AMANO, Mitte
Whilst wombling around Schillingstrasse, doing something not very far from the walk of shame, my eye was drawn to the rows of spiffing white tablecloths that make up Amano’s outdoor dining area. Mental notes were made. Now here I am, not 48 hrs later with Raviv, a.k.a the Lady Mordoch.
This is not my Kiez, so I’m to be forgiven for not assuming that a restaurant situated beside a roundabout on a major artery road could be the hottest spot in town on a Sunday night. To our great delight, we find Amano packed to the rafters and fairly buzzing with bonhomie. Luckily, I’ve reserved.
The clientele is well-dressed to the point of formality. Posh frocks and blazers abound. It seems I’ve grossly underestimated Amano’s pull-factor. For a moment, I have the impression we’re attending a banking conference. Glasses of Campari Soda and rosé Prosecco arrive and we clink them beneath a tremendous gold art-deco chandelier that would not be out of place in Trump’s new White House Ballroom. The scene is set for a rather lavish affair. Let’s see if the chef can hold his/her own. Judging by the bread-basket, this is going to be damned good. Hard to resist the urge to munch down all this crisp, salty music bread. We manage to save a few slivers to eat with our first course.
“In the name of the Prophet - figs!!” – the opening line in my favourite Poe short story called “How to write a Blackwood article”. I mention this because the special Wochenkarte is decidedly fig-forward. A big yes to seasonal fayre. We’re in a share-y mood and select our shared favourite Vitello Tonnato (a good barometer dish) and the house special - spinach and ricotta with crispy fried sage and garlic. First the veal; rose coloured, wafer thin and plentiful. Served with a lashing of sauce beige in colour but certainly not in flavour. Capers and slivers of gherkin make this all rather lively on the tongue, yet at the same time soothing. The second plate, independently sold to us by two waiters as a speciality of the house, is less straightforward. Sage leaves and garlic slices fried in browned butter smell wonderful and have a smashing crispiness. Next door, the ricotta and spinach element is served tepid as a sort of lumpy extruded paste. Altogether, this is tasty but a little confusing, and neither of us quite sees the specialness.
But I’ve forgotten a few things. Firstly, the wine, which is chosen by me. I have a lingering fascination with wines produced in the shadows of volcanoes, and Le Sabbie dell’Etna, 2024 purports to be such. This is a win, it has a tiny sweet note on the nose, then drenches my tongue with cool mineral-ly refreshment. Lady Mordoch detects traces of stone fruit. If it weren’t a school night, I think we’d be quaffing this laissez-faire. Secondly, our waiter, quite a handsome character who seems to really know his onions. Though the restaurant has an “organized chaos” feel to it, he is a pillar of professionalism and charm. Thirdly, and I’m cringing slightly as I write this. There’s just no polite way to say, and it really shouldn’t matter….2025 surely has so many bigger problems. But….the cutlery….it’s heinous. I recommend it be melted down immediately.
Hurrah. It’s time for a pasta course, which we also plan to share. Papardelle al ragu (with veal, lamb) and stracciatella. Great ribbons of pasta with the right bite, amply coated with a light, rich sauce that is not too gamey with lamb. The unfeasibly white, liquidy cheese binds all this together and each mouthful feels like a homecoming. Sublime. I would come back just for this.
We’ve chosen some edgy-sounding main courses. Raviv takes a veal fillet with rosemary, fig and red wine reduction. For me, it’s black sesame encrusted tuna with tomato & vanilla marmalade and sweet & sour onions. Does vanilla pair well with tomato? With the right level of spice….you bet. But with fish? I guess there’s only one way to find out. My plate is looking pretty spectacular. The tuna is pink throughout, just warm, and is obviously great quality. The combination of fragrant vanilla, sweet (not spicy) tomato and tangy onion is unusual, but does rather work. Some grilled green asparagus completes the story. The last slice of tuna takes me to my satiety threshold and I am replete.
On my return from the gents (for much needed tooth de-sesame-fication), our waiter has supplied a plate of black grapes and chunks of parmigiano. This is a nice touch. Not so much a palate refresher as it is a palate otherwise-stimulator. I approve and make a note to recreate this experience at home.
Musically, we’re doing rather well. No crooners. No lounge-jazz. We’re defying Italian restaurant conventions with a slightly gay-ish mix of 80 & 90’s pop that is certainly keeping up the atmos. The clientele now looks rather younger and more relaxed than it did at the outset. Obviously, we’ll be taking some form of dessert and here things get interesting. I am bemused at the Mousse del Giorno offering. Realistically, how many mousse-types can there be? Reading the menu small-print, it seems today’s mousse is chocolate. The menu is laminated. Charmingly daft, still there are several good options here. We plump for a pistachio tiramisu. A new one on me. I would always stick to the classic form, but tonight we’re in a gambling mood. Perhaps it’s the slight Vegas vibe this place seems to give.
While Lady Mordoch is away powdering her nose, a pale green and white cuboid is placed in front of me. It’s family sized (thank god we’re sharing it) with an almighty splodge of a chunky red sauce covering one corner. This looks insane, as though the dessert chef lopped off his/her finger whilst slicing the tiramisu and bled all over the plate. But while this is visually a fiasco, it tastes delicious. It’s light with easily identifiable pistachio flavour. It’s not too sweet and the berry sauce / compote is mildly tart and prevents the cream from cloying. Importantly, at least to me, it’s not fridge-cold. This is a triumph, heartily recommended. We wash it down with espresso and, now fit to burst, contemplate our choices of digestif. We seek input from our attractive waiter, who boldly declares he has something “award-winning” up his sleeve. So be it. He brings three Obstler glasses and pours large measures of Amaro Tumusso into them. We toast his good health with a big Schluck of this viscous, brown-ish, throat-coating liquid. It is instantly redolent of coffee, honey and candied things. But this sensation is quickly overridden with a hot/cold herbal assault that, if blindfolded, I would bet was green Chartreuse. Quite a ride.
At a little after 22:00, we summon the energy to pay up and go. Amano has been an unexpectedly ritzy roadside delight. We will return.
My final tally.
Atmosphere 8/10
Food & Drink quality 8/10
Service 8/10
Value for money 8/10
8.0/10
“Make no mistake, this will be an event. Crave Stracciatella. At the sight of blood, tuck in.”
