The Witches of Witteveen

Please note that since writing this blog post, Brasserie Witteveen has closed down

To set the scene for Tuesday night, I need to explain my rather entrepreneurial company: two new friends, both currently in the process of setting up their own businesses, one opening her own Italian wine bar ‘Salotto Rosso’ (watch this space), the other training to become a dietician and personal trainer. (You might wonder why I would know people like dieticians and personal trainers, but this one is simply in the business of sensibly cooked, balanced food – none of this Atkins rubbish. And that’s absolutely something I agree with – I just wouldn’t call it a diet.) So there we were: the Amsterdam Foodie, Miss Wine Expert and the soon-to-be Dietician. Three scarier customers the twelve-year old waiter at Brasserie Witteveen could not have encountered in his wildest nightmares.

Arriving straight after work at aperitif o’clock (all in the name of research), we ordered a glass of Prosecco Casa Roma, which was flat and overly sweet. Unimpressed, we moved on to the house Prosecco, which was also flat. When we sent it back, the waiter told us that the bubbly was on draft (which sounded horrifying enough in itself) and then went on to imply that the gas was injected into it at some point during the barrel-to-glass process. We looked at each other: ‘like some kind of soda stream?!’ No doubt Miss Wine Expert could tell us whether this is really as godforsaken as it sounds, but it didn’t bode well as far as I was concerned.

Having given up on the Prosecco, we opted for a Pinot Grigio and a Rueda – both fairly ordinary (but drinkable) and served in the kind of short stubby glasses you get free at beer festivals. Apparently a deliberate choice by the people that brought us the Supperclub and all those places whose letters are an anagram of Y, N, E and V. But why?

Fortunately, the food was considerably better than the wine, though the addition of screaming children didn’t do much to alleviate my post-work stress. To start, I had a terrine of duck liver and confit duck leg, which was essentially a cross between foie gras, rillettes and something sweet like Armagnac. Nice. It came with dried apricots (which looked confusingly like shredded smoked salmon in the dusky half-light), whose sweetness was a good complement. We’d almost finished our starters by the time the bottle of red (a Rosso di Montalcino) arrived, but it didn’t take us long to make a dent in it.

A note on the photos at this point: it really was quite dark at the back of the restaurant, and I (typically) had only brought my mobile-phone camera. Naturally, we stole the candles from the nearby tables and my discerning foodie friends held them aloft while I attempted to snap the dishes beneath. The result is clearly not the most professional, but I must admit I do quite like the mood lighting of the Dietician’s shrimp, melon and tarragon cocktail…

Our mains were simple but effective: between us, we ordered guinea fowl, pig’s cheeks and confit de canard, all of which were served with chips, root vegetables and roughly the same meaty jus. Classic French brasserie fare. The pig’s cheeks were the winner for me, though the poultry was juicy and tender.

We stuck with the classics for dessert, too. The tarte tatin had good flavours but was chilled and flabby from sitting out too long. The crème brulée had a spoon-tappingly thin-yet-thick-enough caramel layer, though the custard part could’ve been shallower and a little less firm. The brownie, declared Miss Wine Expert, was ‘drier than a virgin’s pussy’. Well, quite. And the decent chocolate mousse that came with it had been destroyed by its layering with a bitter grapefruit compote. Bad food pairing.

I wonder if I am being unusually harsh here. It really was like culinary character assassination. (You should’ve heard how our mutual acquaintances came off. Worse than the food, I can assure you.) But at the end of three courses and €55 each, we did still award Witteveen a satisfactory three stars. We’d go back for the food, if not for the wine bar. Whether the staff will ever let us back in the building, however, is another matter.