THE LOCATION
Located in the Wedding neighborhood of Berlin, in the Mitte district, Ernst is a small restaurant with just one bar (made of maple wood) for 8 guests and an open kitchen. The facade is quite discreet and dimly lit: a gray concrete wall with some graffiti, an aluminum door, and no sign indicating that there’s a restaurant or even its name. There are also no stickers or plaques showcasing the awards received by various guides—just a shiny doorbell that, in very small letters, says “Ernst.”
I had been eyeing Ernst for a good 5 years, since 2018, as its cuisine intrigued me, but there were several factors that delayed my visit.
Firstly, the difficulty of making a reservation due to a website that often doesn’t work; the lack of availability because of the tiny size of the venue and its high demand; and the system of opening reservations on a specific day and time, 3 months in advance.
Secondly, the upfront payment for the entire menu (including the 13% service charge and all), the fact that it’s only open for dinner with two seatings (at 6 PM and 9:15 PM), and, finally, the impact of COVID, which made it hard to find a spot on the days I could travel to Berlin, and the difficulty of finding another restaurant in the city that sparked my interest enough to complement the trip, made the months and years go by.
Ironically, when I finally decided to make a reservation this past December, I learned that Ernst was planning to close permanently in October 2024.
THE CULINARY OFFERING
This is what they call, in English, a “Counter-Dining Experience,” meaning a gastronomic experience where you eat at the bar. The details are not revealed until you start the reservation process through their website, which redirects you to Tock, another reservation management platform. Even when you’ve paid the tip and all, you still don’t know how many dishes you’ll eat or what they’ll be until you sit down at the table (or rather, at the bar). In fact, you won’t even know then, as it’s entirely a surprise, and you have to place full trust in them. It’s quite curious to organize a trip to eat at a restaurant without knowing what you’ll eat. That said, with the tip already paid. But there are days when we customers are open to anything.
When you start the reservation process, you find that there is no menu and that they offer two options: the “Ernst Tasting Menu Winter” for €250 and the “Ernst Beef Menu” for €175, a menu based on different parts of Wagyu beef from Austria, just outside Vienna, from Helga Bernhold, who raises one of the few biodynamic Wagyus in the world. She has crossbred purebred Wagyu cattle with native mountain breeds like the Pinzgauer from Salzburg to produce a product that is said to be exceptional.
THE STORY
According to the young chef Dylan Watson-Brawn (born in 1993 in Vancouver, Canada), it seems that he dropped out of high school, but his father always supported him, as he quickly realized his son’s talent in the kitchen. He has no formal training in either cooking or hospitality. However, he has worked in three top restaurants on three continents (Asia, Europe, and America) and hasn’t worked in any other restaurant.
In 2010, when he was only 16 or 17 years old, he decided to leave Vancouver on his own to go to Japan (from Canada’s perspective, on the other side of the Pacific Ocean). Initially, he was accompanied by his parents.
He began his practical training by spending two and a half years at the legendary RyuGin*** in Tokyo, the kaiseki restaurant of Seiji Yamamoto, becoming the first gaijin (foreigner, non-Japanese) to work there. I wonder why he chose Japan as a destination and how he managed to work at a place like RyuGin without any formal training or experience in the kitchen. Next, he went to Noma, where he worked for a year and a half. He observed that many cooks there didn’t want to work hard and only wanted Noma on their resumes. This is why it’s so difficult to work at Ernst—because he looks for people who are interested in his cuisine, who want to work hard, learn, and be productive. Additionally, he says he despised the pressure and toxic environment in that kitchen. Finally, he did a short stint at Eleven Madison Park in New York with Daniel Humm. I have the impression that these later internships at some of the most famous modern restaurants in the West gave him perspective, but his time in Japan was what taught him to truly appreciate and understand the product and the effort, sacrifice, and dedication needed to be a good chef, cook exquisitely, and own a restaurant.
In 2013, he arrived in Berlin (again, I wonder why Berlin) and began his solo adventure at the age of 19, opening Jung, Grün & Blau (Young, Green, and Blue) in his apartment in the Moabit neighborhood of Berlin, along with his friend from Vancouver, Spencer Christenson, who still works with him. In 2014, he moved to another apartment, already with the name Ernst, which is the middle name of a friend of his from Copenhagen, while Julius (opened in October 2020) is his first name. I thought the name was in honor of a German artist like painter Max Ernst or film director Ernst Lubitsch. It wasn’t until August 9, 2017, that they moved to their current location at Nettelbeckplatz square in the Wedding neighborhood of Mitte district. In 2019, they earned their first Michelin star for the 2020 guide. In 2022, he was named Chef of the Year by Gault Millau. In 2023, they ranked 23rd in the OAD Top Restaurants and 55th in The World’s 50 Best Restaurants.
Given our late reservation time of 9:15 PM, we went to Julius to wait for our turn.
THE MEAL
The menu ended up consisting of 35 dishes that you won’t see written anywhere. They don’t have a menu, and they don’t provide a reminder. Therefore, the names of the dishes (in bold) are titled as I have named them.
1. Kombu dashi & Lemon medicine
A dashi made from kombu from Nakano (a district of Tokyo), cold-infused in water for 48 hours, and, before serving, hot-infused with a small piece of poncem (lemon medicine) peel from southern France.
It was served from a ladle in front of us, on the spot.
A small sip of a warm broth. I really like starting meals with hot broths, but in this case, the quantity was tiny, and the container was the size of tea-tasting bowls. It wasn’t even a proper bowl, and you couldn’t warm your hands with it. Taste-wise, it was also too subtle. Perhaps it’s a cultural matter, and I don’t understand Japanese sensitivity and balance.
