From the thick, rich goulash soup all the way to the obscenely huge Bratwurst sausage, from the rouladen to the oh-so-light multilayered chocolate cake, you're going to incur some serious calories as part of your trip to Schnizelhaus.
Oh, there are ways you might find to pass the low-cal test of your Weight Watchers' counselor: You could dine upon the plants decorating the building's exterior, or employ the time-honored German trick of neglecting food altogether in favor of gigantic steins of beer. That way, you ingest calories, but once you're in a coma, they don't count.
I guess that's why, after attending Oktoberfest in Munich, Germany, I can recall practically nothing about it, except for the monstrous beers that came at me for three days. Oh, and the monstrous hangover that descended upon me afterward, waves of nausea attacking in squadrons, like the London Blitz.
The 125-seat restaurant itself looks benign enough, occupying one end of a tiny shopping center in north Tampa. It is painted brown and white, to resemble a German-style alpine cottage. When you step inside, you see bright blue and white tablecloths, big, heavy furniture, and rows of various kinds of beer steins.
Almost as soon as we sat down, Mike, the restaurant's owner and chef, appeared at our table, asking if we would like something to drink. I ordered a single, frosty glass of my old pal, Spaten Light ($2.95, small) from the tap, German beer made in Munich. It comes in 16- or 32-ounce sizes, with a big, healthy lather atop and a fine layer of frost. The menu lists about a dozen beers and three wines.
Mercifully, by the time I spied the bottom of the glass, the food had started to arrive, thus making it easier to stop at one beer. Time to switch to water, fraulein!
With big, iced glasses of water, Mike brought the appetizer: Two hearty, fat potato pancakes ($3.50). They were fried to a golden perfection and hogged an entire plate; a dish of excellent, rough-cut applesauce accompanied them. The combination of hot, crunchy potatoes and smooth, cold applesauce leaves a question in your mouth.
We were still pondering that question when the goulash soup ($1.95 for a cup) arrived, thick, meaty, its steam column drifting skyward. Flavored with paprika, tomatoes, onions and sporting big chunks of beef, it takes on a deep russet color like that of falling leaves, or the Georgia clay. Since it was a cold night, it warmed us up top to bottom, the way only soup can do.
Thin-sliced rye and sourdough wheatbreads came in a basket with cold, real butter and respectable enough salads, enlivened with a tasty, sweet-sour dressing.
Between courses, the chef came to chat, and he likes to tell a joke or two: "Question: What is the English translation for sauerkraut? Answer: An unhappy German." Jacobi, a former resident of Hamburg, Cologne and Munich, has been a restaurateur in Tampa for several years. He operates the restaurant with his wife, Susie, a native of Malaysia, and his son Ralph, 12.
Probably the flashiest dish is the special called Chef Mike's Jagerschnitzel a la Black Forest ($16.95). Mike prepares it at your table in a fiery demonstration of expert flambe. The dish itself is wiener schnitzel, a robust slab of veal, breaded and fried. Mike makes its sauce with high-fat cream, wild mushrooms and brandy, which he sets afire in a frying pan in a burst of heat and light. When it burns out, it leaves a distinctive taste in the sauce, which is then poured over the meat.
My entree seemed so ordinary by comparison — I tried the venison roast ($16.95), thin-sliced meat resting beneath a deep, brown wine gravy. But alas, I would have preferred another Spaten instead, as the venison was too dry and gristled. Still, I enjoyed its hearty side dishes — shredded, cooked red cabbage and a mound of spaetzle, hot German noodles shaped like peanuts.
Since we had left our diets at the door, we figured a few thousand more calories wouldn't hurt. What the heck! We finished with a black forest cake called Schwarzwalder Kirschtorte, ($3.95), so light, with three chocolate layers, one layer of cherry filling oozing like an oil slick along its lower half and four layers of whipped-cream filling. My companion chose Tanya's vanilla ice cream, creamy handmade ice cream topped with a hot, zesty raspberry sauce ($2.95).
We hit the calorie jackpot, but by then, we didn't give a fig. We had tasted many reasons to give up our diets.
Mickey Marshmallows and Blue Milk
A new trend in the food industry is healthy fare masquerading as junk. For instance, vitamins brightly packaged and disguised as bubble gum are the newest effort by Vitaball to persuade kids five and older to take their daily vitamins. One Vitaball a day provides 100 percent of the Recommended Daily Allowance (RDA) of 11 essential vitamins. It comes in cherry, grape, watermelon and bubble gum flavors.
Kellogg's is introducing Mickey's Magix, a new cereal with the Walt Disney character Mickey Mouse on the box. Its advertising copy says the cereal is "an enchanting mix of colorful Mickey marshmallows and twinkling oat stars, sprinkled with pixie dust that turns milk blue …" However, apparently to lure parents as well, the cereal is made with whole grains and 11 essential vitamins and minerals, and is available in grocery stores nationwide at $3.59 a box.
You heard it here first …
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This article appears in May 15-21, 2002.