Normally, while travelling, where I eat dinner is a decision I take after much research. I’ll do anything for a good meal — walk long distances, change trains, hop onto trams and buses and even walk in shin-deep snow if need be.
On a cold, rainy night in Zurich, after two breakfasts, one hearty lunch, a dessert stop, my evening’s quota of hot chocolate and numerous large snack breaks (including a chunk of carrot cake at 8 pm), I find myself hungry again.
Fighting hunger pangs and fat splotches of rain make it hard to focus on what to eat and where. A temperature of 1 degree Celsius doesn’t help either. Phone in hand, I skim through my list of must-eat places. But for some reason, none of them seems exciting now. So I decide to walk around the Old Town of Zurich, dotted with restaurants and quaint bars, with travellers spilling out of many.
It is like flipping through the pages of a catalogue and not liking anything. After half an hour, I circle back to the point I had started from — outside my accommodation. Cranky, cold and in dire need of a drink, I look heavenward (a touch dramatic I know) and as if in answer, in front of me I see Zeughauskeller written in bronze-gold across a no-frills façade. This is a 15th-Century building that used to be an arsenal.
It is quiet on the outside, unlike the many places I’d walked past. I push open the heavy wooden door and feel like I have entered the wardrobe in The Chronicles of Narnia. For beyond the brown door lies a world that the outside is oblivious to — it is teeming with people drinking, banter, and laugher.
Built in 1487, with its oak panels, vintage lights and wooden flooring, the place makes me feel like I am at a Regency ball: any moment now, the crowd would get up, bow and begin waltzing. I stagger in a little uncertainly, and ask for a table for one. Luckily, there is just one empty. Looking around at the large groups of friends and families makes me miss my mates.
That thought lasts only a minute, as a waiter, smiling warmly, brings me the menu, a basket of bread and a neat serving of beetroot butter. Gorgeously pink and silky, the butter is the perfect accompaniment to my rather stiff pour of a local, fruity brandy. I order a möckli à la zeughauskeller (tender sautéed pieces of beef in curry-garlic sauce, oven-baked). As it arrives, a dear old lady and her grandnephew from the neighbouring table tell me it is a great choice — the family usually celebrates birthdays here and one of them invariably orders this dish. The portion is generous and I think of my best friend back home with whom I always share not just my secrets but also my meals. I Instagram a picture of my food and she’s the first to reply: “Missing me?”
By now the heady alcohol is working like a charm. I feel warm, fuzzy and sleepy. Wolfing down my dinner, I bid goodbye to my new friends and hurry back to my cosy bed, with happy dreams that can only be fuelled by a full tummy.