Chewing the citrus was odd, a chewy bit you find out of nowhere. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be eaten and was to be left on the plate. If so, they should recommend that.
It was a broth presented as the base of the entire menu. I understand they mean that all the dishes in the menu likely contain some of this dashi, which means they were prepared with this broth. In this way, I interpret this dashi as a sort of condensed summary of Dylan’s cuisine, just like the opening line of Mercè Rodoreda’s “Aloma”—”love disgusts me”—summarizes the novel and much of the author’s thinking and work.
I think broths are the foundation of many cuisines, including Catalan. In this sense, I like how the Japanese give them the importance they deserve.
This dish reminds me of Albert Raurich’s comment from Dos Palillos when he ate the floating turnip in a broth at Mibu, which is essentially a vegetable broth. In this case, on top of that, the portion was, as I mentioned, tiny.
2. Daikon & Citrus
A small piece of daikon, slowly cooked in its own juice with a citrus “sauce.”
I really liked the density and even the viscosity of the liquid released by the daikon.
3. Sliced Radish & Cherry Blossom Petals
We were in early March, but the temperature in Berlin was so pleasant (between 5 and 10°C) that it felt like spring, and they were already beginning to harvest the first radishes. In this case, a radish was sliced and served with cherry or plum blossom petals, citrus, and a very mild rice vinegar.
It had a slightly artificial white flower scent. Taste-wise, it didn’t impress me much, but the crunchy texture combined with the sensation of the slice’s texture and juiciness were very notable. It’s the tactile sensation added to the texture.
4. Pear & Venus Clam & Gelatin
A small piece of pear with a bit of Venus clam tartare and a gelatin made from dashi, clams, and yacón (a root or tuber from Peru—I’m not sure if they mean it’s native to Peru or if this particular specimen comes from there).
Venus clam is the common name for venerids, a large family of bivalves. In this case, I’m not sure which of the 500 species we were served, as it wasn’t mentioned. What we ate was similar to a clam.
It had the taste of quite ripe pear and a salty taste from what was on top. It was served cool. The combination of sweet and salty was very nice. It was delicate while also having intense flavors of fruit and seafood. An unusual combination that I really liked.
5. Rice & Cuttlefish & Dashi & Horseradish
Small pieces of cuttlefish and Carnaroli rice from De Tacchi (Padua, Veneto), grilled (I’m not sure if together with the cuttlefish or separately), with a fairly dense dashi on top and some kind of grated horseradish on top.
Served hot. It wasn’t a nigiri, as it couldn’t be picked up as one piece. The rice was quite soft, which surprised me, especially since it’s usually resistant to overcooking. However, since it’s not an aromatic rice, it allowed the other elements of the dish to stand out. The cuttlefish was quite salty (due to the sauce on top), and there was a sauce at the bottom that tasted like rice starch.
6. Cuttlefish on Charcoal & Ponzu-Limequat Sauce
A sashimi of cuttlefish, sliced and seared or “carbonized” on top with a piece of hot charcoal. On top, there’s a ponzu and limequat sauce (a cross between lime and kumquat).
It had a warm scent, a mix of charcoal and a very mild ponzu sauce that they say they make themselves. I understand they buy a base ponzu sauce and modify it with this other citrus. The cuttlefish was warm, and the ponzu sauce was cooler. The sashimi was thick but had longitudinal cuts on the skin, which provided a pleasant tactile sensation on the tongue, lightening the heaviness. The cuttlefish ended up being chewy.
7. Lemon Medicine & Milk Film & Milk Sauce
A piece of this citrus pulp (which I understand was a citron, citrus medica), topped with a film of cow’s milk.
The dish didn’t have much of a scent. The citrus was not flavorful at all, and in texture, it seemed like it was blanched or boiled; the pulp was quite different from that of a lemon, being solid, white, firm, and not juicy. The cow’s milk film was fridge-cold, and there was also a bit of milk.
Each element was distinct. This dish seemed to be a play on textures: the crisp-soft citrus, which was also silky, the creaminess of the milk film, and the liquid of the milk. I find that the dairy-citrus combination is quite groundbreaking, as it’s precisely the acidity that cuts through the milk.
8. Pink Sea Bream Sashimi & 3 Citrus Fruits (Honey Lemon, Blood Mandarin, and Persian Lime)
Four pieces of pink sea bream sashimi (a fish similar to snapper, pagell, and calet), served raw and previously salted and rinsed with sake. At the base, there’s a sauce. In a separate dish, there are 3 slices of 3 different citrus fruits (from bottom to top): one that I translate as honey lemon, a blood mandarin (not blood orange), and a Persian lime.
What a fish! Extraordinary. I’d never eaten anything like it before—no fish with this texture. It was like butter, literally melting in your mouth. It almost didn’t have a fishy taste, but the texture was incredible. The sashimi slice was of normal thickness but translucent.
The combination of raw fish and citrus is traditional and common. However, it’s unusual to serve three different types on a separate plate for eating, rather than for squeezing over the fish. I suppose eating three instead of just one adds complexity to the dish. In any case, it’s interesting to taste three different citrus fruits. However, it also seems like a forced accompaniment. The fish alone was exceptional, and if they wanted to showcase the textures and acidity of these citrus fruits, they could have served them as a separate dish.
9. Brazilian Yacón & White Miso from Kyoto & Yuzu Peel
Just as a reminder, miso is a Japanese condiment in a spreadable paste form made from fermented soybeans, salt, and sometimes a grain like rice or barley. They don’t make it themselves; it might be from Mimi Ferments, a brand we saw at Markthallen Neun.
