Pekelhaaring’s sausages and scroppino

Apparently pekelharing is the term used to describe the saltiest preserved herring Dutch money can buy. Given that extremely salty preserved herrings don’t sound all that appetising, Firma (or Fa) Pekelhaaring is not an obvious name to give to an Italian restaurant. I was hoping the website might enlighten me with some history (say – the fact that the building used to be a herring factory, or something logical like that) but no such explanation was forthcoming, and I am too lazy to do the research (sorry).

Anyway, odd name aside, the Pekelhaaring really is rather gezellig in a converted schoolhouse-type way: basic wooden tables and chairs, walls made of holey plasterboard that you want to stick black plastic letters in, naked bulbs on ceiling wires, and even a shelving unit full of games and books for kids. (Luckily, when we were there, no children were present, which is good because I dislike the ritual screaming and running around that seems to accompany them – and the acoustics in this place would’ve made the screaming unbearable.)

We ordered a bottle of Italian red that I’d never heard of, and some arancini and a salad to start. Well, I say ordered: it involved more giggling and blushing than actual speech. But who could blame us with a waiter that hot. I’m sorry – I always promise myself (and, more importantly, you) that I’m going to stop writing restaurant reviews that expound on the aesthetics of the staff. Surely this is not the point? But then again, there’s a reason you’re reading a blog and not – say – Iens, right? If you’ve made it this far (and I’m under no illusion here – I’m aware that the majority of users of this site simply look at the ratings and the contact details and no further) it’s probably because you want something more than a list of dishes, a price indication and a few qualitative adjectives. And if this is not the first review of mine you’ve read, you’ll know that ‘appropriate’ is not a word that generally applies. Suffice to say: lekker ding.

Anyway, moving on to the next lekker ding: our arancini. Little balls of saffron risotto, breaded, fried and served with a creamy chilli dip. What’s not to like? Our salad consisted of duck confit, chicory, pecan nuts and figs. Now, I know figs aren’t in season, so I half expected them to be dried. But I swear the table next to ours ordered the prosciutto and mozzarella with figs and theirs were fresh. I found myself wanting to put my hand up in the air, screw up my face and whine, “but it’s not fair!” (I didn’t.)

Next, we ordered the melanzane di parmigiana, which (in my opinion, and I realise that not everyone will share it) should involve aubergine layered up with tomato sauce and parmesan cheese, preferably in some kind of oven-able dish. In this case, the melanzane came halved, in boat shapes, and topped with the cheese. There was too much aubergine skin and not enough tomato and – well – for me, it just didn’t do what it said on the tin. Our other main course was porchetta with sausage and cavolo nero cabbage; the pork was too salty for me, but the sausage was fantastic.

Feeling fairly full by this stage, we opted for a scroppino for dessert. It was the perfect digestif. Dinner came to €42 each, which is not bad for two-and-a-half courses and more guy candy than you could shake a home-made sausage at.

Speaking of which, I was so enamoured with those sausages that I went back two days later to ask the kitchen where they buy them. They don’t. They make their own, and they fully understood the frustrations of an Englishwoman trying to find a good sausage in Holland. I am working on the chefs to persuade them to sell me some for spring Hidden Kitchen… (Incidentally, this is not a metaphor – I really am talking about the sausages. Gutted.)

This post was updated on 9 August 2017.