My month-long gig as the UAE Food Explorer and the resultant need to placate the Gourmet Belly has not left  much time to write much else. But here’s a recent review that stick in mind. Perhaps because Schnitzel sounds so …uncouth.

The original link to this is on www.uaefoodexplorer.com here

Schnitzel! Schnitzel!

Brauhaus, Dubai, Cuisine: German

Posted on June 19th, 2010 by Hisham Wyne

Throughout my Brauhaus dining experience, I kept shouting Schnitzel! Schnitzel! in the internal recesses of my mind. This wasn’t just because I had asked for schnitzel – breaded veal cutlets – but because it seemed the most apt way of fulminating while maintaining tenuous grasp on political correctness.

It is best not to consider Brauhaus a restaurant. Treat it as a bar first and foremost, for that helps in the forgiving. It is smack opposite the Boston Bar, a Dhiyafa Street institution in its own right.

My review of Brauhaus required more than one visit. The first time, they had stopped serving, but helpfully told me they could import food from Boston Bar. I decided I might as well go across to Boston Bar to eat food cooked in their kitchen’s kitchen.

So off I went, only to watch a hapless England fight Algeria to a draw, like a lion in a den of Daniels. While the Algerians were celebrating as if they’d won the World Cup and had put a man on the moon to boot, England’s ineptitude had some of my Scottish friends seriously contemplate rebuilding Hadrian’s Wall.

I traipsed back the next day, and examined Brauhaus’ menu. It is heavily laden with pork and those not in the mood for that particular form of white meat will require a second read through the offerings. I settled for potato soup, which was fearsomely satisfying in its wholesome crudeness. A meal in its own right.

But Schnitzel! Schnitzel! That’s all I have to say about the bread crumbed veal, which was fairly dry and ropey, and hastily thrown together. The saving grace was a couple of fried eggs atop the meat – for fried eggs are notoriously difficult to mess up.

The service was attentive, and there was a hardcore group of regular patrons holding forth while gazing at the football on TV. But Brauhaus slips and falls between both bar stools. It doesn’t merit being called a restaurant. The interior, apportioning of space, and layout all scream ‘bar’. But as a bar, Brauhaus is lost in the shadow of the raucously crowded Boston Bar a mere fifteen feet away. Still, there’s always the potato soup.

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