A small piece of Brazilian yacón (earlier, they told us it was from Peru). They said it was a root similar to a sweet potato. In appearance, it resembles one, but the texture reminded me more of a parsnip, being crunchy and fibrous. At the base, there was shiro miso from Kyoto, which is white miso (less salty and milder than red miso) in the style of this city, where it’s a tradition to make white miso even milder (less salty and fermented for less time, sometimes called sweet miso) and creamier. On top, there was marinated yuzu peel; they said it was the first yuzu of the season (I’m not sure if they meant the yuzu season in Germany or Japan—I didn’t ask, as I just wanted to eat).
Aside from being used to season the international miso soup, I thought about dishes I’ve eaten with miso and chefs in Spain who use it. The delicious fried white eggplant from Ricard Camarena, topped with a frothy miso sauce made with a siphon, came to mind. I also thought of the turbot with white miso sauce from Rías de Galicia, the soy and miso ice cream that accompanies Ángel León’s eel mochi, or that ganxet bean miso with which Artur Martínez paints a piece of bonito. I also remembered that Marcos Morán from Casa Gerardo uses it for a dish with red mullet liver.
This tuber with miso was a delightful bite, which I really liked, but honestly, I prefer all the other dishes I just mentioned.
10. L’Étoile Oyster & Dashi & Wasabi Oil
An L’Étoile oyster from Noirmoutier (in southern Brittany), presumably from Kys Marine, although the producers may vary. It’s grilled in the shell with dashi and wasabi oil together.
A very tiny oyster, it looked like an embryo. I’ve never eaten such a young oyster, and I didn’t know they could even be commercially available. I loved it, with a delicate skin that burst like a spherification.
The wasabi oil was from Nishikawa Shouten, made with rice oil, mustard oil, and, I believe, flavored with hon-wasabi (not horseradish). This oil is produced in Sekigane, in the town of Kurayoshi, in Tottori Prefecture.
It wasn’t served very hot.
11. Kys Oyster & Sauce & Citrus
An oyster also from Noirmoutier, but in this case, it’s the Kys variety, also grilled. On top, there was a sauce made from seafood, mushrooms, and (Japanese vanilla?) along with pieces of citrus pulp similar to finger lime or Buddha’s hand, and a small piece of green vegetable resembling a cucumber.
It was served hot, but on a plate, not in its shell like the other oyster. The sauce had a scent reminiscent of Japanese sauce (salty and sea-like) but tasted like a French-style sauce, like a meat-based broth. The oyster was cut into two pieces, with the first bite having a thin skin like the first oyster and the second containing a fibrous part, like the foot of the bivalve, the muscle that holds the two parts together.
12. Golden Pomelo & Sansho Oil & Mirin
A piece of pulp from a golden pomelo (a variety of grapefruit) marinated in sansho oil (green pepper) and brushed with mirin.
It wasn’t very aromatic—just acidity, nothing else. I’m not sure if it’s a very mild citrus or if it lacked fragrance because it was too cold. The dish (the crockery) had ice at the base and was just out of the freezer. It seems like a bridge dish meant for palate cleansing.
I didn’t need to cleanse my palate, so I didn’t understand it. Perhaps it’s a cultural matter. I’m not sure if this frequent palate cleansing during a meal is typical in Japan, Asia, or elsewhere, and I’m not sure when it started. In the West, it has been done in high French cuisine (and French-influenced Russian cuisine) but typically only between the savory courses and desserts, not in the middle of the savory part.
We paused for a minute! Hallelujah! What a stress! So many languages (Catalan, Spanish, English with different accents depending on the nationality of the waiter, and Japanese), so many new ingredients, such diverse locations, from Austria, Germany, Brittany, Peru, Japan… and with such a rapid service pace, I was even out of breath.
It was 10 PM; we had been there for 45 minutes, and I had hardly spoken to my companion.
Up until that moment, I was impressed with the texture of the pink sea bream and the first oyster.
I had time to watch Dylan plate the sashimi that we were about to eat next.
13. Pink Sea Bream Sashimi & Kombu Tsukudani & Three-Seaweed Sauce
A piece of sashimi from the same fish we had in dish number 8, the pink sea bream (a fish similar to snapper, pagell, and calet). In this case, it was stuffed with kombu tsukudani (a sauce made from kombu, soy sauce, and sake cooked in a saucepan) and topped with a seaweed sauce (kombu, nori, and wakame).
It smelled like nori. The texture was the same as that of the other calet. The sauces were delicious.
I really like the idea of “stuffing” a sashimi and having the accompaniment be a sauce rather than rice as in a nigiri. However, it could also be considered sacrilegious. The combination was exquisite.
I wonder what the purpose was of serving the same sashimi five dishes later with a different accompaniment. It doesn’t seem that the intention was to compare them because they weren’t served simultaneously or consecutively. I don’t want to compare them either, as both were among the best dishes on the menu.
14. Kohlrabi & Ume & Plum Sauce
A roll of kohlrabi sliced with a Japanese mandoline (I think this is the slicer that El Bulli introduced in 2000, which allowed them to create new transparencies and use them in different ways). On top, there was ume paste (a paste made from Japanese plums that are pickled, dried, salted, and pressed to extract all the juice).
Served hot. It smelled like kohlrabi. I loved the texture of the kohlrabi; I really enjoy feeling an extra tactile sensation (from the slicing and curling) in addition to the crunchy texture. Moreover, it was very juicy. The umeboshi added acidity and saltiness. It was delicious.
