Seeking Wienerschnitzel

Wienerschnitzel: German for Viennese cutlet. This famous Viennese dish originated in France. It's a veal scallop dipped in flour, beaten egg and breadcrumbs before being sauteed.

To me wienerschnitzel means Swiss ski chalets, raclette, St. Bernards, Christmas, spaetzle, the car-less snowy streets of Zermatt, window-shopping in Salzburg, German Christmas markets, Warsteiner and school ski trips to the Alps. I can't remember the first time I tried wienerschnitzel, but it must have been some 15 years ago while my family was living overseas in Europe. I was never a huge fan, not because of the taste, but because I was pretending to be a vegetarian--no beef but pass me the chicken and fish, please-- and I couldn't get over what veal was.

Wienerschnitzel has become a staple in my family's eating repertoire. No matter where my family ends up -whether it's Carmel or Tokyo-- we always discover the best wienerschnitzel (if you're wondering, it's Le Coq d'Or in Carmel and Bernd's Bar in Tokyo). I even attempted, quite successfully, to make it for my dad's birthday a couple of years ago.

When my dad asked if I wanted to eat with him a few Sundays ago, I was on the fence. I knew I would be coming off of a big weekend, that included partying on Friday and a second date on Saturday. I wasn't sure I'd be up for the weekend trifecta.

I assumed if I went on a date with Dad we'd eat at one of the Italian restaurants we frequent in midtown: Baldoria, Trattoria dell'Arte or Ralph's. When I saw Wallse in my dad's e-mail, as I sat tired and cold on the Sunday couch, I thought I was reading a misprint. Nope. It said Wallse. Wallse was too uber-trendy for my dad's usual taste in restaurants. That and it was way out of our midtown dining radius. I was worried my dad might turn into a pumpkin if we crossed the 42nd Street intersection heading south in a cab.

When I confirmed with Dad this was the restaurant he intended, and he felt like some Christmas wienerschnitzel cheer, I jumped off the fence. I've eaten at one of Kurt Gutenbrunner's restaurants before, Blaue Gans, and I was excited to try his more formal dining option. If you're ever looking for something to do during Octoberfest head to Blaue Gans. I went for an early birthday celebration with Winette and some co-workers and we were serenaded by a wonderful German brass band fully decked out in liederhausen.

Dad was waiting for me at the bar in his thick, fuzzy New Zealand sweater--a fond memory of a Christmas past. I was late and have since made it my new year's resolution to be punctual. My friends won't believe it until they see it but I will show them I respect the clock.

There was nobody else in the dining room at six o'clock, which heightened Wallse's stark and frozen decor. I felt like the large mural and windmill pane over our heads were joining us for dinner.

I was excited to see my friend's elderflower liqueur St. Germain on the cocktail menu so I ordered it with some champagne while Dad went for a beer. I could tell from my father's sullen look that something was off, but it wasn't until we were in the middle of our entrees that we realized what it was.

I chose the crabmeat and avocado salad with cucumbers and market greens for an appetizer. The combination had promise but it was very bland. And I prefer chunky avocado salad. This was pure mush. The crab was light and very fresh-tasting.

Dad ordered the wienerschnitzel with spaetzle for his main course and I ordered the red snapper with lentils and bacon.


Both dishes were satisfactory. We cleaned our plates but I wouldn't hurry back for a round two. The best thing at the table was the spaetzle and unfortunately the portion that came with the veal was kiddie size. My red snapper was very tasty--I especially liked the crispy skin on top-- but I could have done with a different side. The lentils did not pair well with the sweet fish. The wienerschnitzel was just ok. I wanted to tear off the thick batter and get to the meat.

"So this place doesn't really get decorated for Christmas, huh?" my dad asked.

"I have no idea, Dad, I've never been here before."

As soon as he mentioned something about a famous, and what he thought was a German, place and its overwhelming Christmas decorations I asked, "Did you mean Rolf's?"

