Wordy Wednesday - Die Kartoffel

 When Sir and I embarked on The Great Ferry Adventure of 2010, we were in search of a restaurant simply called The Potato.  It's famous for its Argentinian steaks, which of course is why the Germans would name it The Potato.  (You see why I'm having adjustment issues.)

We found it, as well as the delightful town of Ladenberg, about which I've already told you.  We'll be going back for sure. 

 Could they possibly have used an uglier potato on their sign?  Here in the land of the most spectacular painting I've ever seen?

The interior made up for any lack of appeal on the outside.  The building is from the 1300s, and aside from a tiny closet-like room that holds shelves and an electric dishwasher like the one in my apartment, I don't think much has been renovated.  It is rustic, charming, and cozy.  There's really not an inch of space on the walls or beams that's not covered - old black and white photos, certificates and documents; children's sleds and old farm implements hanging from the ceiling.  The tables were rough-hewn wood with benches and simple, mismatched chairs pushed up to them.  I love that we had a lit candle at ours, even though it was two in the afternoon.

Across from us (and not pictured) were the most interesting couple - they had to be French.  He was a miniature man in slacks, a shirt and a felt beret.  She was a faded beauty in a blouse, scarf and skirt, with a cloud of wispy curls on her head.  They shared bread and salad and smiled at each other in that wonderfully intimate way that can only come from years together. 

As I mentioned, the specialty here is steak, served on a square hot lava rock in a wooden frame which also holds three little pots of dipping sauces.  The meat is brought sizzling and raw to your table, and as you watch, the rock cooks it in front of you.  You can flip your steak at your leisure, cut it into pieces and let each of them sear, or eat it tartare if you prefer (ewww).  It. Is. Delicious.  Oh, and served with a baked potato that's so buried in sour cream that it's unrecognizable.

A big plus for me was that The Potato offered English menus.  They are so comforting when I'm trying to stumble through ordering in German!  They also have their share of built-in humor - apologies for the photo quality; my phone and I are still in the dating stage. 

 Now what they mean there is that if you ORDER the shrimp dinner, your potato will arrive with half sour cream and half cocktail sauce.  But we got a hearty giggle out of picturing short people being insulted by this menu.


Additionally, we felt very dungeon-ish when we saw our seating options listed below:

 I made Sir go find the vault.  When he returned safely, I went to find it myself.  I forgot to take the camera, but it's down a narrow flight of stairs, past the Herr and Damen's rooms, and through a low archway.  It's basically a private dining room tucked into a corner of the basement - low ceiling, very wine-cellar-ish and probably very cool in the summer.  I was relieved not to find chains, locks and coffins.

 This was dessert, and honey, I wish I could tell you it was good.  But underneath that delicious-lookin' wrapper was a white square which looked and tasted much like a ceramic tile on a stick.  A very short stick.
Good thing we were full of red meat and sour cream.

We heart you, Potato House.  See you in December when we bring my girl!