15. Abalone & Bone Marrow
Abalone, also known as sea ear, is said to be the most expensive shellfish in the world, reaching up to €2,000/kg. I assume this is due to the difficulty of harvesting it (by hand and without oxygen tanks) and because its population is dwindling. Nevertheless, there are farmed abalones, even in A Coruña, where they are also expensive due to the laborious farming process, which takes 3 to 5 years. However, I still don’t understand why they are so much more expensive than oysters, which also have a similar farming period. In any case, abalone is the common name for haliotids, a family of bivalve mollusks (though they only have one shell, resembling a flat sea snail) gastropods, meaning they have a stomach-foot. This was farmed blue abalone from Brittany, not from Noirmoutier, and was cooked in a pressure cooker.
The edible part of the abalone is the foot, which is the adductor muscle. It is whitish-yellowish-brown, flat, oval-shaped, and has transverse grooves.
I know that there are yellow, blue, red, Galician (tuberculata), and Chinese abalones, which are the most common species for human consumption, but I wouldn’t be able to distinguish them.
The piece we were served was a small portion of an abalone, about 3 cm long and 0.5 cm thick, like a thick sashimi slice. I don’t think we ate more than one abalone per person.
The abalone had no scent; the only smell was that of miso, which was present in many of the dishes.
In the mouth, it was tough, meaty, and chewy (with a long chewing time), similar to octopus, but it didn’t have much flavor. I think this is characteristic of this shellfish, more about texture than flavor, with a very mild taste, like scallops when they’re rather bland. The dominant flavor came from the bone marrow sauce, which was transparent, like a dashi with delicious bone marrow.
It was a delightful surf and turf dish where the sea provided the texture and the land provided the flavor.
16. Abalone Skirt & Pistachios & Liver Sauce, Pistachios, and Wild Garlic
Another dish based on the same ingredient. In this case, we were told they were serving us the skirt of the abalone (I assume it was the same foot of the adductor muscle, but from the sides, the crown, which is always more tender, luscious, and gelatinous). It was diced and served with grilled Sicilian pistachios and a sauce made from pistachios, the abalone’s liver (or visceral mass, meaning the organs), and wild garlic.
It smelled smoky and garlicky. This part of the abalone was much more tender but also not flavorful; it tasted smoky and salty from the grill. In that sense, it was robust, perhaps a bit too much so. The pistachios seemed boiled, like the pine nuts in Baronetto’s “acciughe in verde.” They were of very high quality, flavorful, and tender, and I liked them a lot.
Another abalone surf and turf dish. It’s curious that in a dish featuring the most expensive shellfish in the world, the pistachios are the standout. Nonetheless, I thought the dish was among the best on the menu.
17. Artichokes & Radicchio & Oyster
Artichokes and radicchio (chicory) sliced into fine julienne (visually, the radicchio looked like red onion), a small piece of leftover oyster from the ones we had earlier (like the foot), and a citrus sauce made by soaking yuzu seeds in rice vinegar for 48 hours.
These crudités seemed like a second “transition dish” for palate cleansing.
18. Radicchio & Oat Bran & Sunflower Seed Sauce
A small piece of radicchio that was cooked with oat bran on the grill. According to what we were told, this dish is based on a Japanese technique of cooking bamboo with rice bran. They substitute bamboo with radicchio and rice with oats, adapting to the ingredients available in Germany. On top, there’s a sunflower seed sauce from southern Germany.
It was served warm. It smelled like oats or, rather, like sesame. Perhaps it was the sunflower seed sauce, which also resembled sesame. The radicchio looked like a white onion sashimi or the concave shell of a small shallot. It was very good. The oat flavor combined with the sunflower seed sauce reminded me of some porridge dishes from the subsistence cuisine of Eastern European countries or Russia, a mix of bread, buckwheat, and a lactic flavor.
19. Chawanmushi & Niboshi Dashi
A chawanmushi steamed and infused in a niboshi dashi (a broth made from dried sardines).
This is a type of savory Japanese custard, similar to the tamago/tofu we had just eaten at Julius, but much lighter, finer, and silkier.
It was served warm in a chawan (a tea-like cup) with a wooden spoon (one of the few Japanese dishes eaten with a spoon—I love eating with a spoon!). On top, there was a yellow liquid, but they didn’t tell us what it was (it didn’t seem to be niboshi dashi) and chives.
20. Mackerel & Spinach & Dashi
A sashimi of marinated mackerel from Brittany, stuffed with a Japanese variety of spinach and topped with dashi.
Served cold, it smelled like raw blue fish. In my mouth, I thought: Ernst is the best Japanese restaurant I’ve ever been to. What a buttery texture! I couldn’t have imagined such a flavor profile. This was the second “stuffed” sashimi.
We watched as Dylan handled the turbot he had just grilled, discarding both the skin and bones.
21. Jerusalem Artichoke Tempura
A candied and tempura-fried Jerusalem artichoke. On top, just before serving, a warm sauce made from sunflower oil and sake kasu (a fermented paste made from the leftover rice from sake production, akin to wine lees).
The dish, in general, smelled like sake lees, but the sauce, in particular, had a salty scent and taste, almost like fish. It was delicious and paired wonderfully with the tempura. The Jerusalem artichoke had an ideal soft-firm texture, likely due to being candied beforehand (what a great idea to candy it instead of blanching it!). The warm serving temperature was exquisite, reminiscent of the warmth that the rice of the best nigiri acquires when freshly made.
I found it curious that they served the sauce on top, risking the tempura becoming soggy, instead of serving it separately so that the diner could dip the tempura into the sauce. Nonetheless, probably because it was added just before serving, it didn’t compromise the light crispiness of the tempura.
