I have never eaten a meal that I could accurately describe as ‘life-changing’. In fact, I’m not even sure how a meal could significantly alter your life. I haven’t had a catastrophic cutlery accident while enthusiastically tucking into a dish, or witnessed a loved one choke to death on a dessert. Perhaps closest call was receiving a mild burn on the roof of my mouth from the molten filling of Gregg’s steak bake. Even then, the mild discomfort only lasted a day or two.
Despite growing up on a strict diet of fish fingers and Findus’ crispy Pancakes (what can I say, I was a fussy eater as a child), I have since gone on to have my fair share of memorable meals in my adult life. Some of them have been downright weird; I have devoured a barbequed guinea pig in Cusco and chewed on a filleted and grilled mouse in Vietnam, which I finished before being told what it was. The mouse was surprisingly delicious, the guinea pig not so much.
Then I have eaten had meals that are memorable for a different reason. I was lucky enough to sample the tasting menu from The Black Swan at Oldstead just months before it was given the coveted title of ‘best restaurant in the world’ by Trip Advisor, and then later that year I spent an incredible afternoon sampling the 2 Michelin star food at Cartmel’s l’Enclume. Still, none of these meals changed my life or overall worldview.
That is why a message I received over Instagram while I was in Cologne piqued my interest. “Go to Lommerzheim for the best pork chop the world has ever seen. I’m not exaggerating, it’s incredible!”
After a few checks to ensure that the sender wasn’t either employed by Lommerzheim, or an undercover PR trying to drum up business, I sent a response questioning just how good a slab of pig can be. The reply was definitive. “It is life-altering. My husband and I flew to Cologne and back in a day, just to eat here.” That’s why I found myself stood outside of Lommerzheim on my last evening in Cologne.
The right bank of the Rhine is known by Cologne’s residents as the Schäl Sick, the wrong side of the river. Since Roman times, the main settlement was on the left bank. Back then, what is now the neighbourhood of Deutz, was wild and forested, mostly inhabited by barbarians. Even now, the icy squall blasting from the river certainly made it feel wild still. It was the kind of brisk, winter’s evening that makes your bones ache. Despite this, a queue had begun to form in the doorway of Lommerzheim and curl out onto Siegesstraße before the place had even opened its doors.
The restaurant isn’t much to look at from the outside, its exterior a crumbling, faded green with the embossed lettering above its door spelling Gaststätte, the German for a tavern or inn. It is fairly nondescript, with only a small sign facing the pavement indicating its actual name. I wouldn’t have found it without the help of Google or the steadily growing crowd betraying its location. Not that Lommersheim needs to advertise itself. It is, by all accounts, a Cologne institution.
Originally opened by Hans ‘Lommi’ Lommerzheim, it has stood in this spot since 1959, unchanged despite the new development of apartments and office blocks at either side. Along with his wife Annemie, they operated the pub alone. Annemie tapped while her husband served. There were no other members of staff. Before long the restaurant became legendary, coming to be known as the ‘kölscheste of all Kölsch pubs’.
It is no surprise, as Hans knew his beer. He started his career as the Köbes – the blue aproned waiters you see rushing around colognes historic drinking spots – in the Päffgen brewery, one of the city’s best. Since its opening, Lommerzheim was one of the few places given the permission to serve Päffgen Kölsch outside of the brewery.
Kölsch itself is strictly a Cologne thing, brewed in a manner unique to the region and, strangely, served in tiny 0.2-litre tumblers. There are around 13 breweries in the city that produce it, down from over 40 pre World War II, the most famous being Früh, Gaffel and Reissdorf. There was even the Kölsch Konvention of 1986 between the city’s Brauhauses that decided Kölsch may not be brewed outside the Cologne region.
I was reliably informed from a Köln local that the small drinking vessels are a source of ridicule among the rest of the country, with residents of other German cities claiming that it is like drinking from a test tube. “We just laugh,” he chuckled “then tell them that we’re off to drink our medicine”. He seemed so amused by this joke that I didn’t want to spoil his fun by informing him that no doctor in the world dispenses medicine in test tubes.
There is a saying that “You don’t order a Kölsch, you get it allotted.” This was evident as soon as I stepped foot in Früh Brauhaus. Everyone, and I mean everyone, was holding a miniature glass and supping the local brew. I’m not even sure if any other beverages are available. Not that they would be ordered if they were. As soon as you take a seat or approach the bar, a beer mat and drink is set in front of you by one of the smartly uniformed Köbes that whizz around the bar, going from table to table, quickly replacing any empty glasses with a full one from the wheel of beers on the circular, handled tray (a kranz) hanging from one hand. With each replacement drink, they mark a pencil line on your beer mat to indicate how many you have consumed. Once you are done, you place your mat on your glass to show that you don’t require any more beer and your bill is totted up.
The Köbes not a waiter, but a brewery aid whose pride excludes carrying beer to tables. You have to believe in a kobe, as in Providence or the Archangel Gabriel. Then everything will be fine.
This is a system and service I can fully get behind. It sure beats queuing at a busy bar or having to wait to order. The only issue I found was that I would consistently forget to top my empty glass with my beer mat. At one point I reached down to collect my bag from under the table, only to find my drink had been replaced when I got back to table level. I finished this drink and reached for my bag once more to find that the beer had again been refilled. It is both an ingenious way for the brewers to sell more beer, but also dangerous for the punter, especially if they are as forgetful as I am.
During my time in Cologne, I tried to see as much of the city as I could through the bottom of a Kölsch glass. I wanted to sample as many breweries as possible. I’m told that each one produces a beer with its own, distinctive taste, but to me, a Kölsch was a Kölsch. They all have a similar, light pilsner taste.
