By Katharine Shilcutt
By Jeremy Parzen
By Molly Dunn
By Joanna O'Leary
By Katharine Shilcutt
By Katharine Shilcutt
By Brooke Viggiano
By Katharine Shilcutt
See how Chef Schuster sears that fine foie gras at Charivari in this week's slideshow.
Houston, TX 77006
I was 14 years old when I fell head over heels in love with spaetzle.
It was during a trip to Austria, touring around with a symphony orchestra during my years as a violist, where I was first presented with the eggy, rough-hewn dumplings at a restaurant in Innsbruck. I relentlessly ate my way through plates of the stuff during my two-week stay, not knowing if I'd ever be able to find them in Texas. I ordered spaetzle with absolutely everything, craving the slightest crunch on the tiny dumplings that had been seared brown on their bottoms and the soft, barely chewy texture of the ones that had somehow escaped the heat.
Back home, my mother generously allowed me to buy packets of Knorr spaetzle from the international aisle at Fiesta (which were as close to Austrian spaetzle as garish orange packages of Maruchan are to real ramen), and I continually attempted to replicate spaetzle recipes at home. But I failed every time and soon gave up altogether. The 14-year-old me would have been thrilled to find Charivari — where chef Johann Schuster makes the best spaetzle I've tasted in Houston or anywhere else — which I didn't discover till I was 23.
My eyes nearly rolled back in my head the first time I tasted Schuster's pale golden dumplings, knotty and twisted under a pile of meaty wild mushrooms and a dollop of emulsified crème fraîche. The crème fraîche retained its structure and tangy flavor but melted ever so softly into the pasta and mushrooms below, adding to the already rich butter sauce that lightly coated each perfectly pan-seared dumpling.
I've had this reaction to nearly every dish I've had at Charivari over the years, and am inordinately pleased — perhaps because of my own strong German heritage — to see the restaurant age like a fine wine. Ten years since my first visit, the Transylvanian (but really also German, Austrian, Romanian, Italian, French and Eastern European) Charivari is better now than it ever was. And considering how short Houstonians' attention spans are, the fact that Schuster and company have been this popular for this long is a minor miracle, too.
The name Charivari itself gives you an idea of the kind of food that chef Schuster serves. It's a French slang term that means "beautiful, good mix" or an approximation thereof. And that's what you'll find on Schuster's multinational menu of Continental cuisine. I like this for two reasons: The diplomat in me enjoys a menu that's broad enough to please a variety of palates, which Charivari can certainly do. You'll find everything from spectacular rib eye steaks — dry-aged for 20 days in-house — to Italian classics like tender, housemade bucatini in bolognese.
The other reason I enjoy this blend is that it's more representative of European cuisines than the ideologist's approach of serving only "German food" or only "French food." In reality, cuisines and dishes all blend together in this part of the world, the same way that Italian and other Mediterranean influences work their way into Provençal cooking.
Take the seafood choucroute that Schuster has been serving for a decade. It's a dish native to the Alsace region of France, which juts so far into Germany that it might as well still be a part of that country. France and Germany exchanged control of the state four times in only 75 years. That's why you'll find sauerkraut in this ostensibly French dish, cooked down in a buttery Riesling sauce — another Teutonic ingredient. But oh, what sauerkraut. This isn't the briny, overly pickled stuff from a dusty glass jar. This is homemade sauerkraut, sweet and tangy, the plump strands of cabbage flecked with caraway seeds. On top, Schuster plates three pieces of seafood: half a lobster tail and two small filets of salmon and red snapper.
Seafood and sauerkraut: It's a combination that exemplifies Charivari's joyful jumble, challenging Americans to reconsider what they think of as French or German food — ditto the parsley-poached Black Forest escargots with the plump, buttery taste of winter-fattened Gulf oysters — while appealing to the European expats who pack the restaurant nearly every night.
Indeed, Charivari serves almost as a second home to many expats, and you can find dishes and drinks that cater directly to that crowd: a raspberry-laced Linzer torte under a lattice of gingerbread that tastes like winter in Kitzbühel or aperitifs like Campari and soda from the well-stocked bar. Schuster even recently equipped it with draft lines, so now German brews and Texas-made beers such as Franconia keep company with the exhaustive wine list.
For certain American tastes, Charivari holds another kind of appeal: charmingly old-school service in an equally old-school setting where white tablecloths and carpeted floors keep the noise levels down even on nights (as with a recent Karneval dinner) when the restaurant can get a little bawdy. The billowy maroon drapes that have fronted Charivari's windows for years may seem a bit antiquated, but they serve as an indication that none of the servers will pop a squat at your table, yet they will take care of your every need — often before you realize the necessity.
As a long patron of Charivari I have had to defend the antiquated decor more than once and i do so with a very simple response. I tend to go to restaurants for the food. If the food is no good what good does a contemporary decor do. Antagonizing to that, if the food is as good as at this restaurant, who gives too much about the decor. My dining experience is made by the food first and foremost and second for the chance of spending a great time with great people which will usually accompany me to a dinner like this. And without taking away from the servers in this or any other restaurant, if they simply do their job, they are mere sideline notes of the dinner. I am not going to a restaurant because the flowers on the table are fresh every day, or because the furniture is Hermes lined, or because all servers are super servile and give me stuff for free. I also love to eat at some hole in the wall places that have never seen a white table cloth.
Also I want to make it known to Ms. Shilcutt, that the beer lines have been around for a while, as long as I patronize Charivari, so at least five years, and I should know, as my friends and I have emptied the kegs underneath more than once completely. To all those beer lovers, if you have never tried a properly served German Pilsner, and I only know two places in town that do that, you need to come here. Try the beer and stay for a bar menu item before going to dinner somewhere else if you do not like the decor. But beer served like this tastes completely different to a Bud Light served at freezing temperatures in a breastaurant or beer served out of stale and moldy tasting lines as seen and experienced in a beer bar.
Foie Gras is indeed a treat to be had from time to time, lets hope the crazy PETA people do not succeed to get it banned in Texas (maybe an advantage of having armed people in higher numbers than California or of the Do not mess with Texas slogan, but so far I have not heard of any propositions to ban foie from Houston restaurants).
@paval Just wanted to make sure that it was understood I don't dislike Charivari's decor. I think it's perfectly nice. Although - as stated - "it may seem a bit antiquated" at times, this certainly doesn't detract from the overall dining experience. In fact, it fits with the overall feel of the restaurant. I just don't want it to sound as though I was using "antiquated" in the pejorative.
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