I don’t know if they used sesame oil, sunflower oil, or another type for frying, but it left almost no oil on the parchment paper on which it was sliced for plating.
I also don’t know if the Jerusalem artichoke was marinated or pre-cooked, if they used still or sparkling water, cold or not, nor what type of flour they used (the type of grain, the level of refinement, the amount of gluten protein), nor if they used only egg yolk, nor if they added salt to the mixture, nor what vessel they fried it in. However, I would say they are experts in the technique of tempura (and perhaps all types of agemono, all fried dishes, or at least koromo-age) and that they master the type of flour, type of oil, oil temperature, cooking time, draining method, etc. As I mentioned the other day in the article “Making (Self) Criticism” I know nothing.
In any case, it was one of the best tempura dishes of my life—due to the flavor, texture, clean taste, thinness of the tempura (which I think is quite visible in the photo), the golden surface, the serving temperature, the accompanying sauce, and the bite size.
An explosion of clean oiliness. It is possible to fry cleanly without overwhelming the dish.
22. Grilled Artichokes & Black Trumpet Mushrooms
Grilled artichokes with a black trumpet mushroom sauce and pieces of the same mushroom.
It was served hot and smelled like black trumpet mushrooms. They seemed fresh but were probably dried, preserved, cultivated, or from another continent, as they were out of season. The artichoke had lost all its astringency.
This was likely one of the most European dishes on the menu.
Oh no! Dylan is discarding all the turbot juice! If only I could be that cloth! He is wasting it so much that it’s hurting my stomach.
23. Turbot & Turbot Juices & Turbot Emulsion-Pilpil
Two pieces of turbot, also from Noirmoutier. One was from the upper part of the turbot: served cold, without skin, resembling a Japanese style. It was a meaty but not very flavorful fillet. The other piece was from the lower part of the turbot: served with skin but burnt, charred, tasting of nothing but burnt. Luckily, the lower part is usually more forgiving due to its tenderness.
There were two sauces. One sauce, served over both pieces of turbot, was made solely from the fish juices. The other sauce, an emulsion served next to the fish, was a pilpil made from the fish’s collagen and was warm-hot from the heat of the crockery. It was a delicious emulsion!
This dish was likely one of the most European on the menu, alongside the grilled artichokes with black trumpet mushrooms.
24. Grilled Kale & Wakame & Gawa
Grilled kale leaves accompanied by wakame and gawa, a sauce made from the turbot’s muscles, which I assume refers to the collagen from the turbot.
Served warm and pleasant. The kale was very fresh. This dish seems to be like serving the side, based on vegetables, for the previous dish, the turbot.
25. Langoustine & Head Sauce and Black Citrus
A grilled langoustine tail from Brittany topped with a sauce made from its head and black citrus, which is fermented like black garlic.
It was served hot. Wow, what a smell! A mix of citrus and black garlic, along with a marine and salty aroma! The grilled touch was well done and not overwhelming. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten a langoustine after a turbot. It’s quite a unique way to accompany this delicious crustacean.
They warm the crockery in cabinets, and it’s very pleasant to touch while eating.
26. Blood Orange & Schrenckii Caviar
Grilled blood orange with a reduction of its smoked juice and Schrenckii caviar (from the Japanese sturgeon Acipenser schrenckii) from Mongolia (presumably from the Amur River), matured for 60 days, from the German house N25.
The caviar had a beautiful grayish-yellowish-golden color. It was served hot. What an incredible scent! I had never smelled anything like it before, and I loved it. It came from the grilled blood orange. I find that grilling the citrus reduced its acidity a bit but enhanced its butteriness. The flavor resembled buttery oiliness. This was the only dish on the menu with caviar.
A very different dish. For starters, the orange-caviar combination of citrus-grill-salinity was unique. Additionally, a grilled fruit served hot reminded me of hot desserts like tarte Tatin and baked apples and pears. I love the idea of grilling citrus, as this one was excellently executed. Moreover, it was a fruit served in the middle of the menu, practically as the star of the dish.
Delicious. One of the best dishes on the menu, perhaps the best.
Although it wasn’t announced, the next three dishes were the last savory ones, all featuring Mangalitsa pork from Austria, a crossbreed of domestic pigs originating from Hungary. This particular pork came from the Wiesner Bauer Hof farm (Ort, Lower Austria, in Weinviertel) owned by Christophe Wiesner Bauer, an Austrian butcher who seems to be a leading authority in this field. I was excited to try the pork at this time of year, at the peak of the slaughtering season.
27. Morel & Mangalitsa Pork Bacon
A morel from Germany (the first of the season there) stuffed with small cubes of Mangalitsa pork bacon and morels, grilled whole.
The dish smelled like the grill, but the scent was mild. It didn’t smell like morels, or maybe I associate the scent of morels too much with the recipe for morels in cream. The bacon was more noticeable for its soft and creamy texture than for its fatty taste, as it had very little fat. The fat was less saturated, cleaner, less flavorful, and lighter than the pork I’m used to eating. It’s a shame that for one time when I get to eat a good pork that’s not Joselito, there was such a small quantity; in the end, there were probably only about 5 grams of bacon.
28. Fried and Grilled Mangalitsa Pork Bacon
A piece of bacon where they first fry the skin and then grill it. On top, there’s a sauce made from the bones of the same pig and a vinegar glaze. On one side of the jowl, there’s some pickled ginger.
The dish smelled like ginger and had a bit too much ginger flavor, with little pork taste. This seems to be a very mild pork. The fried skin was quite crispy. Despite being pure fat, it wasn’t cloying at all. On the contrary, it was very delicate and incredible. It seems that Wiesner’s Mangalitsa pork is indeed exceptional.
