This is the latest edition of Who Goes There? a regular feature in which Lost City's Brooks of Sheffield cracks the doors on mysteriously enduring Gotham restaurants—unsung, curious neighborhood mainstays with the dusty, forgotten, determined look—to learn secrets of longevity and find out, who goes there.
[Krieger, 4/15/10]The two great German restaurant survivors of Glendale—Von Westernhagen's and previous Who Goes There? subject Zum Stammtisch—lie within a couple blocks of either other, on opposite sides of a funeral home that consistently feeds them with grieving eaters. (Other landmarks like Gebhardt's and the 150-year-old Niederstein's have closed in the last decade.) Of the two, Von Westernhagen is the less famous, and it's easy to see why. It's the pure and natural Betty to Zum Stammtisch's tarted-up Veronica. The walls are not crowded with Bavarian kitsch. No antlers or beer steins hang from the chandeliers. Perhaps because it was founded a generation earlier than Zum, Von Westernhagen does not put its German-ness in quotes. It has the unvarnished look of the kind of supper club you still find on residential corners in the western reaches of Chicago.
Enter the wooden breakfront and you're given two choices. Go through the door to the left and you're in the separate tap room, with its long bar, Hofbräuhaus on tap and non-working wooden telephone booth. You'll find a few old veterans holding up the bar here to keep you company. Go through the right door and you reach the sprawling dining hall, a rectangular space filled with square tables topped with fake flowers and paper napkins.
Black timbers and curious old portraits of comical drunks break up the white walls. The kind of china cabinet you see in suburban dining rooms serves as a bus station. Though decor is church-social minimal, the room immediately envelops you in its cozy embrace. Diners often linger for hours, my chatty, chubby, young waitress told me. "Also, the servings are so large, they can't move," she added.
Von Westernhagen is still run by the family that founded it, and they own the building it's in. It must be one of the only restaurants in New York that makes its own bratwurst. Patrons take home frozen links by the dozens, and I don't blame them—it's as good a sausage as I've had. I had plenty opportunity to admire the meat: My bratwurst plate came with three of them, as well as mashed potatoes, red cabbage and soup. Of the two mustard dispensers, the spicy was the one with the red rubber band around it, I was told. A sign told me that tartare on pumpernickel bread was a Tuesday luncheon special.
Von Westernhagen is perhaps more blessed with mourners than Zum Stammtisch, as there is a funeral parlor on either side of the restaurant. The night I ate there, a funeral party of 17, with no reservations, dropped by. Otherwise, patrons include the elderly faithful, from Glendale and beyond, who remember when this neighborhood was a German stronghold. One man with a cane, who arrived ahead of his wife, read the menu to her over the phone. "They got the Sauerbraten with dumpling. Broiled Pork Chop. Weiner Rostbraten." His barking voice filled the room, but bothered nobody.
—Brooks of Sheffield
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