I began in Fruh, one of the oldest and most popular brewhouses. It has been around for over 100 years, and I assume the interior is much the same as when it was first built. On this Saturday lunchtime, it was packed. I resorted to standing in the long, tiled hallway as the side rooms were full of diners and rested my beer on a ledge, having to move or squeeze against a wall each time the Kobe would hastily move towards the cellar, carrying a wooden keg over his shoulder. Päffgen was much the same, full of drunken revellers adorned in fancy dress for the yearly Cologne Carnival. They weren’t letting the fact that the carnival was still 2 weeks away stop them from enjoying their evening.
It isn’t just the unique beer that shows Cologne’s sense of independence, it’s also clear in its cuisine. Many of the city’s dishes hide their true identity behind baffling and flowery titles that even other Germans would fail to understand. Halve Hahn, translating to ‘half a rooster’, isn’t a chicken dish at all. It is actually a rye roll, served with butter, mustard and a huge slab of Dutch cheese. Then there’s the even more enigmatic Himmel un Ääd, or ‘heaven and earth’ – the ‘earth’ of its title refers to mashed potatoes, while the ‘heaven’ is a thick, chunky, applesauce. This is served with slabs of black pudding and topped with a pile of fried onions.
I managed to try both at the perennially popular Peter’s Brauhaus in Cologne’s old town, another pub-cum-restaurant very much in the old, wood-panelled, tavern-style. That isn’t to say that everything on the menu is a far cry from the usual German fare; there is still the typical selection of bratwurst, schnitzel and pork knuckle (although here is it called Hämmche, pickled and brined and served with fried potatoes and a dab of hot mustard.)
I was told that for the best and largest schnitzel in the city, I had to head over to Bei Oma Kleinmann. Meaning ‘at Grandma Kleinmann’. It’s a traditional Kölsch pub that stands out like a sore thumb among the bars, pubs, and kebab shops of the student quarter on Zülpicher Straße. Its old-school interior is a stark contrast to the trendy drinking spots surrounding it.
Inside, it was heaving. I gave my name, took a Kölsch, and waited at the bar with the rest of the hungry punters until a seat became available. It was clear that Grandma Kleinmann has resisted renovating the place its 60-year history. The walls were adorned with hundreds of black and white, fading photographs and the furniture and fittings were decidedly ‘rustic’. Eventually, the Kobe made space by shuffling some other diners around a table and putting in two extra seats for us.
At least the menu here wasn’t as hard to decipher as elsewhere. It was schnitzel all the way down. 15 different toppings on a choice of either breaded veal or breaded pork. I opted for pork with a fried egg topping. When it arrived I couldn’t believe my eyes. There was an audible thump when the plate hit the table, not that you could see the plate as the schnitzel covered the whole thing. It was like a pork bodyboard with the two eggs barely covering a fifth of its surface. Like the trooper I am, I ploughed through it, beginning to struggle once a quarter had been consumed and feeling physically sick by the time I was about two-thirds done. That is without even considering the completely unnecessary side of fried potatoes.
However, all of this was just a build-up to the meal I had been waiting for; the “life-altering” pork cutlet of Lommerzheim.
The interior of Lommerzheim had the same ageing, worn interior as its facade, only it was covered in a layer of peeling, burnt red paint and adorned with trinkets, giving it a warm, rustic feel. Despite it only just opening for the evening, the tables and chairs – squeezed into every inch of available floor space like a giant game of furniture Tetris – were already filled and a crowd had gathered at the bar, knocking back Kolsch and waiting for a seat.
Päffgen Brewery took over the place following Lommi’s death but they hadn’t changed much, besides a statue of the previous owner that now stands proudly in the beer garden. The decor is exactly as it was, and there are still only two members of staff; one taking orders and delivering food to the customers, while the other tends the bar. I watched on as the barman tapped each keg himself and let the beer pour out, spinning his kranz beneath it to fill all the glasses simultaneously.
Eventually, we managed to be seated, once again squeezed onto the end of an already occupied table, as seems to be the custom in Cologne. I had eaten at Brauhauses in Berlin and Hamburg previously, but here in Cologne, they felt more authentic. They’re more atmospheric, more chaotic and raucous. They’re how I always imagined a German tavern to be.
I briefly glanced at the only menu scrawled on a blackboard above our heads. One side listed the smaller dishes, the other a range of meals “für den großen hunger”, mostly sausages and pork chops, but not much else. I didn’t need long to decide. I was here for the kottelett and the kottelett only. The Kobe whizzed by dozens of times, skillfully navigating the crowded dining room while taking orders, restocking beers and serving food. Eventually, he sped past our table, depositing my meal as he went. The chunk of meat was enormous but other than that it didn’t look to be anything special. It just appeared to be a blackened, overcooked pork chop.
I had to chisel away at the outer crust, sticking my knife in and digging away at it like I was excavating a precious treasure but the disappointment slipped away as soon as I placed that first slice into my mouth. The outer edge had both the flavour and consistency of a pork scratching while the centre melted in your mouth like the best pork belly you’ve ever eaten. It was heavenly. With that one bite I could see why, following Lommi’s death, the Rheinisches Freilichtmuseum had wanted to carefully pull down the restaurant and rebuild it identically, brick by brick, on the museum grounds. This was a meal that deserved to be commemorated.
The question is; Was it life-altering? I’m afraid the answer is no. It is, after all, just a pork chop. However, I will never be able to eat a pork chop ever again without comparing it unfavourably to Lommerzheim’s deep-fried masterpiece and, if I’m honest, it has probably changed my life by knocking a few months off of it.
2 Responses
Dave how did you like their beer and which dish you liked the most?
The beer was good, although a little light for my tastes! As for dishes, it has to be the pork chop! Probably the best piece of pork I’ve ever tasted!