29. Mangalitsa Pork Loin & Fat & Salt & Sansho
Three slices of Mangalitsa pork loin (aged for 3 months) with three slices of its fat (they didn’t specify if it was bacon from the belly, the neck, or another area), both parts cooked on a robata, a Japanese grill using binchotan charcoal, at the bar, visible to the diners. It was accompanied by a sauce made from the pork bones. On the side of the plate, there was salt with green sansho (a Japanese green pepper).
The fat, eaten alone, melted but eventually became chewy. Conversely, the loin, eaten alone, was tough to chew, so the piece of fat helped in that regard. However, it’s still curious to mix one of the leanest parts with pure fat. Once again, there wasn’t much pork flavor. The salt was helpful in enhancing the lack of pork flavor, but unfortunately, I didn’t mix them until the end.
Although they didn’t announce it, from here, the dessert part began.
30. Blood Orange Sorbet & Cream & Green Sansho Oil
I was surprised by the pink color of the sorbet; I usually associate blood orange with a more orange and reddish hue, not pink. It was so cold that it didn’t smell like anything.
The dish (the crockery) was frozen, coming from the fridge or even the freezer.
A sorbet, which normally doesn’t contain cream unlike ice cream, had cream on top in this case, along with another fat, like oil. It wasn’t flavorful, but it was all about texture and, above all, different densities and volumes. If it had that missing aromatic component, I would have loved it.
31. Steamed Cake
A small piece of steamed cake, with a touch of grill on top and submerged in grilled mandarin juice on the bottom.
It smelled like butter. It was warm on top and more tempered/cool at the base. It was slightly soaked; it was juicy on the bottom, while the top was warmer and crispier. It was delicious! The mandarin wasn’t noticeable in scent or acidity.
It wasn’t particularly light or heavy. In terms of texture and consistency, it was halfway between a well-packed Spanish omelet and a fluffy sponge cake or Tarta de Santiago, but with a moist/juicy base and a crispy top from the grilling. Although it was very good, it could have been even better. It resembled mushi-pan.
32. Custard & Pomelo & Sake
A custard (similar to crème anglaise or flan) made with duck eggs. On top, there was some pomelo pulp.
Served cold or at room temperature, it wasn’t very aromatic, perhaps with a mild citrus scent. It had a creamy and silky texture and a delicious duck egg flavor, but the pomelo dominated again. I would have preferred to eat the custard on its own, without the citrus pulp. The idea of adding sake appealed to me, but I didn’t detect it.
33. Ice Cream & Zabaione & Figwood Oil
An ice cream made with a base of a custard made with duck eggs, like the previous desserts. On top, there was a layer of zabaione made without any alcohol and also prepared with duck eggs. And on top of it all, figwood oil.
Served cold, the crockery was frozen. It didn’t have any scent. The ice cream had a creamy texture with crunchy ice bits and a duck egg flavor. I didn’t like the zabaione, as it lacked flavor, didn’t contain any alcohol, wasn’t warm, and had a consistency that was too liquid when it should be more like foam or mousse.
These desserts would have been better with a different type of zabaione (warm, more foamy, and with some alcohol) and more duck egg flavor.
34. Kumquat Brûlée & Bancha Tea
On one side, a small cup of Bancha tea, a Japanese green tea also known as “three-year tea” because the leaves have been dried for this period. On the other side, a small plate with half a brûléed kumquat.
I always appreciate starting and ending meals with some warm sips, but this astringent tea wasn’t to my taste. It seemed like a fairly ordinary green tea with a straw-like smell. The kumquat also wasn’t a good ending, getting stuck between the teeth and being a bit too sweet.
WHAT WE DRANK
We had a bottle of Riesling Wald Portier 2020 from Jakob Tennstedt in Mosel, specifically from the town of Traben-Trarbach, labeled as Landwein (regional wine).
Coming from the Hühnerberg vineyard located in Trarbach, mainly composed of blue and gray slate and quartz, the young Berlin-based producer who previously worked as a chef has half a hectare of old vines on original rootstocks, planted between 1900 and 1970. The wine was aged for two years in 1,000-liter Austrian oak casks and bottled without fining, filtering, or added sulfur.
One of the first natural wine producers in Mosel and almost all of Germany that I’ve tasted. We’re used to seeing Rieslings that are bright, transparent, and crystalline, with a yellow-greenish color, but this wine is quite the opposite. It shows a tendency toward oxidation, considering how young it is. However, aromatically, it didn’t lean in that direction but instead appeared intense, fragrant, and fairly complex. The Riesling variety was noticeable, but in a more vinous manner, resembling a blanc de noirs or a wine made in an amphora. Despite its 13% alcohol, it tasted fresh, with good acidity and notable density, indicating it was a rarity. As I always seek, it was a good pairing for a 35-course menu. However, the price was excessive, with the bottle costing around €60 in a shop but being charged at €170 in the restaurant without mentioning the price, as it was a recommendation from the sommelier. In fact, the entire wine list, mainly natural (or minimally intervened) wines from both Germany and France, was somewhat overpriced, but given the context of a European capital like Berlin, we accepted it. At least they have good Zalto glassware.
THE TEAM
To serve 8 guests, they have a team of 7 people consisting of: 5 chefs, 1 sommelier, and 1 public relations officer who isn’t present during service—Arve Podsada Krognes, a young Norwegian who was the head of communications at Noma and who handles reservations and customer service very diligently.
