I spot German, Spanish and Italian offerings too. “I’m Not in Love” by 10CC is playing in the background, reducing my blood pressure as I nervously hunt for wines that might please my palate and wallet. I accomplish this, but decide to wait for the tardy-one before committing.
It's 19:40 on Saturday night. I count four other occupied tables. To my right, a party of three thirty-somethings receives a white, pebble-filled bowl with half a dozen oysters perched on top. Most appealing. I’m prepared to persuade or coerce Sal to share this with me.
Two waitresses, dressed head to toe in black, are milling around and making me feel quite welcome. The host is a dapper looking teddy-bear of a chap, who is clearly in his element gliding between tables. The name Irma la Douce means nothing to me, and I take the opportunity to Google. I’m not one for musicals, so I don’t feel too culturally ignorant to have neither seen nor heard of this 1960s Shirley MacLaine / Jack Lemmon film about a policeman and a prostitute, after which I presume the restaurant is named.
While I’m looking for symbolic manifestations of Parisian whoremongery, Sal arrives in a flurry of apology. I suggest an emergency aperitif and we quickly land on Kir Royales. Our two waitresses leap into action and before very long, we are slurping sharp, fruity bubbles. Whistles wetted, we turn our attention to the menu. I’m immediately relieved that this will not be another tasting menu / journey / hyper-curated dining experience. Looking through the list of Vorspeisen, I see Skrei with bagna cauda and cauliflower. Ever since seeing a recipe for Bagna Cauda in one of Nigella Lawson’s early (i.e. better) cookbooks, I’ve wanted to try it. I abandon the oyster plan, but happily, Sal has plans of his own.
We’ve both chosen beef-centric main courses, so I order a bottle of Château La Gurgue, Bordeaux, 2017, a snip at €91, then try to convince myself I’ve done something to deserve this extravagance.
We’re starting with some Domberger rye sourdough bread, which has a smashing caraway tang. It’s served with whipped salted butter. Moreish is an understatement, but I prefer to refrain from packing my stomach with carbs at this early juncture. Oysters arrive in a rockpool-like presentation. Their provenance is explained, but I am too interested in my own dish to take note. However, my ears prick up when the waitress advises us that each oyster is laser-engraved with the logo of the particular farm to assure its authenticity and prevent oyster counterfeit. This raises more questions than it answers.
The bagna cauda is not a major component of my dish, rather a powerful, aromatic accompaniment to the soft, brilliant-white cod flesh and crispy, nubbly cauliflower florets. The cod skin is deep fried into cracker form, like very mild fish Quavers. It’s delicious, intensely savoury and simultaneously clean. This is a substantial portion that I do not object to sharing with Sal, after he’s gobbled down his designer molluscs.
The service is unapologetically relaxed and confidently delivered by two bilingual sweethearts with some genuine jocularity. Despite the swank, there is really no pretence here. We’re offered eine Pause between courses, that we are pleased to accept. Our chosen wine is poured and quaffed in elegant glassware. I sense polished leather with vague peppery warmth.
I ordered Boeuf Bourguignon, and baby, I got beef. Wet and dry marinated for 30 days, in terrific chunks, with a jug of heavy, wine-rich sauce. The beef is meltingly tender and marbled with nourishing part-rendered fat. With the sauce separated, this doesn’t feel like the traditional Bourguignon “stew”, but I’m reassured by caramelised baby shallots and smoky cubelets of pancetta that the chef has otherwise kept things classical. A few roasted baby potato halves provide the starch needed to complete the affair. Wonderful.
A large group of elderly German ladies has assembled around a long table opposite me. They’ve dressed for an occasion and appear to be in high spirits. As we have plenty of good wine left, we peruse the dessert menu. Our cute waitress advises us to share a tonka bean flavoured Crème Brûlée, which apparently is not to be missed. We order one with espressos, taking our dinner into a third hour. The Brûlée is good, with smooth, muskily sweet custard. I could have used a thicker, crisper caramel top, but Sal is more than satisfied.
Coffee is served with Kate Bush’s iconic song Babooshka and a handful of chilled tonka bean, orange and smoked almond chocolates. These are delicious and skilfully made with impossibly thin crispy shells. Something is making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, but I can’t tell if it’s the espresso, the chocolate or Kate’s joyful, high-pitched warbling.
It’s just past 23.30 and the nine German ladies having a rare old time are the only folks left. They’re taking it in turns to take selfies with the host, and excitedly giggling as he’s pulling some gangsta poses. Genius.
All that’s left is for us to pay, which takes no time or effort. We collect our coats at 00:07, making this the longest Tischdecken review dinner yet. That’s €300 for nearly five hours of fun in Irma la Douce. Jack Lemmon didn’t get a deal like that.
My final tally…..(solo, not judged by committee).
Atmosphere 8/10
Food & Drink quality 9/10
Service 10/10
Value for money 7/10
8.5 / 10
“Arrive hungrier and don’t skip the middle course; bring along your most wine-informed friend; rediscover the visionary Bush”
