Ristorante Cinque, Mitte, Berlin
There’s an argument to be made that Dylan (my Torontonian friend and companion for this evening) and I are victims of circumstance. Our experience at Ristorante Cinque might, in part, have turned out rather better had we been seated elsewhere, e.g. in the very pretty, pleasantly lit outdoor area. Alas, this was not our fate.
Having thoughtlessly drunk a whole pot of coffee earlier this afternoon in an effort to blitz through a few irritating bits of work, I am over-caffeinated. Dylan has also had a tough week, so we’re both a little twitchy. We’re given a low-energy table in a pseudo-corner that looks just right for a wind down into the weekend. To my right I have a seemingly mute German couple, and before me, two very long, near empty tables are set in two rows.
Our waiter appears (an elderly chap) and deposits menus and a wine list. He returns not more than three minutes later, advising us to place our order immediately or face the consequences. A jumbo party has just arrived and is currently filing into the aforementioned long tables in front of me. Dylan appreciates his transparency, but I am unprepared and unamused. I ask the waiter for his recommendations. He’s pro-pesto, but this is not a road I can follow him down. Some rash decisions are made. Prosecco turns out to be the best of them.
Before too long, we receive a bread medley with yummy orange zest flecked olives and truffle butter. The latter is very strong and as I generally dislike the taste of truffle, I eschew. The bread is good, the prosecco is better, and takes me back to happy Christmas Days.
Roughly half an hour later, our first courses arrive. We’re sharing a plate of Vitello Tonnato and a grilled goat’s cheese salad. There’s something perverse about Vitello Tonnato that I usually enjoy….the purity and innocence of veal defiled by lashings of salty tuna & anchovy sauce and sharp twangs of caper. Sadly, this dish provides no such titillation. It’s childishly presented, the sauce is too mild, too heavy with mayonnaise, under seasoned and lacking in anchovy pungency. The veal is tender and cooked pink, but without a rich sauce it’s a bland non-event. Our goat’s cheese is sweet and mild, very tasty when eaten with the caramelised walnuts. We agree the salad is over-dressed, though this is hardly a surprise in Germany, which, Dylan quips, is “the land of slather”. This makes me chuckle, particularly given most Canadians’ inborn instinct to slather anything and everything in maple syrup. Wait, Dan….hold the insulting generalisations for just a minute….is that a chunk of golden beetroot in our salad? No, silly, it’s a slice of peach from a tin. Fuxsake.
As the sun has gone down, the restaurants lights have come up. White lights. One particularly cold LED light is glowering at me, threatening migraine if I dare lift my head up from my plate. The large party I mentioned earlier is a mixed bag of around twenty folk in their early twenties. They seem oddly serious. We amuse ourselves by guessing what binds this group together. Dylan takes them for tourists from Erfurt, come to the city for the weekend to see a big show. To me, they look like the elected leaders of German universities’ abstinence clubs. For some reason, most of them are sitting on the opposite side of their table (facing me), and with this lighting, I’m starting to feel like I’m on trial. A jury of my nonpeers.
Having recently discovered Sicilian Grillo, I’m pleased to see this on the wine list and I order a glass. It has a bubble-gum-like sweetness; is lively and bright. Success.
In the flurry of indecision, I ordered possibly the least authentic dish on the menu, linguine with salmon and asparagus. I now regret this. Dylan went carbonara. I’ve previously heard him expound upon his carbonara making skill, so this will be a litmus test. The mute Germans daneben look like they’re really struggling to shift the identical looking pastas they have in front of them. In my mind, my linguini will involve lightly seared flakes of fish with garlic, lemon and a light white wine sauce. In reality, it turns out to be an oil-heavy tomato-ey affair with unsettlingly uniform cubes of salmon that I cannot think are fresh. The asparagus is crisp, and the pasta cooked well. A bowl of pre-grated parmesan is proffered with a capacity sufficient for at least the next three days of service. The carbonara passes muster and Dylan is content, but I am pretty underwhelmed.
A muzak bastardisation of Sade’s “Smooth Operator” is playing. Dylan is convinced it’s the original radio edit we’re hearing, but this is an absurd position, as this singer is obviously Bulgarian. We agree to disagree. Until today, I never realised Sade is spelled “Sade”, as in the Marquis de ...., a beloved literary hero of mine. Our glasses are empty, and the water is gone. We haven’t seen our waiter in the last thirty minutes. It wasn’t apparent when we sat down, but the route to the bathroom runs between our table and the party of purported virgins opposite. Throughout the meal, a parade of diners has been shuffling past, and in the case of one voluptuous man in denim shorts, coming distressingly close to the back of Dylan’s head. Eventually, I get my hands on a second glass of wine, but my patience is long gone and by the time it arrives I don’t particularly want it.
Neither of us seriously considers dessert or digestif, having lost our faith in the system. We decide to wrap things up at around 22.30. Happily, payment is speedy. After a few polite but mostly insincere thanks, we depart through the outdoor area, which as I said at the outset is actually quite lovely and now seems like a missed opportunity. Had we not been seated in the elimination thoroughfare, assaulted by LED lights, or perhaps had a less fraught waiter, this evening might have gone a little better. I blame myself for making hasty choices but cannot forgive the chef for tinned peaches and greasy, tasteless sauces. And for god’s sake, somebody invest in some candles.
My final tally.
Atmosphere 5/10
Food & Drink quality 5/10
Service 6/10
Value for money 5/10
5.25 / 10
“Demand an outdoor table; enjoy the olives; or simply take the high road and abstain.”