Among the 5 chefs, there’s Dylan; fellow Canadian Spencer Christanson (born in 1990 in Vancouver), who is a trained writer and has been at Ernst since day one; Swedish Matilda Johansson, a young woman from Piteå, a town of about 20,000 inhabitants situated 850 km north of Stockholm; young Australian Jack Tonkin, who spoke some Spanish; and finally, another young person who didn’t address us at any point. It still surprises me that no one on the team is from Germany.
Due to the small size of the venue, there are no waiters—only chefs and a sommelier. The chefs serve all the dishes, always from inside the bar, never passing behind the diners. Even the sommelier, Nacho Diez from Madrid, who I knew from Hiša Franko, also serves dishes.
The service was very friendly. They even stayed until the end of the service, which is increasingly rare in restaurants where all the staff gradually disappear, leaving you to be seen off by a secondary waiter you hadn’t seen throughout the meal.
A young team of foreigners who don’t speak German offers Japanese cuisine with natural wines and jazz music in the German capital.
THE KITCHEN AND THE CONCLUSIONS
At Ernst, there are two kitchens: one that can’t be seen, even when asked, and the open kitchen, where you can see about 6 induction hobs with more than a dozen small pans, a small charcoal binchotan grill, a tabletop robata using the same kind of Japanese charcoal (which they brought out when needed), a central island with a sink, a bowl with a variety of citrus fruits, and a magnificent collection of Japanese knives. Finally, in front of the diner, there are three cutting tables that also serve as a plating area. It’s great to watch the chefs at work.
Dylan explains that he offers a menu that changes daily, depending on what his suppliers bring him. I’m surprised that he offers 25 to 35 different dishes each day, and I’m curious about the degree of improvisation in the dishes I’ve eaten. I ask if it’s true that, if I were to return the following week, the menu would be entirely different. He says that 25% of the menu would be new, so not entirely different.
In general terms, I’d say his cuisine is clearly based on Japanese cuisine, both in ingredients and techniques, recipes, and philosophy.
His cuisine is also highly focused on sourcing products. Dylan explains that he enjoys experimenting with products, such as giving the same seed to three different farmers to see which soil and environmental conditions produce the best product.
He doesn’t seem confined to offering only local, organic, and biodynamic products; instead, he seeks the best producer and establishes a relationship with them. In fact, the entire team visits the producers, as it’s their way of exploring the regions and different climates across Europe. He tries not to serve any product he hasn’t visited in person (which is why he didn’t serve sake, for example). However, he soon will, as he has a new project with Reigen Fermentation, natural sake producers in Berlin.
On one hand, although he doesn’t have his own garden, he works directly with farmers in Berlin, offering local products such as the fruits and vegetables from La Branca, a small farm in Beeskow, two hours from Berlin; dairy products from David, who raises Angler Rotvieh (or Angeln) cattle near Mecklenburgische Seenplatte in northeastern Germany; and zucchini, Swiss chard, and wild blueberries from Sieglinde, who has run a biodynamic farm for over 30 years, following the shared farming concept (Gemeinsamen Landwirtschaftens, GeLa) where the customer becomes a partner in the operation.
On the other hand, he also offers products from outside, from across Europe, such as fish and seafood from Noirmoutier (Brittany, France) or citrus fruits like poncem from southern France, peaches and melons from his friend Angelo from Etna (Sicily), and from Austria, biodynamic wagyu from Helga Bernhold and Hungarian Mangalitsa pork from Wiesner Bauer Hof (Ort, Lower Austria, Weinviertel) by Christophe Wiesner Bauer, whom I’ve already mentioned. He even sources from outside Europe, like caviar from Mongolia.
In any case, he doesn’t seem to use processed products or additives from companies like Sosa.
Thus, his cuisine fairly reflects seasonal variety and values the people who work the land and sea.
Dylan uses very basic and traditional techniques, such as cutting, marinating, infusing, slow cooking, grilling (on two different grills), steaming, frying, cooking in a bain-marie, fermenting, seasoning, straining, and filtering. However, some of these techniques, like cutting, grilling, and frying, require extensive knowledge and much practice to master fully.
He also makes his own broths, stocks, sauces, ice creams, and sorbets. I would say he hardly has a siphon, and we didn’t eat anything cooked sous-vide. In this sense, his simplicity is quite extreme, avoiding modern techniques.
Each ingredient is presented almost bare, lightly cooked, and simply accompanied by a sauce or liquid, enhancing its flavor through salt, acidity, or umami.
In fact, what impressed me most about Ernst is how they use salt and bring saltiness to their dishes. On one hand, they use both fine and coarse salt directly, always sea salt, usually Maldon—no exotic or rare varieties. On the other hand, they achieve saltiness through dashi, miso, soy sauce, and ponzu shōyu. They also achieve it through grilling, drying the product, mixing it with sansho (Japanese green pepper) to create a tingling sensation, dissolving it in brine or preserving it in cured foods, and so on. Finally, they use salt for various purposes: for seasoning, enhancing flavor and prolonging aftertaste, adding texture (as flakes, the crystals add a crunch), and more. In this regard, it reminded me of Bagá and how Pedro Sánchez uses crushed caviar to add saltiness to his “Almond/Caviar” dish, which also contains salt cod brandade—another preparation that adds a different type of saltiness, which I associate more with the pestos that Ricard Camarena adds to his broths to enhance their flavor.
There was a recurring theme in all the dishes: the sauces, whether in the form of dashi, miso, vinegar, mirin, soy sauce, ponzu, or preparations based on these ingredients. I don’t know to what extent they make these condiments themselves, and I wonder if buying soy sauce or miso is like buying ready-made mayonnaise, even if they later tweak it by adding other ingredients or finishing it more elaborately before serving it.
