Thick slices of potato, held together by a pale cream that isn't mayonnaise, lighter, almost a broth that thickened as it cooled. On top, laid down like the last thing added to an already finished plate, a handful of dark green mâche. Finely cut chives dot everything.
The first forkful is at the right temperature, neither fridge cold nor lukewarm. The potatoes give at once, cooked to the point where they're about to fall apart but don't, and the cream holds them together without weighing them down. There's a sour note underneath, of onion, that opens things up.
Then, a few seconds later, the garlic arrives. Not in your face, a hint, low, staying at the base and holding everything else together. I keep eating it for no precise reason, the first forkful gone, another arrives, and another after that.
I came in here for the schnitzel. That's the reason for the queue outside, the big piece spilling off the plate, the thing you book for. And instead the one that stays with me is this, the side, the supporting act. It crossed my mind that the schnitzel was huge and good and predictable, and that the thing I didn't expect was this plate of potatoes nobody photographs. The truest care had been put where it doesn't show.
