When I
first got to Berlin, I was so relieved. “They have pho here! And good Korean
food! And salad!” I proclaimed to all that would listen. Ignorant as I was, I
had feared deeply that all I would be able to consume for the next four-ish
months was sausage and beer, and was nearly convinced that Germans didn’t know
what vegetables were, save for the tragically wilted and colorless cabbage that
makes up sauerkraut (which for the record, I actually love). But what I found
was quite the opposite: vegan and vegetarian restaurants, Turkish food on every
corner, Italian, Korean, Vietnamese, whatever. But then I made an unsettling
observation. Where was the German food I had so seriously feared? Sure, I’d
noted some Currywurst places and sausage stands, many a beer garden, but I’d
hardly seen a single real traditional German place. Because I am a food snob by
birth and hopefully some day by profession, I began to panic that I might be
missing out on the “real” food culture of the place I was living in. For the
aforementioned reason, I’m always on the hunt for the most “authentic” eating
experiences. Bring on the blood sausage, I said to myself, I am terrified and
intrigued! And so I began asking around. That’s when one of my teachers brought
up the idea of the German “Kantine."
Strictly
speaking, kantine just means "cafeteria," normally with a cheap menu
that changes daily. I knew I needed to eat my first Berlunch at a place that
was guaranteed to serve no-frills and no nonsense German food, in all its
inelegant glory. Because I was looking for somewhere that a tourist wouldn't
think of visiting, where the real, working German people eat lunch, the quiet
and unpretentious basements of the Berlin city halls became the perfect
starting point. As an added bonus, I discovered that the soup there only costs
1 euro. As an avid appreciator of both soup and bargains, I was immediately
attracted to the idea.
And so I
set out with my faithful dining companion to the ominously named
"Ratskeller" (surprisingly enough this does not mean "rat
cellar", if that's what you were thinking) of the Rathaus Schöneberg . We entered through an
inconspicuous door on the side of the city hall into a dining room that was
probably considered quite grand in its heyday, as indicated by the arched
hallways, intricate ceiling, and small carved heads (?) embedded in some of the
wall tilings. These details were contrary to the rather shabby-looking chairs
and dingy tablecloths, which lent the dining area a sort of small town
community Bingo hall effect. Unsure of how to proceed, we began to doubt
ourselves. Were we even allowed to eat in here? No one was stopping us, but no
one was seating us either. Correct me if I'm wrong but I'm pretty sure that in
America, at least in my town, you're not allowed to waltz into the employee
cafeteria of the city hall.
I began
to notice the crowd. While the dining hall was fairly full, it was almost
completely silent. We quickly realized we were the only people there under the
age of about 65. What are all these old people doing here? I wondered.
Is this, in fact, a Bingo hall? Besides the large elderly contingent, it seemed
that the rest of the diners actually worked in the town hall. For the most
part, theses types were wearing suits and eating alone while reading the
newspaper. I began to feel a mischievous sense of excitement that we, a
couple of random American 20 year olds, had found a sort of secret underground
Germans-only restaurant that we maybe weren't even supposed to be at. We got in
line in the food hall off to the side and I was slightly disappointed to find
that it looked exactly like an American cafeteria. With a highly eloquent system of hand gestures and whatever German words we could muster, we both managed to order something that looked like food.
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Schweinefilet-Spiess mit Kartoffel-Rosenkohlragout,
Balsamico-Rosmarinjus
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This is what I ordered. Though the brown sauce pool covered a bit more of the plate's surface area than I would have liked, I appreciated the colorful and caveman-like presentation, and approached it with only the tiniest amount of trepidation.
I was pleased to discover
that the pork was cooked almost perfectly, not overdone as it so often is in
its American incarnations. The grilled meat and array of flavorful
vegetables were only improved by the rosemary Balsamic sauce, which, though
plentiful, was well-spiced and savory. The same cannot be said for the
ambiguous slop of potatoes, which might have been edible had they not been
bathed in such a thoroughly questionable sauce.
![]() |
Forgive me for the iPhone
photo
|
Though we were skeptical when
we saw the ham being scooped with a ladle from a pot of boiling, opaque broth, it turned out to be an excellent choice despite its almost Medieval appearance. From the first bite of ham onwards, it became clear to us that meat was the thing to get at this
particular Ratskeller. Some might be bothered by the amount of fat left on the
piece of ham, but this only adds to the flavor, much of which comes from the salty brine it seemed to have been cooked in. Though it might feel like basic
human instinct to avoid meat at a cafeteria, in this case it would most
definitely have been the wrong choice. Those looking for health food need not
apply—the vegetables here are doused in butter and, while sort of delicious,
will probably give you an eventual heart attack. If however, you’re looking to get blissfully
full in the middle of the day for a mere 4 euros and 90 cents, look no further
than the Rathaus Schoneberg. Though far from glamorous, this is an ideal
place to escape to in the middle of a freezing weekday when you just need some comfort food and peace and quiet.
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