By Molly Gore
By Lou Bustamante
By Anna Roth
By Anna Roth
By Anna Roth
By Anna Roth
Heading down 19th Avenue on my way to Luzern, a Swiss restaurant in the Sunset, I tried to organize the myriad impressions Switzerland has imposed upon my psyche across the decades. There's the Shirley Temple version of Heidiand the Ricola commercial with the alpenhorns. There's dialogue from Red River ("The only thing more beautiful than a gun is a Swiss watch or a woman from anywhere. Ever had a ... Swiss watch?") and The Third Man ("In Switzerland they had 500 years of peace, democracy, and brotherly love, and what did they produce? The cuckoo clock!"). But my latent Swiss perceptions are based in Disneyland, what with the sky trams and the lederhosen and the faux Matterhorn with its misplaced Yeti.
Switzerland imposes only a few lingering sensations upon the mnemonic taste bud, but they're powerful ones. There's Swiss chocolate, a Willie Wonka destination for children who've never heard of Belgium. There's Swiss cheese with holes, a visual icon for generations of Tom & Jerryaficionados, and fondue, as visceral as an early '70s time capsule filled with turtlenecks and pukka shells. Toss in veal cordon bleu, air-dried cold cuts, and some fragile, effervescent wines and you've just about covered it. You wouldn't think much gustatory pleasure could be assembled out of these random elements, but the Matterhorn on Van Ness serves up a lengthy menu of splendid Swiss dishes. So I had certain expectations when we arrived at Luzern's storefront location. What I got instead, for the most part, was food as neutral as the country itself.
When you walk in, you'll see a small bar area decorated with colorful postcards of the old country; beyond that is the restaurant proper, which in mood and décor is not unlike a nice motel dining room in Anaheim. Fake-wood paneling, acoustic-tile ceilings, and an erratically framed selection of Luzern-centric artwork create a sterile yet reassuring ambience. The best things about the place are the professional yet uncommon characters who staff it: a prickly hostess here, an attentive busboy there, a waiter with the delivery of a seasoned stand-up comedian, and a waitress filled with under-the-breath wisecracks and motherly warnings against eating too much or not enough. The overall effect is unpretentious, an ideal setting for the sort of forgettable home cooking your mother used to make.
Open for dinner Wednesday through Sunday from 5 to 10 p.m.
Open for lunch Thursday only from 11:30 a.m. to 2 p.m.
Noise level: above average
Switzerland's neighbors have strong cultural egos, a situation that has made it culinarily eclectic as well as wary of outsiders. In addition to its 25 regional cantons and a linguistic melting pot that includes German, French, Italian, Romansch, and a variation on German called Schwyzerdütsch, there is Zurich and its breweries to the north, Lugano and its pasta to the south, and Gruyères and its pots de crème to the west. (Liechtenstein, it seems, has made no determinable gustatory impact.) Although Luzern the city is situated in the middle of the country, Luzern the restaurant bears an unmistakable French accent. Pâté, escargots, steak au poivre, canard à l'orange, and crème caramel are among the menu's specialties (as is Wiener schnitzel, a culinary nod to Austria's eastern presence). We began with the pâté maison, which as it turned out was one of the best things on the menu: dense and silky like a slab of creamy velvet, with bits of truffle adding earthy texture. The tender escargots were also impressive, served in the traditional manner with tools for easy shell-disposal and a butter sauce thick with garlic.
Another appetizer, the buendner teller, comes out of Switzerland's great cured-meat tradition. Beef is spiced, brined, and dried in the mountain air of the Graubünden canton near Austria; the thinly sliced result is wine-red, delicately chewy, and possessed of a mildly pungent, essentially beefy flavor. At Luzern, it was served with an amazingly taste-free prosciutto that in no way detracted from the beef. The shrimp cocktail was equally forgettable: cafeteria-level bay shrimp that were so translucent one of our party was afraid to sample them. (It came with good horseradishy cocktail sauce, though.) Soup and salad preceded each entree, and the latter was terrific: soft butter lettuce dressed simply with a spiky, lemony vinaigrette. But the potato-leek soup, while creamy and piping hot, had an institutional quality and no distinct flavor.
There are two fondues on the menu, one beef and one cheese; we opted for the latter. The dish originated as a means to use up stale bread and dried-out cheese, and in that sense Luzern's version was absolutely traditional. Aside from a healthy dollop of white wine, the fondue tasted like nothing in particular; it had no trace of garlic or kirschwasser or that sharp, pungent oomph that makes Gruyère and Emmentaler so globally desirable. The veal cordon bleu was a poor representative of Switzerland's succulent native dish: Stuffed with ham and cheese, breaded and fried, the house interpretation featured a soggy coating, dried-out beef, and a uniformity of taste and texture that made meat and filling hard to differentiate. After all this indistinction, the poached salmon fillet was a pleasure -- moist and flaky, it was sauced with a quasi-Newburg studded with tiny shrimp.