In search of schnitzel in a Westport gastropub
Ashort while ago I was a guest at a food symposium in New York City. The other speakers were names you would know from the Food Network or authors of important cookbooks.
Fielding questions from the audience, it seemed that most people wanted to know where we experts loved to eat. The chefs and writers answers were exotic: “Iceland” “Chile” “Tanzania” followed by mouthwatering descriptions of exceptional meals. When it came my turn I said, “Dayton, Ohio” and there was total silence. “I mean the small towns south of Dayton” I amended, expecting a whoosh of applause. Again, crickets.
I did not back down and I did not try and sneak in a hip new place in London or Norway. I stood my shaky ground.
The reason for my choice is that I adore middle European food, by which I mean German food, Hungarian food, Polish food and Czech food. Unfortunately, the few restaurants that serve this type of food in Connecticut have all but disappeared over the years.
In Ohio (south of Dayton that is) it would be hard to drive a mile without seeing a dozen restaurants that serve goulash, spaetzle, wiener schnitzel and apple strudel. For the most part they are very inexpensive “paper napkin” places, some are workingman’s cafeterias, but no matter how humble, the food is divine.
A few times a year I crave this great food again and it was time to try something new, as my old reliables had gone out of business. I decided on Rothbard Ale and Larder, a “European Gastro Pub” in Westport.
Rothbard Ale + Larder is in a skinny strip of alleyway next to Restoration Hardware. Down a few stairs in the former town hall is a bar and a mid-sized dining room. Only one of our party was a serious beer lover, and because the beer and ale menu is longer then the food menu, we waited patiently while he scrutinized the selections. If you come here for beer, make sure you bring your reading glasses.
One of the first things I noticed was how high the prices were at Rothbard; I was definitely not in Dayton anymore. But I did not run screaming for the door, because I had chosen to dine in upscale Westport and I was slavering for German food.
Never having eaten at Rothbard, I had no sense of the portion size or what comes with what. I ordered a classic: wiener schnitzel (a thin pounded veal cutlet, breaded and fried) and except for a handful of salad greens, it came with no side dishes. Alone on the plate, the wiener schnitzel seemed rather lonely and sad.
The schnitzel itself was immense. It looked like a wooden plank hanging over the edges of the plate. I wanted a balanced meal, and the side dishes listed on the menu looked intriguing, so I ordered rosti potatoes and cucumber salad. With only a glass of warm tap water, the bill was already $42. There was no bread offered, so I added a $6 pretzel to my order.
I have eaten rosti potatoes and schnitzel at the finest restaurants in Germany and Switzerland (not just in Dayton!) and they are moist and luscious. Press the schnitzel or the potatoes with the tines of your fork and juice runs out. The problem with both at Rothbard was that they were bone dry. The breading on the schnitzel seemed cemented on. The rosti potatoes were three triangles cut as thin as shredded wheat. The cucumber salad was the traditional slices of cuke in a white vinegar, dill and sugar bath. I have never eaten this dish before where the cucumbers were unpeeled.
I found navigating the menu complicated: how to approach my lonesome veal cutlet with the side dishes big enough for the table to share. It all seemed out of proportion. Add to that the confusing passport-weary cuisine from around the world. There were German and Swiss classics, but they were mixed in with Italian specialties, French Canadian dishes, Belgian, French, British and plain old American fare.
Maybe I am a purist, but I don’t want my schnitzel accompanied by burrata. Duck poutine (French Canadian) is a massive mound of meat in gravy topped with french fries, and a big glob of Italian burrata instead of the traditional cheese curds.
My friends and I ate our way through the wursts and the broccoli rabe, cold cuts and the cheeses. One person ordered a side of kaese spaetzle: noodles with gruyere cheese, bacon and bread crumbs. It was delicious and might have been the richest food ever, and I mean both calorically and monetarily.
The server asked us if we would like dessert. There was no printed dessert menu, so she named four dishes: an apple tart, butterscotch pudding, bread pudding and Black Forest cake. We didn’t think to ask her the price of the desserts, which was a mistake as the pudding was $8 and the cake slice $9. Sadly, the pudding tasted like supermarket stuff and the Black Forest cake was dry. I resisted the urge to find a liquor store, buy a bottle of kirsch and pour it over the desiccated cake to bring it back to life.
As we waited for the bill, one of my friends asked the waitress to top off his coffee cup. “No refills,” she said sternly.
After spending a small fortune on the food, this seemed rather bizarre.
“It’s the manager’s rules, and she isn’t here,” the waitress said as she disappeared behind a curtained off area. A few minutes later she tiptoed out with a coffee pot and added four ounces of java to one person’s cup and then slunk away.
We left feeling guilty, as if we had pulled off a heist, but then we remembered the prices, and we walked away laughing.