Oxymoron, Mitte, Berlin
In the heart of Mitte, in a decoratively tiled indoor courtyard that to all intents and purposes is a shopping arcade, stands Oxymoron. This place has been on my list since Project Tischdecken began. It has remained there because I sensed (from its website) a grandiosity, perhaps even an ostentation, that limited its suitability to special occasions. Now that I’m here, admiring the brass and creamy gold décor, Oxymoron feels like a sanctuary intended to provide wealthy tourists respite from their taxing Berlin itineraries. It's a Thursday evening and I’m dining with Hendrik, my Brussels-resident German pal, whose arrival in town arguably constitutes such a special occasion.
While I did briefly preview the restaurant, I avoid studying the menu before arrival, so I have no real idea what kind of cuisine we have in store tonight. In hindsight, I can tell you that it’s modern twist - pan-European. But upon first opening the menu, the question vanishes from my mind. A headline notice plainly informs me that bread is no longer provided free of charge, due to increased costs attributed to the German government’s abolition of the energy-price brake. I feel my eyes rolling and my estimations plummeting. This is more than a little tacky; something I’d expect to hear on a budget airline. Rather than dwell, I choose to drown this early resentment in liquor. I order a Pampelle Spritz, something new and apparently French. This looks better than it tastes. Pleasant enough, but unworthy of description beyond “wet”.
Instead, let me describe our first courses. Heirloom tomato salad with burrata and melon salsa for me. Veal carpaccio with duck liver for H. I’m fairly sure “heirloom” is a meaningless term these days, rarely used outside the universe of tomatoes, and distorted to mean anything non-red or non-force-grown in a poly-tunnel. Be that as it may, these tomatoes are a hit. Drizzled with a sharp yet fruity salsa, they mingle well with the creamy burrata and crispy, yeasty tuille. The whole thing feels healthy and fresh. Hendrik is similarly pleased with his carpaccio, duck livers, and sourdough bread that cost us an extra four whole bucks, factoring in the various macroeconomic challenges.
The wine list is extensive and encompasses most of Europe. There are some big numbers here, but also plenty of more reasonable options. Based on our main course choices, we’re after a robust red. Hendrik espies “Das Kleine Kreuz, 2020” from the notable Pfalz winery Rings and convinces me that this should be our move. Far be it from me to argue. I’m told it’s a blend of Cabernet Sauvignon, Cabernet France and Merlot. Intriguing.
With only around 5 or 6 occupied tables, the atmosphere is pretty low-key and the service feels unhurried, to put it politely. I’m having Iberico pork cutlet with Calvados jus, broccoli and hazelnut. Hendrik takes the calf’s liver with lovage & potato puree. The wine arrives but is left unopened by our obviously distracted waiter. Fifteen dry minutes later, he returns with our next courses.
Hendrik’s plate is visually arresting, on account of the piped potato puree, turned Joker green by lovage, and looking very much like Playdough. Beside this, the calf’s liver is thinly sliced, nicely charred and slick with herby butter. My plate looks more appealing, though this cutlet is not the thick, Flintstones-esque meat slab I had hoped for. The Calvados sauce is intense, but delicious with the pork. Some surprise mushroom-stuffed gnocchi provide an assuaging diversion when eaten with the crunchy hazelnuts. I’m left wanting more, so I guess I call that a success.
The Rings rotwein is a heavy-hitter. Earthy on the tongue with serious tannin. For a moment I am delighted by an almond-y, frangipane note, but then in the next mouthful, it’s gone. While I commit myself to finding it again, I take in my surroundings. When I finally retreat to rural Scotland and hermetically seal myself in my loch-side abode, I see myself surrounded by hunter green Chesterfield furniture. Instead of classy restaurants, I will write reviews of single malts that no-one will read, as I languish on the cool / clammy leather of said Chesterfields. I mention this because there are two impressive Chesterfield sofas directly in my eye line. They have a good view of the expansive bar area, which looks very chic and inviting, if a little underpopulated. I’m wondering if this 1920’s style ballroom might feel a smidgeon livelier at the weekend. At this point in the evening (21:45), there are only two other occupied tables, and it feels like Oxymoron is in need of an atmosphere transfusion. Sure, there’s some inoffensive, poppy background music, but if I were here alone I’d likely need a coping martini.
But there is much more fun to be had in the shape of dessert. Or is there? We elect to share an apricot Crème Brûlée with almond ice-cream. This is a mistake. Perhaps the Universe’s way to have us reduce our sugar intake. When it eventually arrives, it has a thin, crisp caramel layer, tick. The custard is at room temperature, tick….but it’s only 5mm deep. The aspect ratio is so wrong. The apricot flavour is subtle and pleasant but is overpowered by some extraneous blueberries. I abandon the Brûlée and turn my attention to the almond ice cream. It’s weirdly grainy, with what I can only hope is a form of ground almonds; and not very satisfying, which can mean only one thing…..vegan ice cream. My suspicion is confirmed about 25 minutes later, when I notice that i) the waiter hasn’t been around in quite a while, ii) this ice cream doesn’t appear to melt. It’s as structurally sound as it was half an hour ago. I consider this abnormal.
We seek to lift our spirits with espresso and some cognac. Our waiter is striding around with intent, and I get the distinct impression they’re ready to shut up shop for the night (22.30 ish). After more than few attempts to catch his eye, the frustration is too much. We rethink, drain the last of the wine and prepare to call it a night. I have better cognac at home anyway. Bah, this is an aggravating ending, compounding our earlier irritations vis-a-vis bread and the cheapo paper napkins. For plates costing 38 Euros, this is underwhelming. Nothing further M’lud.
My final tally.
Atmosphere 6/10
Food & Drink quality 7/10
Service 5/10
Value for money 6/10
6.0 / 10
“Sell us this day our daily bread? Bring your own atmosphere. Ask to be seated in Chesterfield.”
