In From the Cold

Then came spaetzle, chewy little pillows of noodle served with tender, sweet red cabbage braised with bacon and an expertly grilled chicken breast, the skin of which veritably crackled on contact, giving way to firm, juicy, undeniably delectable flesh. It was the kind of dish that made us realize kitchens don't have to get fancy to deliver; they just have to deliver. Our final selection, fish and chips, drove the point home by combining a crisp cornflake batter with burstingly moist fish, rosemary-dusted shoestring potatoes, spicy red cabbage coleslaw, and -- the kicker -- a bright, zesty tartar sauce laced with capers. The lone dessert, Dirty Sno-balls, was simple, cheap, and big enough to feed six people. Three fist-sized scoops of ice cream -- smooth vanilla bean, light pistachio, and decadent chocolate -- came rolled in toasted coconut, drizzled with chocolate syrup, then topped with fresh whipped cream.

As we finished our meal, squads of staff members began breaking down the tables on the dance floor. A few salsa tracks and, oddly, a waltz came over the sound system, followed by the deep, burbling, house-music-style bass lines that have so many heinies shaking the world over. Our waitress closed the check, a cocktail waitress took over, and, hoping for a final treat, I ordered a port, and received an entire wineglass (as opposed to the customary smaller sherry glass) of an unidentified but fairly good ruby. That kind of faux pas doesn't happen in high-end restaurants, either, but then again, twice the porto for my buck is the kind of phenomenon I will never argue with.