In terms of taste, except for some of the initial dashis, another common thread was the saltiness combined with a clean umami flavor (or kombu flavor), not the coarse monosodium glutamate. As I just mentioned, I find it noteworthy how they provide this balanced, delicate, and subtle saltiness, elegantly enhancing the taste of the ingredients without the excessive saltiness found in many Japanese restaurants, where they serve unbalanced and blunt dishes. In fact, many dishes are cooked without salt because, as I always say, many products don’t need it.
On the other hand, another common thread would be the acidity, which they work with through different rice vinegars, including a black vinegar from Japan made by oxidation (not cooked like balsamic vinegar) and from rice (not from wine, of course) or through a wonderful variety of unusual citrus fruits.
They don’t overwhelm the customer with any narrative and announce the dishes briefly, mentioning the names of the main ingredients and the primary cooking technique. Even though they have two seatings and a synchronized service, each chef explains the dish individually, not to the entire dining room.
This is not a restaurant with iconic dishes or a menu consisting of a succession of courses as we know them in the West. Instead, it aims to provide a general idea of the menu, where Dylan tries to strike a balance between the five basic tastes. Everything is based on fresh ingredients and their flavors.
I enjoyed all the dishes, and all of them seemed acceptable, even though some were milder, duller, or even, on the contrary, rough. I tasted some dishes that approached brilliance, providing some of the best bites of my life. It was a meal that introduced me to new textures and scents, offering a different way of seeing a menu and understanding cuisine. However, I still wonder how one can be both subtle and rough at the same time. In some dishes, there was hardly any flavor, while in others, there was an excess of saltiness, burnt taste, or chewiness.
I asked about the extremely rapid service pace, with 35 dishes served in under 3 hours, while in any other restaurant, it would take at least 5 hours. This seemed excessive, reminding me of El Bulli’s allegro vivace, which, interestingly, I enjoyed back then for its agility. Dylan explained that he does this because he wants the diner to get an overall impression of the menu or different sequences, not focusing on each individual dish. He also said he offers the menu at a bar so that the customer can observe and to encourage interaction between the chef and the client, but there isn’t much time for this conversation. However, at the end of the meal, there’s a sort of after-meal conversation, which I appreciated. Depending on the fellow diners you meet, this can lead to engaging conversations and friendships.
He also explained that he doesn’t aim for perfection; his goal is to offer a different experience every night. Regarding not seeking technical perfection, I can understand if he prefers to focus his efforts on other aspects and embraces the beauty of imperfection. I also understand if he recognizes his limitations and is aware that, due to the infrastructure of the place, he can’t achieve a certain level. However, I find it hard to believe that he doesn’t want to improve technically or offer the best technique possible. Additionally, with certain techniques, like tempura, he does put in the effort and achieves an extremely high level.
I asked how the idea of a “four-hands” collaboration with Pedro Sánchez from Bagá came about, since neither of them usually does such things.
He explained that they didn’t know each other, but many clients said they had similar mindsets. From there, Nacho put them in touch, and last March, Pedro went to Berlin, with the return leg set for November in Jaén. I asked Dylan about the similarity I noticed in their use of salt, and he said yes, he sees it too, but Pedro’s cuisine is saltier, and he uses salt for seasoning. In contrast, Dylan uses less salt to enhance flavors.
I asked why he’s closing Ernst, and he said he’s tired of this format and wants to cook more casual food at Julius. So, Julius will remain open. When asked about new projects, he said he doesn’t have any planned yet, and showed me a photo of his dog, indicating that the only thing that matters to him now is taking care of the dog. I find this uncertainty and lack of planning hard to believe, and I’m also surprised he’s closing a restaurant that seems successful and thriving. I understand he doesn’t want to provide more details, so I don’t press further.
On the other hand, it seems that there was recently a very severe tax reform, which led to a significant increase in taxes and, consequently, menu prices, causing general dissatisfaction and some burnout among the chefs in the capital. This, combined with the small number of diners Ernst can accommodate and the difficulty in finding qualified staff in the city, are likely the reasons why Dylan decided to close Ernst. I think it will be a significant loss for Berlin, which apparently doesn’t have many restaurants with culinary interest, and this might not be the only closure. However, there are also rumors that he will open a wine bar next to Julius called “Ernst Cave,” where he will offer private dinners in the style of Ernst. So, honestly, I’m not sure what to think.
From home, I didn’t expect it to be quite like a Japanese restaurant. It’s like having gone to a kaiseki restaurant in Japan, fully conveying that atmosphere—much more Japanese than a Dos Palillos or a Koy Shunka, for example. However, it is Westernized: with Western ingredients and chefs, jazz music, a frenetic service pace without observing how each diner eats (I still had food in my mouth, and the chef was already in front of me with the next dish, forcing me to hurry), or with interaction and communication between chefs during service, while in a Japanese bar, they hardly speak to each other. In this sense, it feels somewhat artificial, forced, and misplaced. Combined with his hermetic, cold, and distant personality, like a young tormented boy, it lacks credibility and coherence rather than having an enigmatic air.
Whether it was the service pace, atmosphere, novelty, excitement, or whatever, it was a captivating and fascinating meal where I forgot about everything, becoming immersed and absorbed in Dylan’s cuisine from start to finish. In other words, despite the criticisms, I enjoyed the meal before, during, and after, as it was both a hedonistic and intellectual pleasure.
It seems he’s not aiming to create an original cuisine with a unique style but to replicate a Japanese philosophy and cooking style. I wish I could have known him earlier. I wonder what the menu was like in the early years and if there has been a stylistic, technical, and/or philosophical evolution.
