Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic who’s having to pay for his winter holiday in Benidorm himself now the leftie bastards have stopped his fuel payments.
THIS might surprise you, but I’ve never had much time for the Germans. No sense of humour. Bloody awful electronic pop music. The food’s not fit to give the dog. And I haven’t even mentioned Hitler yet.
Third Reich notwithstanding, a night on the piss is a night on the piss, and a crowd from the pub are going to Birmingham for a ‘bierkeller night’ so I decide to give it a go. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. Only of course we did beat them. Twice. Three times if you count the 1966 World Cup. And loads more if you include things like El Alamein. I must remember to mention all this when we’re there.
I’ll never be able to stomach their bloody cuisine without a skinful though, so the first thing to do is get the beers in. I opt for the ‘Bierkeller Haus Bier’, which means ‘house beer’. Dunno why they don’t just use English. It’s described as ‘distinctly German’, like that’s a good thing. The SS were ‘distinctly German’ and look how that panned out. It’s palatable enough, but no match for a proper English beer like Stella.
Oddly enough, they’ve also got Belgian fruit beer, Spanish Madri and Czech Pravha too. Seems like they’re taking an unhealthy interest in neighbouring countries if you ask me. But strangest of all is ‘Das Boot’, a two-pint glass boot you get to take home with you. It’s like Cinderella for stormtroopers.
Onto the food, and another surprise – they do pizzas. I suppose the Italians handed over the recipes with the same whimpering lack of resistance they showed during the war. Which we won. Did I mention that?
Ever one for authenticity, I opt for the traditional German sausage, or ‘wurst’, menu. No argument over the name at least. It was the ‘wurst’ menu I’ve seen in my life! Which is hilarious but less so when you’re paying good money for it.
It’s essentially sausages in a brioche roll with ketchup (English), mustard (also ours), crispy onions and sauerkraut, or fermented cabbage. Not fancying a chronic dose of the shits in the morning to accompany my hangover, I meticulously pick that off.
A group next to us has ordered the ‘Wurst Parade’, which, rather than a reference to the Nuremberg rallies, is actually a smorgasbord of German sausages, sauerkraut again, fries, pretzels and dips. It reminds me of taking on one of those hideous culinary challenges on I’m A Celebrity. Although chowing down on raw monkey cock is more appealing.
Still, the ‘bier’ is flowing freely, so I decide it’s time for a good old traditional sing-song. Only to find myself unceremoniously asked to leave within minutes. Apparently a rousing chorus of ‘Two World Wars and One World Cup’ isn’t appropriate for a restaurant. Told you they had no sense of humour.
