Cookbooks, Lightning, Lobster Bisque – and Dill, Of Course

Hope you've been staying cool.

I suggested as much at the end of my last post, and given what Berlin has been putting its inhabitants through lately, I meant it sincerely.

At the close of that piece, I promised to tell you about a dinner in Charlottenburg that deserved a post of its own.

This is that dinner.

My travel companion Tracy took a solo stroll one afternoon and happened upon a restaurant called Kitchen Library – and was so drawn to the spot that she made a reservation straight away, despite its lack of AC. Her instincts were on the mark. From the moment we arrived it felt less like a restaurant than a particularly charming dream. The dining room resembles exactly what the name suggests: a library packed floor-to-ceiling with international cookbooks. Guests are encouraged to pull volumes from the shelves and flip through them while dining, which is a dangerous proposition if, like me, you are prone to opening a cookbook and disappearing into it entirely, emerging several pages later with an ambitious grocery shopping list and only a vague recollection of where you are.

On this particular evening, however, my primary concern was survival.

The heat wave remained firmly in place. The windows had been thrown open in the hope of catching a breeze. I arrived wearing one of those peculiar neck-fan contraptions that makes its wearer look either incredibly practical or deeply ridiculous.

Possibly both.

A glass of vermouth and soda, fortified with copious quantities of ice, helped considerably.

So did the food.

The meal unfolded as a symphony of small dishes, each one precise, balanced, and quietly confident. Nothing seemed interested in showing off. Everything seemed interested in being delicious.

One of the restaurant's signature dishes featured koji carrot mousse, roasted carrot, amazake, and cress. It managed to taste intensely of carrot while simultaneously tasting unlike any carrot dish I'd encountered before.

Then came a remarkable watermelon preparation. The fruit had been dried and transformed into something resembling a tartare, with a swirl of bright yellow yolk, tonburi, and nastertium petals and accompanied by a miniature langos fresh from the fryer. On top sat dried egg yolk and a piece of sweet pickled watermelon rind.

It was one of those dishes that sounds increasingly improbable the longer you describe it.

It was also excellent.

There were many other memorable courses, but I would be remiss if I didn't mention the lobster bisque. Rich and deeply flavored yet somehow delicate, it arrived with a flash-fried morsel of pork blood sausage and a generous drizzle of dill oil.

Yes.

Dill again.

At this point I no longer believe this is a coincidence. I suspect dill has simply decided to follow me around Berlin.

As the evening progressed and the dishes continued arriving, something unexpected happened.

A flash of lightning lit up the night sky.

Then came a tremendous clap of thunder.

The heavens opened.

Rain arrived not as a drizzle but as a declaration, pouring down in sheets. The temperature dropped. The dining room cooled. A collective sense of relief seemed to move through the room.

It felt as though Mother Nature had decided to bless the meal herself.

The timing was impeccable.

As the storm raged outside, we continued through the remaining courses, including a dessert built around strawberry sorbet, spruce tips, cocoa nibs, and a cream infused with Bulleit rye. It seemed improbable and yet was impossibly delicious.

Then, because no ambitious tasting menu has ever encountered the concept of moderation, there was dessert after dessert.

Not that I was complaining.

By the end of the evening, I felt something deeper than fullness. The meal possessed that rare quality that makes a dinner feel larger than the sum of its courses. The food was wonderful. The room was wonderful. The company was wonderful.

And then there was the storm.

For a brief moment, it felt as though the rain had broken the heat wave itself.

Unfortunately, Berlin had other ideas.

The next morning the city returned to behaving like a broiler.

Still, I can hold on to the memory of that evening: the open windows, the sudden breeze, the rumble of thunder, the scent of rain, and a remarkable meal unfolding in a room lined with cookbooks.

A breeze.

A balm.

And a restaurant I suspect I'll return to on cooler evenings ahead – while staying at my (soon-to-be-found?) Berlin apartment in Prenzlauer Berg.