Mastan Südstern, Berlin
Marching apace to avoid being late for a reservation at another restaurant nearby, I espied the neat column of linen-bedecked tables in the window of Mastan, and immediately promised myself that this would be my next restaurant for review. This was in mid-December ’23. Now, in an effort to alleviate the tedium of mid-January, I’m back and ready to dine.
It’s 8PM and the restaurant is already 80% full. Despite this, I am offered a choice of tables. I select window-adjacent, looking straight at the aforesaid column of tables and several white deco light fixtures that make me think of Metropolis. I start the fun and games with a glass of rosé Coteaux d’Aix en Provence – Chateaux Revelette, which I am given the opportunity zu kosten before committing. I like this.
My waiter is a Frenchman of around 26. Though he looks a little stretched, he is attentive as a Meerkat and switches effortlessly between French, German and English. He’s also very cute, with an I’m-trying-my-best beard, that does rather suit him. I order some Taggiasca olives, which I’ve not come across before, whilst I plot my route through tonight’s menu. Taggiasca, I conclude when they arrive, must translate to “pygmy”, so small and oddly formed are they.
The dining room is bright and chic with amusing wine-is-music themed art on the walls. Faint background music is largely negated by the polite chatter of roughly 25 other punters. I am immediately at ease here. At this point, two German ladies sitting at the table to my right enter the scene. One of them interrupts their work-chatty German dialogue to unexpectedly blurt “No shit, Sherlock!”. This tickles me no end, and I do my absolute best not to react.
My first plate arrives, foie gras of duck - a splendid oval of peach-pink dusted with pink pepper, and a quenelle of thrice boiled orange marmalade. My knife meets unexpected resistance, and I fear for a second that the pâté is cold. Nothing of the kind. The pepper is warming and salivatory. The foie gras rides the line between sweet and savoury, without so much as a hint of iron. It is taken to another level by the intensely orange marmalade, that somehow is also devoid of bitterness. The portion size is very generous, yet my palate is not tiring of the combination.
I order a glass of Muscadet (de Sèvre-et-Maine “Orthogneiss” - Domaine de L’Ecu, 2019). I’m intrigued by the name and charmed by the idea that grapes can take on the character of three-billion-year-old metamorphic rock. It is certainly mineral, pearls rewardingly on the tongue and wipes away all traces of foie. I have since ordered a case online.
The restaurant is filled with happy-looking couples of all ages, friend pairs and a few business-types. I think Mastan would be a great place to bring a date. Though not a first date….save it for someone who’s already proven themselves worthy, perhaps someone you’re looking to commit to or otherwise status-promote.
My next course arrives, Bresse-Gauloise chicken from Odefey & Töchter with roasted fennel, saffron risotto and orange-flower bisque, bringing with it the heavenly aroma of buttered, roasted chicken skin. Simply put, this is chicken^2, bearing no resemblance in flavour or texture to the bland, antibiotics-soused protein forms I’m used to eating in Berlin. Odefey’s daughters clearly know what they are doing. The fennel is braised in meaty chunks and also thinly shaven as garnish, though curiously I cannot sense anise. The orange-flower is also beyond the sensitivity of my palate. The risotto is earthy with saffron, a firm foundation for the sweet meat. The only thing this dish needs, if I dare suggest, is a millimole of acid. Thankfully the wine I’ve chosen is providing this in spades.
“It’s the thought that counts!”, interjects the same German lady, snatching my attention again. A few minutes later, the waiter presents each of them with the Grosser Profiterole, which does live up to its name. I will not be ordering that but am prepared to push myself to a third course. From a list of more than twenty digestifs, including a tempting 30-year-old Calvados, I opt for Chartreuse Verte, a coffee, and Pear Charlotte. The waiter informs me that today pears have been substituted for oranges. This does not compute, and I feel sure I’m about to receive Charlotte in an unfamiliar form. i.e. not a baked, bread-based pudding.
Something quite different arrives. A whipped cream-cheese cake affair with candied orange zest and a lady finger base. It is extremely light and cleanly citrus. It goes very nicely with the herby, hot-yet-cool, cheap jade-coloured Chartreuse, that is served to me in a tall tulip glass. This will get me home happy. The German ladies look embattled, having long since given up on their profiteroles. One last English interjection (this time from the other lady), “Fucking arsehole.” I can’t imagine this is directed at anyone in the vicinity but can’t rule it out.
I ask the cute waiter for my bill at 9.47PM and by 9:58PM the matter is settled. Hurrah.
And here is my final tally….
Atmosphere 8/10
Food & Drink quality 9/10
Service 9/10
Value for money 8/10
8.5 / 10
“Next time, just order a bottle of Orthogneiss; try the 30 y.o. Calvados; put a ring on it.”
