Trattoria Sarda, P-Berg, Berlin

I predict this evening will be the first of many Tischdecken reviews to involve my dear friend and evil twin, Marcel. Without wishing to pre-empt, it could also be the first of many future visits to the forcefully authentic Trattoria Sarda. It's a lucky dip night, meaning we’ve randomly selected this Sardinian restaurant from a shrinking list of Berlin eateries known to feature tablecloths. Marcel accepted organisational responsibility, so we’re dining at 7PM like respectable German ladies do. As we’re both in the mood for beer, we dive straight into large glasses of draught Birra Moretti, the fast track to Friday night Dan.

More than enough bread is swiftly brought to us, of white and music varieties (pane carasau), which we use to hungrily convey some very good quality olive oil into our mouths. Some uninteresting green olives are also present. We’re being served by what (short of buccal swabs) is certainly a mother – daughter team. They speak to us directly in a pragmatic mix of Italian, German and English that feels welcoming, in an absolute “of course….why are you even asking?” way. I find this very appealing. Not something I’m used to in Berlin.

Between the formal menu and a blackboard full of fish & meat secondi, there are quite a few moving parts here. Marcel demands Sardinian pizza, and so simplifies matters somewhat. We decide to share Tagliere Sardo, a cornucopia (actually a small wooden trough) of cold cuts, cheeses, various roasted or pickled vegetable goodies, and further layers of music bread. Balsamic onions and an aubergine ratatouille that is sweet and crisp, are obvious highlights; but we agree the dried, fig-impregnated hams are the real draw. Marcel is delighted that the cheeses are trimmed of their rinds, as he considers any such manual labour beneath his station.

I have visited Sardinia once, some twenty or more years ago, with my dear old friend Paul. I think it was the first gay holiday I’d ever been on…..though I don’t recall either of us getting laid. I do recall it was the very first time I ate that sensibility-jarring black pasta with squid ink, so I’m scanning the menu for sepia nostalgia. It seems the chef prefers pulpo (I can’t object), but the giant matt black wall we’re sitting beside is something of a reminder. Paul and I stayed in Alghero on the northwest coast, which happens to be the home of the rosé wine that Marcel has chosen for us (Rosé Aragosta, Santa Maria la Palma). Rosé wines are usually beyond my powers to describe. This one is categorically subtle, not especially fruity, but with a notably oily, organic finish. Very easy, very fitting.

Pedestrian as it may sound, if I’m to be executed in the morning, I’d like a good lasagne for my last meal. Out of curiosity, I’ve ordered Lasagne Sarda (which is unknown to me). Perhaps I can sophisticate my hypothetical last supper by demanding a regional variation….assuming I like it, that is. The Sardinian pizza arrives first and looks great. The dough is thin but still an event, is slightly sweetened and plentifully topped with thick slices of smoked salami. Marcel is pleased. Meanwhile, I’m presented with a sizeable slab of lasagne. The top is crispy and surely cheesed. It is extremely soothing, not aggressively tomato-ey nor overly beefy. Delicious. I’m now wishing I’d ordered additional salad or other vegetable as a side, to forestall food pyramid collapse.

We’ve enjoyed holding the title of youngest customers, that is until both of our gaydars suddenly go doolally for a very hunky, very handsome youth who has just entered the room, turning several heads in the process (not just us libertinous gays). Neither of us is convinced by his beard girlfriend. I observe that his hand gestures are a little camp. For Marcel, his fanny-pack is all the proof needed.  

We’re given plenty of time to digest our carbs and surroundings. It’s at this point that I drift into entirely uncharted cultural waters, after I comment curiously on the enormous black and white picture of two cowboy characters on a nearby wall. I spend the next twenty minutes being schooled on the cinematic triumphs and hand-to-hand combat skills of Bud Spencer, his dubious sounding “Four fists for a Hallelujah”, and the deep significance of the genre. I apologise for my stupidity.

After this edifying hiatus, I now have room for dessert. Our matriarch of a waitress apprises us of our options, whilst tacitly implying that we will be having semi-freddo. We bolster this with a tiramisu and two espressos. I get another well-intentioned schooling as she repeats back “due espressi”.

Like everything else we’ve ordered tonight, the semi-freddo is presented on cute, below-stairs plates that add to the strong family vibe. It is rich, sweet, loaded with chopped nuts and a few raisins. It’s working well with this medicinal strength coffee. The tiramisu is just chilled, just sweet and has a much-appreciated boozy base. I am sated, having gracelessly polished off the lot, yet still find space for a digestif. Marcel takes grappa, but I want to randomise things further with a glass of Waldmeister-y sweet Amaro Montenegro, which I find quite delicious.

We pay in double quick time and are treated to more parting shots of grappa, which we accept for fear of appearing culturally insensitive. At 21.45, Marcel and I head out into the night to find some nerve-depolarising martinis. He’s already added Trattoria Sarda to his favourites list. I will happily be his plus one. 

My final tally.

Atmosphere 7/10

Food & Drink quality 7/10

Service 9/10

Value for money 9/10

 8.0 / 10

“Order from the blackboard. Appreciate a Spaghetti-Western. Bring the family.”