I've had my fill of my way with your will
I have e-mail again! I have a substantial backlog of messages from the last four days! They are coming in all out of order! I am replying to people as I can!
For our first month as a married couple,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
derspatchel and I wanted to go somewhere slightly special. After discarding a couple of options (accessibility, bus timing), I remembered ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
phi enthusing about restaurants. We declared pretzelversary and went to Bronwyn for dinner.
The thing about the Giant Haus Bretzel is that if you are expecting a pretzel the size of a dinner plate, you have drastically underestimated Bronwyn. The Giant Haus Bretzel is approximately the size of two dinner plates. It is live-steam hot, with a crackling brown crust starred with salt. It comes with horseradish mustard which is full of whole seeds and enough allyl isothiocyanate to flush the sinuses of a normal human being. It is incredibly delicious and possibly it was overkill to have ordered the Knödel as well, but I couldn't resist the opportunity to try Food Not Quite of My People, especially since it was glossed on the menu as "bacon challah bread pudding with brandied prune sauce," which is not how kneydlakh usually go. (I was not quite tempted enough by the beer soup with cheddar kreplach to order it this time, although on a snowier day I might give it a try. I am, however, unironically delighted that one of Bronwyn's winter appetizers is schmaltz on rye bread.) It was as soft as the most overnight-soaked French toast and as savory as if it had been thickly buttered first and I don't believe there was dairy in it anywhere. It vanished very quickly. The little shavings of butternut squash on top, whatever. After a great deal of dithering over entrées, we settled for a pair of dishes we either hadn't had in years or had never seen on a menu before in our lives: Rob ordered the beef sauerbraten with braised leeks and celery root and I got the Blutnudeln. Unless they take it off the menu, I may have a great deal of difficulty making myself order anything else. The noodles themselves are dense, chewy, handmade ribbons the color commonly known as oxblood, although in this case I believe the originating Blut was porcine; they are recognizably a pasta, but they have the same dark, organic, slightly metallic warmth I associate with blood sausage (which I don't eat often enough—there was some included in the Giant Wurst Platter, but that didn't seem like a safe thing for one person to order. And that was before we saw the size of the pretzel). As if that weren't richness enough, the noodles come dressed with a melting-soft veal sauce, almost a bolognese, decorated with bright segments of blood orange and topped with thin shavings of radish and mint. This is not a vegetarian dish. It is a meat-loaded umamibomb. I ate everything except the radishes. I am faintly surprised that we went on to order dessert, except it was also that good. Rob got a pair of lemon-and-raspberry Berliners, I had an Apfeltorte filled to here with shredded sweet apple and redcurrants, we shared bites and he drank coffee and I discovered I could not actually finish the glass of Glühwein I'd ordered, because I think my body had just maxed out on the concept of food. I kind of don't need to eat for a week now. I regret nothing.
And then we had a stupid time getting home—a taxi refused to take us to Davis despite Rob being on crutches and Union Square being slithery with ice; when we finally got a taxi that was not driven by mysterious market forces and/or an asshat, Rob's phone liked it so much that it jumped ship for the back seat and had to be retrieved by calling Green Cab, which does get major points for coming back—but we are home now and warm and I like having been married for a month; I think I should do more of it. I am probably going to read some collected Achewood and fall over soon. Rob's X-ray is tomorrow.
For our first month as a married couple,
derspatchel and I wanted to go somewhere slightly special. After discarding a couple of options (accessibility, bus timing), I remembered phi enthusing about restaurants. We declared pretzelversary and went to Bronwyn for dinner.The thing about the Giant Haus Bretzel is that if you are expecting a pretzel the size of a dinner plate, you have drastically underestimated Bronwyn. The Giant Haus Bretzel is approximately the size of two dinner plates. It is live-steam hot, with a crackling brown crust starred with salt. It comes with horseradish mustard which is full of whole seeds and enough allyl isothiocyanate to flush the sinuses of a normal human being. It is incredibly delicious and possibly it was overkill to have ordered the Knödel as well, but I couldn't resist the opportunity to try Food Not Quite of My People, especially since it was glossed on the menu as "bacon challah bread pudding with brandied prune sauce," which is not how kneydlakh usually go. (I was not quite tempted enough by the beer soup with cheddar kreplach to order it this time, although on a snowier day I might give it a try. I am, however, unironically delighted that one of Bronwyn's winter appetizers is schmaltz on rye bread.) It was as soft as the most overnight-soaked French toast and as savory as if it had been thickly buttered first and I don't believe there was dairy in it anywhere. It vanished very quickly. The little shavings of butternut squash on top, whatever. After a great deal of dithering over entrées, we settled for a pair of dishes we either hadn't had in years or had never seen on a menu before in our lives: Rob ordered the beef sauerbraten with braised leeks and celery root and I got the Blutnudeln. Unless they take it off the menu, I may have a great deal of difficulty making myself order anything else. The noodles themselves are dense, chewy, handmade ribbons the color commonly known as oxblood, although in this case I believe the originating Blut was porcine; they are recognizably a pasta, but they have the same dark, organic, slightly metallic warmth I associate with blood sausage (which I don't eat often enough—there was some included in the Giant Wurst Platter, but that didn't seem like a safe thing for one person to order. And that was before we saw the size of the pretzel). As if that weren't richness enough, the noodles come dressed with a melting-soft veal sauce, almost a bolognese, decorated with bright segments of blood orange and topped with thin shavings of radish and mint. This is not a vegetarian dish. It is a meat-loaded umamibomb. I ate everything except the radishes. I am faintly surprised that we went on to order dessert, except it was also that good. Rob got a pair of lemon-and-raspberry Berliners, I had an Apfeltorte filled to here with shredded sweet apple and redcurrants, we shared bites and he drank coffee and I discovered I could not actually finish the glass of Glühwein I'd ordered, because I think my body had just maxed out on the concept of food. I kind of don't need to eat for a week now. I regret nothing.
And then we had a stupid time getting home—a taxi refused to take us to Davis despite Rob being on crutches and Union Square being slithery with ice; when we finally got a taxi that was not driven by mysterious market forces and/or an asshat, Rob's phone liked it so much that it jumped ship for the back seat and had to be retrieved by calling Green Cab, which does get major points for coming back—but we are home now and warm and I like having been married for a month; I think I should do more of it. I am probably going to read some collected Achewood and fall over soon. Rob's X-ray is tomorrow.
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We were not impressed. Fortunately, the next one we flagged down was not only normally humane, but sympathetic: his wife was also recovering from a winter-broken bone. He's the one who came back to our house when