Renger-Patzsch Schöneberg, Berlin
It’s Thursday evening and I find myself in need of a quiet, solitary dinner. No companions, no chits, chats, no social energy expenditure. I’ve chosen to come to Renger Patzsch after noticing its tablecloths and cute, semi-secluded garden on a recent, serendipitous walk-by. It’s 7.55PM and a lovely temperature, so naturally the outside space is full. Inside, it’s the Mary Celeste. A French speaking man takes me to my table, which is kinda small and just a bit too close to its neighbours. There’s a lively German family of seven to my left, a serious German couple on my right, and a group of four elderly Germans directly in front of me. With my back to the wall, I’m feeling a little enclaved. Viva Lesotho!
A very polite waitress provides a menu, bread and butter. For fun, I order a limoncello spritz. I see a prix fixe offering that I would usually approve of, but as the aforementioned Typen are all clearly aboard that train, I think I’ll pass and chart my own course instead. I am drawn to a walnut and Bleu d’Auvergne salad, mainly on account of my strong affinity for anything Auvergnate. Someday, I will clamber up to the summit of one of the dormant volcanoes there and listen to Canteloube’s tremulous, trilling Baïléro. I daresay I’ll eat some cheese, too.
At 20:08, my salad arrives….“I shit thee nay!”. This is wildly premature. Why does this keep happening? Before there’s even water on the table? Christ on a stick! There is an alternate universe in which a Dan starts to eat this salad, gets a walnut stuck in his dry throat, chokes violently for a few minutes while Germans stare bemusedly, then gets Heimlich-ed in the nick of time by a hunky, available man. I daydream about this as I impatiently await my spritz.
Hurrah! Progress…..in a glass. Actually, limoncello spritz is quite delicious. Clean and refreshing without overt lemon-iness, tamped down by a little basil. Smashing. On to the salad, which is really a joy. Scantily dressed for once in a little light mustard vinaigrette. The walnuts are roasty sweet with just a suggestion of caramelisation, the apples and endive are tart, the cheese is potent without making me wince. This is a great start. I could eat this all day, particularly with the bread and butter, which also deserve honourable mention.
While leafing through the wine-list, I discover a couple of pages of info on the origin of the restaurant’s name. Albert Renger-Patzsch 1897-1966 was a celebrated photographer, born in Würzburg (where I spent the Summer of 1999), and chemistry scholar. Fritz Schopp, grandfather of the restaurant’s current owner, collected his photographic works, which now hang in the dining room behind me. I like this idea of combining a restaurant and exhibition-space; it’s certainly better than some of the unappetizing amateur art I’ve been assaulted by on review dinners prior.
My next course is baby octopus with tomato, capers, olives and garlic crostini. Before that, I order a glass of Château Laulerie, Bergerac Semillon-Sauvignon (2022), which my very attentive and chic waitress produces promptly. It’s slightly floral, meadowy fresh on the nose, initially light and thirst-quenchy, but then has a long finish that conveys me to an oaky place I don’t particularly wish to visit. Now I come to think about it, this would have been terrific with the salad. My plate arrives and looks delicious. It’s served hot, but in no way are my baby octopuses overcooked. They’re obscured in a no-nonsense tomato ragout that is sultry with chilli and downright whorish with black olives and capers. This is potent stuff and the octopus accedes to being a mostly textural feature. The garlic crouton is thoughtfully thin and crisp, not a mouth ripping, carbonized hunk (which I recently had elsewhere). It reminds me of English breakfast fried bread, and who doesn’t love that?
The sun has set. Slung between trees, a few decorative chains of outdoor lights have come to life, romanticising the scene in front of me. This would be an excellent venue for a date. Over the last few mouthfuls of wine, I take my time to soak up the pleasing ambiance and live in the moment a little. I’m discovering that solo dining & reviewing (at least in quality restaurants such as this one) brings me peace and an unexpected appreciation of my personal liberty. Of course, it’s equally possible I’m just here because I’m a self-indulgent glutton with a little too much disposable income. But that’s more than enough introspection.
For my next course, I’ve ordered “Kalbsbacke”. In truth, I don’t quite know what this is, only that it should contain veal. I consult my waitress on a wine-pairing and she tentatively suggests I switch to a red, specifically a Grenache Syrah from Corbières, Château la Baronne. Not for the first time tonight, I scribble “Wow!” in my notebook as the Kalbsbacke arrives. It’s a great lump of oven-roasted veal sitting in something that is too voluminous to be a sauce, and too unctuous to be a soup or broth. Alongside are some simple buttered boiled potatoes and curly parsley. The veal is dark, burnished with some succulence preserving, sweetening glaze. The “sauce” is horseradish heavy and sparks a taste-bud contretemps that takes a wee minute to de-escalate. The simplicity of spuds is exactly what’s needed here. Genius.
Though I wouldn’t say it goes particularly well with all of the above, the chosen wine is right up my street. It has that elusive feature I like in a hefty red, a death-note that makes me think of the inside of a crypt. It’s silky, resinous, and complex in a way that is baffling to a chemist, or at least this chemist. Appealing to the last drop.
I’m in a state of near repletion, but I want the full experience. From a short list of desserts that includes a peach & almond tarte and a cheeseboard, I order….roughly translated…. a hazelnut semifreddo with biscuit and berries; and let the chips fall where they may. It’s important to try new things, but oh how hard they do fall. Like a ripcord suddenly pulled, like an airbag deploying in my face, I am wrenched from the agreeable place I had occupied and dumped hard in Oma Oetker’s 1980s kitchen of what-the-fuck. It's a warm night, so a slice of cooling semi-freddo could have been a fine indulgence. With a buttery sablé on the side and a few raspberries….a dream come true. But no. Instead, I receive some dense chocolate-hazelnut mousse that is more caldo than freddo, slathered between two layers of chewy sponge. The thing is covered in a gelatinous redcurrant sauce that is sharp and could not possibly hope to go well with anything hazelnut or chocolate. I can’t imagine this appealing to anyone and I feel it must be stricken from this and all menus. I register my dissatisfaction by leaving 80% of it and moving the plate to the other side of the table as if it were radioactive.
The atmosphere is too lovely to stay disappointed, so I choose to move on, pretend this never happened, and treat myself to a glass of aged Calvados. To my delight, it is served in a warmed glass and I greedily inhale the intoxicating apple-confection fumes. Heavenly. This is a perfect ending to a mostly wonderful dinner that at times felt exotic and took me far away from Berlin. I ask for the bill at 22:10, and by 22:15 I am happily perusing Mr. Renger Patzsch’s many black and white photos, which I recommend you not miss.
My final tally.
Atmosphere 9/10
Food & Drink quality 7/10
Service 9/10
Value for money 8/10
8.25 / 10
“In salad, escape; always say yes to Calvados; keep it freddo.”
