At 11am on a winter Sunday, the stammtisches are rapidly filling. A wood fire burns in the kochelofen-- there's a coat rack right by it-- unfiltered beer from hand-tapped wood casks is being served. Huge hunks of pork on the bone, cups of strong broth with bites of marjoram-scented liver pass by.
It's indeed tough not to immediately love this place, Bamberg is cozy, old-school charming. The overwrought buildings are bent with hundreds of years of age pressing on their wooden bones, the work of time only increasing their crooked beauty. This place is a bit more solidly built, but it is permeated with those same venerable sensibilities, through and through.
I've been seated with strangers every time so far in Bamberg, right now with a couple in their 60s. They are friendly and curious. We have a little conversation about beer and food, about Portland, Philadelphia, and Bamberg. Some jokes are exchanged, we all clink glasses and look each other in the eyes. "Prost!" "Zum Woehle!"
It's fun to watch the man behind the bar pour. I've kept a close watch on him. He moves like a Franconian angel in his beautiful green vest, not a step wasted: he takes as much time as he needs, wastes none of it. A young man with about eight earrings, plenty of tattoos, and a trimmed beard moves the food, and a well-practiced woman brings the beer and takes the orders. Her service is very pleasant: I never feel bothered or interrupted, and although I only have a few seconds to reply, in those seconds I have her full focus.
Golden beer is flowing out of hand-tapped wooden casks. It's exceptional, kinda gives new meaning to /lagered/. Very well-balanced, very easy to drink (I think they'd fine Pacific Northwest hops a bit shocking). Regulars are served in earthenware crocks with pewter lids. I wonder if some have monograms. The older men and women rap their knuckles on the table when they arrive.
I finally order food. I get beef soup with liver dumplings, and braised ox-breast with horseradish sauce and huckleberries. It's all hand-made and just delicious. The knoedel are some of the best I've ever had. The Tafelspitz is moist and it's cloak of horseradish cream reminds me to pay attention, relatively gently. Between bites and quaffs, I watch the snow falling outside and try to parse the thick accent of the locals.
The train back will in a few hours, but I don't want to go. It's too cozy-- I'd rather drink more beer, and try the giant blades of roast pork I see going by. But, I have to: it's afternoon now, and I have to work tomorrow. Guess I can't just sit by the fire forever, but at the moment I sure wish I could. read more