My poor dad wanted to eat at Rolf's, where the festive holiday decorations are literally drooling from every inch of the ceiling and into your lap. My dad googled German and we ended up at Wallse--the polar opposite of Rolf's. The only decoration I remember at Wallse was the painfully austere, massive self-portrait of Gutenbrunner on the right wall as soon as you walk through the door. We noticed it leaving the restaurant, after expressing our mutual disappointment, and I just shook my head. Unreal. It seemed narcissistic to me and it may as well have been the Grinch in the picture. I felt like we had been jipped of a warm festive holiday dinner.

My dad helped me with my coat and said, "Next Sunday. Rolf's?"

"Yes, please!" I responded with desperation.

I am now a Rolf's veteran. I have the number to the bat phone. I'm tight with the host Sammy. The bartenders know I like an eggnog cocktail after a few glasses of beer and I know to make dinner reservations for an hour before you actually want to sit down and eat. I went with my dad and FoxyLady and had so much fun that I took a band of friends with me a week later.

My dad was waiting with smiles and a beer for us at the bar. We had spent the afternoon in Brooklyn at a friend's apartment drinking beer and watching football and admiring their beautiful Christmukkah tree. Why not continue the beer-guzzling Sunday-fun-day streak? But before I could even suggest a German beer my dad had already ordered me a dirty martini. I wasn't going to complain.

I had never been to Rolf's but always admired it on my way to and from Swimster's apartment in Murray Hill. It's a French -Bavarian brasserie and you will never see anything quite like it in your life. If you're claustrophobic, do NOT go to Rolf's unless you are drugged up on Xanax. People are packed into the small bar area and entranceway almost as tight as the Christmas bulbs and lights are packed into every square inch of space in the place.

The three of us lounged at the bar for about a half an hour before the wheeling and dealing slick Sammy came and grabbed us for a table in the back. The second time I went to Rolf's I noticed him in the back corner of the bar leaning in and flirting heavily with a female guest. I am certain the girls get far better treatment at Rolf's than the dudes.

We made our way through the narrow aisle between tables and impatient guests to our rickety table in the back. The digs aren't fancy and the Christmas wonderland decorations draw your eyes upward for a reason. Nonetheless, you can't help but get sucked into Rolf's spirit and energy.

"How do they clean this place?" we all asked each other, imagining the dust that must accumulate on all the bulbs.

Our server told us Rolf's was decorated all-year round. But upon returning for my second time in a two week span, a veteran Rolf's-goer told me the opposite.

"Oh no, that's just a scam to get you to come back," he said, while we were both waiting for tables for our parties. "They take it all down every year."

After we finished looking around us and taking in the surroundings, we looked at the menu and chose our grub. We went for the steamed mussels in riesling broth,

baked clams, oregano, garlic, white wine,


jaeger schnitzel for FoxyLady,

and wienerschnitzel for Dad and I.

I wouldn't rush back to Rolf's for the seafood. The mussels were mediocre in size and taste. The broth could have helped but it was really watery. The clams, well, my dad makes amazing clams and I find that whenever I eat them out in restaurants they don't hold a candle to his. Of the two, the clams were definitely the safest bet, but stick to the German bratwursts and potato cakes, which we ate on the second Rolf's visit, and they were great.

After we licked our plates clean --FoxyLady's dish had this incredible sauce that I wish I had to soak up with bread-- we polished off dinner with an eggnog "dessert" drink.

"So, Dad, which wienerschnitzel did you like better? Wallse's or Rolf's?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"Oh, Rolf's," he said. "Without a doubt. Wallse's was all about the batter and not the meat." I couldn't have put it better myself. I think my discerning palate is rubbing off on him, and though he might not admit it, he's becoming more and more of a foodie.

Much like the holidays come once a year, you can't have Rolf's all the time. So my dad and I, while I know we will eat many more Italian dinners in midtown, will still be seeking out the finest wienerschnitzel. And I hope we won't have to take the Glacier Express to Zermatt to find it.