This place was billed as a German restaurant in an historic inn. We found it on the edges of a blue collar New England town, beat factories dotting the winding roadscape. It was shoehorned in a scalene triangle with pebbles for a parking lot — maximum occupancy nine cars (or seven large cars). The porch steps creaked beneath our feet, as did the door opening — Addam’s Family-type foreshadowing missed.
Inside, like many Inns, an old Victorian-style house with dust on the furniture from Victoria’s reign. Mood, perhaps. A German cuckoo clock (but of course!) attached to the outside of a closet door (but of course!). More shoehorning, only this time tables (six) in an old parlor room fit for three.
Young girl in old Tyrolean-style dress appears, only with the period-disturbing addition of nose rings (multiple). So… Black Forest, in its way. Menus were thick, fake leather deals; insides plastic covered pages with thumbprints from Prince Albert (or maybe King Otto). These types of menus, like motel beds, always worry me. Who’s been here? Try. Not. To. Think. About. It.
Every German dish known (and unknown) to man is here, prices all in the 20s and 30s. I make the classic mistake of ordering a non-German dish: filet mignon (those damn French!), assuming, at this price, that the meat will melt in my mouth. Nein, Herr Dumbkopf! My “medium-rare” came out “medium-well” and all was not well as I gave up dinner conversation to chew. And chew. And chew.
Dessert was various cheesecakes and rich cakes from some bakers or possibly Entenmann’s box. No ice cream. Never trust a restaurant that offers no ice cream. Ben Franklin. Poor Richard’s Almanac, I believe, or, as they spelled it in his day, Almanack.
The killer was the bill. A cool $240 for four. And for what? You try not to think about such things. We only saw two other groups (one threesome, one pair) the entire 2 1/2 hours we were there. Telling, that. These were wayward innocents like us. Willing victims of the blitzkrieg of bad cuisine, apparently.
In the bathroom: Like us on Facebook! For the first time — ever — I wish I were on Facebook, to warn any other sad souls who may be wandering on the edges of blue collar New England towns with beat factories dotting the winding roadscape.
Auf wiedersehen, my friends. Auf wiedersehen.