Bavarian Chef: My Hero’s Journey to Madison County’s Cultural Idiosyncrasy
While driving north along Route 29 exiting Charlottesville, you may have noticed a cozy chalet of singular continental charm nestled off the side of the road. Or perhaps if you are anything like this correspondent, you notice this Old-World gem every time you travel north out of Charlottesville and invariably proclaim to your partner: “We must go there before I graduate.”
Of course, only one destination can possibly match this description: Bavarian Chef.
And what I say is true—I must have quoted that exact sentence at least a dozen times to my girlfriend since living in Charlottesville. Each time I was met with gracious skepticism towards this admittedly idiosyncratic establishment, out of place in rural Madison, Virginia. And I get it, there is indeed something discomfiting about such a distinct cultural cuisine being offered in, let’s say, a not-so-culturally-diverse town.
But that skepticism had never quashed my faith. I knew there were two possible outcomes: either the Bavarian Chef was just another rural greasy spoon catering to locals who never really left Madison; or the Bavarian Chef would provide a transcendent experience, an anomaly of small-town fare, transporting me to a geography and an era unknown to my sensibilities.
I recently found an answer: it is most certainly the latter.
Despite the Bavarian Chef’s alluring siren song, the stresses of 1L—simultaneously finding employment for two summers, preparing for journal tryouts, attempting in vain to figure out the rule against perpetuities, the list goes on—kept me from braving the journey beyond Charlottesville’s borders any earlier than I did.
But an excuse to make the twenty-five-mile journey north of Charlottesville for a purpose other than travel to Washington, D.C. recently came by way of Charlottesville’s Restaurant Week. Unburdened by the stresses that plagued 1L, I excitedly searched the list of restaurants that I actually had time to visit this year. One name on the list of participating restaurants stood out from the rest like a beacon urging me to fulfill my destiny. Yes, Bavarian Chef was on the list.
Now most of the Restaurant Week deals were not actually “deals”—the “deals” seemed more expensive than ordering the same items off the regular menu. But not so at the Bavarian Chef. Relative to their admittedly high regular menu prices, the $45 Restaurant Week price for a three-course meal with family-style side dishes sounded an absolute steal. Following a brief recruitment effort among some understandably skeptical friends, I enlisted a party of five and booked a reservation without hesitation.
On the day of our reservation, our spirits bristled with anticipation and trepidation as we embarked on the thirty-minute journey north along Seminole Trail, beyond the outskirts of Charlottesville, traversing the territory of Ruckersville, before arriving at our destination in Madison. Once there, the front door was no mere entrance but a portal to an idyllic German alpine oasis. The Bavarian Chef’s modest exterior belied its transporting interior. Indeed, no longer were we in central Virginia. No, we had just returned from a long day of milking cattle and sowing rye seeds in the Bavarian countryside and were getting ready to sit down for jovial reverie by the fireplace, Dunkels in hand. Although we did eventually order our Dunkels, on this occasion, the hostess directed us past the bar and up to the second-floor dining room. This room was no less rustic or cozy than the first floor, and we settled into the comfort of our stained-glass-adorned booth.
Although both the Restaurant Week and the regular menu were available for ordering, we had a mission to fulfill and had already devised a plan of attack. For my first two courses, I ordered off the Restaurant Week menu the Bierbratwurst—a traditional bratwurst with peppers and onions—and the Hofbräu Schwinebraten—roasted pork shoulder in a Dunkel beer gravy. Among the other dishes ordered at our table were Ente Maultaschen (a large dumpling stuffed with spinach and duck confit served in broth); German Kürbissuppe (butternut squash soup); Hühnerbrüstchen Normandy (baked chicken with Brie cheese and apple butter sage sauce); and Cod Schnitzel (yes, that’s right, German fish and chips). As our waitress took our order, she casually mentioned that servers would soon be bringing out family-style sides, which we could order as many refills of as we wished.
In due time, the first course arrived, and any lingering skepticism among the party quickly vanished as we took our first bites. Generous helpings filled our plates as we began to indulge. Simply put, everything was delicious. We proceeded to nearly polish our plates clean, washing them down with a few more swigs of our Dunkels. Our spirits were soaring.
It was not until a server approached with a broad platter of dishes that we noticed a disquieting aura intrude on our otherwise convivial environment. Realizing that we were already feeling quite full from the starch- and protein-heavy first course, we came to understand that the family-style side dishes advertised were not merely a complementary choose-your-own-adventure-type selection. No, we were graced with every single side dish available that night. No less than nine liberal servings of bottomless side dishes were placed on our table: red cabbage, Spätzle, glazed carrots, creamed corn, string beans, whipped potatoes, German potato salad, potato dumplings, and zucchini. NINE SIDE DISHES.
Our defenses already compromised from the beer and overwhelming deluge of side dishes, yet another challenge spawned before we could regroup: Our main courses were brought to the table. Our fate became apparent when our eyes befell these new plates. If the side dishes carried the volume of main courses, then how to describe the portions of our actual main courses? A true Smörgåsbord of German indulges delighted all the senses.
We were not men and women of weak constitutions, but what was delivered to our table was an impossible quantity of root vegetables and protein. The brave among us sampled every dish, and the bravest even managed to finish the main course (albeit the smallest plate of the three choices). I cannot emphasize enough how delicious every single dish was. Yet despite our best efforts, we could indulge no further. With our pulses hastened from the demands on our digestive systems, we began to slide into a hazy stupor. The line between reality and some twisted Brothers Grimm fairytale blurred as our comestibles induced a state of delirium. And when near all hope was lost, our waitress returned with a debilitating request: “What would you all like for your dessert?”
Just when I thought we were finished and the Bavarian Chef had dealt its final blow, an angelic whisper emanated from somewhere—to this day I cannot say from whom or from what—that uttered two simple, yet divine words: “take-out boxes?” And how glorious that suggestion proved to be. On the verge of succumbing to totalizing despair, our salvation was revealed. We politely requested of our undeservingly kind and hospitable waitress that our desserts—apple cheesecake and Nutella crêpes—be packaged in take-out containers, and that additional containers be brought to our table. We promptly filled our boxes to the brim. When the carnage was complete, our worthy foe was reduced to a terrifying ten take-out boxes and five full stomachs.
We drove home triumphant and satisfied that night. We had achieved something primal. We had achieved something surreal. We had achieved something transcendent. We had survived the indescribable, the unthinkable, the incomprehensible. And in the process, we learned something about the indomitability of the human spirit and the strength of human will. We returned heroes.
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cmz4bx@virginia.edu
