Brauhaus Schmitz

On nights like that, Brauhaus Schmitz won't dispel many cliches of unbridled beer-hall indulgence. The kitchen, likewise, won't win any prizes for lightening up German fare. Nolen's kartoffelknödeln (potato dumplings) were about as tender as slow-stewed racquetballs. The special soup of liver dumplings in beef consommé (leberknödelsuppe) had the most delicate fragrance of nutmeg and allspice, but the texture of matzo balls weighed down with lead. The dark gravies, meanwhile, take on the unappealing look of plastic when they sit too long.

But where it counts most - in genuine flavor - Nolen delivers splendidly. The slow-braised sauerbraten (a rump roast tenderized by a weeklong marinade in red wine and vinegar infused with star anise, juniper, and clove) is tucked beneath a blanket of gravy thickened with gingersnaps. The earthiness of real wild mushrooms lends a dusky intensity to the sauce for the jägerschnitzel pork cutlet, while spicy paprika, vinegar, peppers, and wine lend the zigeunerschnitzel a "gypsy style" snap.

The Wiener schnitzel, meanwhile, had little but lemon and parsley to adorn its delicately breaded top round of veal. Unfortunately, that made it all too apparent that it was oversalted. When we mentioned this to our server, however, the offending schnitzel was whisked away and replaced within minutes by a perfect cutlet.

By this time, after sides of butter-crisped spätzle noodles, tangy red shreds of wine-stewed cabbage, crisply fried potatoes, and stock-simmered asparagus, there was little room left to finish.

But Jessica Nolen's desserts are worth saving space for. There was the decadent chocolate of Sacher torte, and the unusual bienenstich ("bee sting cake"), a praline-laced confection so buzzed with honey and densely chewy textures that I was like a bear in hive heaven.

It was the apfelstrudel, though, that stopped the show. After so many years of forking though soggy strudels microwaved to oblivion at a diner (our supposed last bastions of traditional comforts), this arching slice of pastry and fruit was startlingly good. Was it the butter-crisped flakiness and crumble of the pastry? The perfume of orchard fruit lovingly roasted into a whisper of ginger, cinnamon, and clove? Wafting up, indeed, was something sweeter yet - the satisfaction of Philly's German tradition come alive again.

Next Sunday, Craig LaBan reviews Bolete in Bethlehem, Pa. Contact restaurant critic Craig LaBan at 215-854-2682 or claban@phillynews.com.