Although I’ve tried many things in the Pivovaru, I always come back to the goulash: A large plate of delicately spiced and tender chunks of beef in a rich gravy into which the onions and vegetables of the dish have all but disappeared.
Also on the plate is a row of knedliky, the traditional Czech bread dumpling that is one of Cuisine’s superior delivery systems for sauces of any sort. The half-inch thick dumplings are cut from a roll the size of a good baguette and arrive barely surfacing above the goulash’s heavenly gravy. Also, we ordered to split a side plate of sauerkraut…and the Pivovaru has as good a red and traditional sauerkraut as anyplace on the planet. French fires (they’re called hranolky—rectangular—) can be ordered instead of the knedliky…but frites can pretty much be had anywhere.
I took a friend there in 1988: When we entered, his nose wrinkled a bit; The dark wainscoting and wood tables & chairs of the place, along with the smoke-smudged walls and well-worn table cloths gave him the sense of something perhaps not overly cleanly; when we left, after a terrific meal, he smiled at me and said, “I thought it was grimy at first—but it’s just quite old…and, God! The food!”
(Author’s note: Ezra and I chose our restaurants by the look of the menus available—and the absence of an English translation for the dishes was often the deciding factor— but price can be a factor for anybody. This night, our main courses (of the same price), four Becharovka liquors (a smooth, sweet, herby drink) and four pints of beer (the house brew at the Pivovaru is Gambrinus, but we went with the Pilsner Urquell) came to a total of less than $25.00 for the both of us. The lesson is: Don’t confine yourself to the touristy parts of any town or city—people live and eat in the neighborhoods!...and do it sumptuously.)
We left Warsaw under the cloud of ash drifting over Europe from Ijsland and arrived in Prague by train. Our favorite destination in what may be Europe’s most beautiful city (those who champion Paris, forgive me) is Hotel Monica—a short train ride along the Vltava River from the Old City.
It’s a relatively new hostelry with a delightful dining room. My first few times in the hotel the menu was small but bordering on the elegant—the venison, for instance, was superb in its French-accented red wine sauce. On a visit in late 2008, there was a French couple staying at the hotel; we had many glasses of wine on the hotel’s veranda. It turned out that the gentleman was a restaurateur from the Paris region, and he had been hired to expand and refine the menu.
Ezra and I found a menu twice the size of that he and I had experienced on a March 2009 visit, and one with a fanciful French flair.
After our day of travel, we decided to eat in—never a bad choice at the Monica.
One expanded section of the menu was that devoted to pork cutlets, good old schnitzels!
…couldn’t resist.
The version I chose was ala Francaise, described as a cutlet in a peppery batter.
The meal arrived with surroundings of fresh vegetables and a healthy cut of pork that, at first, seemed to be a traditional breading such as that surrounding a Wiener Schnitzel: It was anything but…. The coating was thin, with the fragrance and texture of a pancake batter. It was sweetish without being overstated and tasted like a pancake batter as well—for a few moments. Then the pepper became noticeable, and gradually built to a pleasant intensity.
Delicious.
I would have ordered it again, but there are so many fine restaurants in Prague that our only other meals at the Monica were its sublime breakfasts (probably the best Continental Breakfast I’ve ever encountered).
If you get to Prague, check out this hotel. It’s an eyelash shy of a luxury hotel (spacious lobby, pool, lovely bar as well as the restaurant and the breakfast room)—and, set in a residential neighborhood, it’s quiet with an interesting mix of travelers and local people.
Restauracja U Barska is an elegant restaurant on the Old Town’s Rynek Starego Miasta—the Old Square. I persuaded Ezra to join me there because its was the only menu we passed that offered escargot…I’m sorry, I’m an addict—goulash, shawarma, and garlicky snails.
Smoking is allowed in Warsaw pubs and bars, but seldom in restaurants. We were, therefore, surprised to be offered a “smoking” or “no smoking” table. We chose the latter…for investigative purposes, of course.
We were ushered to the First Floor (“upstairs”) and an exquisite room that seemed rooted in the 18th or 19th Century rather than the hopeful years after the Second World War. The ceilings were fifteen-feet high, the richly papered walls framing finely paned windows looking out over the Square, themselves framed in heavy brocaded drapes—the table settings were crystal and silver on perfectly mangled linen tablecloths.
I ordered the escargot—listed on the menu as Zapiekene Slimaki po
Burgundzku—i.e., Snails Burgundy. For a main course I chose the Tunczykjem Salat (essentially a salad Nicoise).
The meal was pleasant, but hardly overwhelming. The escargot were simply the largest snails I’ve ever encountered—probably the toughest, as well. Over them and the sauce was melted mozzarella…and not a taste of Burgundy—either the wine or the French region anywhere. The Nicoise was very nice, but the tuna seemed dressed a little far from the sea. The saving grace for both dishes was the wonderfully fresh bread—the constant of all our meals, Reykjavik to Copenhagen and in Warsaw.
Ezra, though, had a little more luck—especially with his hors d’oeuvre, a beef carpaccio sliced…no, shaved! and thinner, I’m sure, than the blade used for the task. One of the finest things I’ve ever put in my mouth.
He can rave about it….,
