Silberbauers, Jægersborggade 40, 2200 Copenhagen, Denmark
How I learned to stop worrying and love the bistro
When I took up bass at 11, I was insufferable. I wanted to play all the mental stuff like Jaco, Victor Wooten and Darrell ‘Delite’ Allamby. Obsessed with complexity, I fell into the cliché trap many do, of conflating technical wizardry with being ‘The Best’.
Invariably offering a conceding shrug at the mention of Jaco, the Old Boys who ran the guitar shops that I would frequently annoy and who had definitely seen my type before, maintained that it was ultimately ‘tone’ and ‘time feel’ that mattered most.
Unable to understand, I churlishly interpreted this as a coping mechanism to deal with the emerging talent of younger generations, among which I was certainly not. But tone isn’t just achieved through the tweaking of EQ—it’s cultivated in the fingertips—able to convey experience and expertise by themselves.
Years later, I’d make similar conflations, becoming obsessed with the molecular gastronomy of fine dining—its reputation and discourse identical to jazz. Both enjoy immunity from conventional criticism; what would be a ‘wrong’ note in any other genre was instead a deliberate move to ‘challenge’. Fine dining, like jazz, attracts a very specific kind of arsehole.
Initially, the resurgence in classic French cookery couldn’t make my eyes roll hard enough, but now I get it. I’m back in the guitar shop with the Old Boys. I’m the arsehole. Sure, for some Diners of a Certain Age, it’s a Lip Stick Effect-sponsored trip down memory lane but for many, it’s a pure, unfiltered appreciation of ‘tone’ and ‘time feel’.
Silberbauers Bistro is a love letter not just to these concepts, but to the life cycle of its mastery. Originally home to Manfreds under the eye of Noma alumni Christian Puglisi, it’s where, along with Relæ and Bæst, Mathias Silberbauer cut his teeth before moving to France and setting up Pure & V, which would go on to win a Michelin star. Returning to Copenhagen, Mathias opened Basque-inspired Contento alongside the bistro, before giving up the former to pour all his focus into the latter—with a twist.
Although demonstrably passionate about classic French cuisine, Silberbauers Bistro talks with an Italian affectation—similar to Juliet in Stroud back in the UK. Perhaps not surprising then, that we’re here under the recommendation of Juliet’s William Rees, who will almost definitely cringe at the fact I’ve mentioned him at all, humble as he is (unless you ask him why he’s called Dr. Cuisse).
Burgundy snails, packed with chilli-flecked garlic and parsley butter, appear to be what Charlize Theron would’ve taken a lighter to in the early 2000s. Saturated with thwacks of garlic, each leaves behind a deep, gathering smoulder and pools of clarified butter. Before even asking, a couple of thick slices of bread plonk down beside us with the knowing, twinkle-eyed smile of the quietly observant staff.
A fritto misto of gently mallowy octopus, spanking-fresh smelts with their stripes of freshly-tipped solder, prawns with heat-induced mottling and sage are all captured in a chrysalis of fine batter. Initially acting as an emollient to the fry-fresh heat, body temperature soon uncovers aioli bright with lemon and whirring with slaps of garlic.
A damp clack of pouting mussels is stuck with an algae of roughly chopped parsley, some so small that you deal with them as you would half-open pistachios. A clutch of larval cavatelli, tinged with rendered ‘nudja, lays to the side in what appears to be the kinds of serving suggestions brands pull to qualify for ‘healthy lifestyle’ portions. It’s the only resentful part of this whole experience.
As Ned Halley rightly advises, ‘If there’s a sausage on the menu, you order it’. He’s not my Dad and even I’ve taken it as universal, fatherly advice. Silberbauers’ Toulouse sausage blushes at the extremities before fading into a chestnut skin full of snap, revealing a glistening, lazy mosaic of fat, as if undertaken by a cack-handed mason.
A glowing silt of mash has a potato-to-butter ratio dutifully around the 50/50 mark and so properly worked together that the chicken jus, which could pass for a hot fudge sundae sauce at a glance, can barely seem to find a way in.
It’s a dish that illustrates the applied concept of ‘tone’ and ‘time feel’; technical prowess and mastery of fundamentals distilled in a way that appears disarmingly simple. It equalises the chasm between insufferable chin strokers and novices alike—all I can think about is Pino Palladino’s bassline in D’Angelo’s Back to the Future (Part I):
The bangers & mash of neo soul
Despite not having needed anything like it in nearly 20 years, the lemon tart reminds me, intrusively, of hair care products. The lemon curd, with air bubbles trapped in stasis, is a Lego-yellow wet-look gel, the texture of Brylcreem and as bright with puckering lemon as the colour suggests, all girdered by the sort of base that would make Paul Hollywood give up the location of at least one of the bodies.
There’s a poeticism in the name Silberbauers. Meaning ‘silver peasant’ it’s fitting of bistros as a whole, historically championing blue-collar fare, with which the middle class obsession labelled ‘peasantcore’. Initially, fritto misto was the lucky dip of whatever’s left in the net for the sailors that day. Snails, a primary protein source for Rome’s legions on campaign. The coarseness of Toulouse sausage, a fingerprint of its rustic heritage. The comparatively recent addition of a lemon tart still operates in a similar vein; of quality ingredients negating the need for doing too much, but all hinging on a skilled hand to make possible.
An interview with the late Jeff Buckley revealed how, although he could play all the Van Halen stuff, he had absolutely no inclination to, on the basis that he was a musician in the round; that solid songwriting is the art form. It’s in this capacity that Silberbauers bears a great resemblance—Mathias has the skillset but, like the Old Boys, has no sophmoric need to impress. Instead, he knows tone and time feel all come out in the final mix. Hallelujah.