The Bavarian mini-chain Albert’s Schloss has finally reached London, where it has opened a 600-cover pleasure palace. The very thought will probably shake earnest foodie readers to their core. Albert’s Schloss, you see, is all about fun: noisy, determined, oom-pah-pah fun. It is also about wall-to-wall schnitzel, strudel and currywurst. Eat bacon kroissant royale from 9am and schweinshaxe on a Sunday. There’s a live house band from 4-7pm every night, followed by a nightly “Kunst Cabaret” with singalong piano, dancing ladies, DJs and, of course, more oom-pah-pah. So much endless oom-pah-pah, in fact, that never will one’s oom be so triumphantly pah-pahed. No tickets required and, says the website, everyone welcome.
“No thank you, Mr Schloss,” you might well be thinking while sliding under the bed. “Please keep your Weimar Republic-themed booze stampede away from me. It sounds noisy and prone to spillages.” Even so, most people I’ve met who have visited one of the other Albert’s Schlosses in Manchester, Liverpool and Birmingham have fond, albeit woozy memories of late nights and perhaps a little too much Erdinger Weissbier, Stiegl-Goldbräu or Früli beer. They talk of booze, spätzle and fried goods covered in melted Alpine cheese, taken at long benches while sitting next to strangers who only recently became best mates. Nobody ever woke up and thanked God that they’d discovered the rhubarb and custard sour or the quietly lethal and bright blue show bunny, because both of these drinks require you to line your stomach first, perhaps with one of Albert’s Schloss’s giant pretzels with sweet mustard and pickles. The jalapeño pretzel is the best: a hunk of warm, spicy carbs with a variety of dippy things that’s hard not to love.
