Arlington Hotel: Venetian Dining Room, Hot Springs

Before I begin the restaurant review, here’s an overview of the place. We stayed at the Arlington Hotel on Saturday, April 25. It’s a large historic hotel built in 1924 on the site of two previous Arlington Hotels. It’s part of Hot Springs National Park; you can walk out your door and stroll down the historic “bathhouse row” or walk right into the wooded trails of Hot Springs Mountain.

The hotel is fun to stay at—the rooms are indeed small compared to most modern hotels, but the hotel is nice, well-maintained, and has all the modern amenities. Our biggest problem was with the door lock: The key, if you jiggled it just right, would eventually turn the deadbolt to and fro, but the door wouldn’t open anyway. The doorknob latch remained closed, and the doorknob wouldn’t turn. It about drove me crazy. We always managed to get into the room by pushing rapidly back and forth on the non-turning knob, but we never figured out how we managed to get it open. Very frustrating. They need to get new locks.

And at night we could hear the bed creaking rhythmically from the next room. The rooms are not very soundproofed. Oh well. It's an old building; what can they do about it? Not much.

We had dinner at the Venetian Dining Room, also known as “Window on the Park.” It’s on the hotel’s lobby level, has big high ceilings and large windows showing the park. Because the front desk people had said it was possible to eat outside at tables on the large veranda, we asked the maitre d’ if we could be seated outside, but he told us there was no service out there, although we could possibly get food to go and then not expect any waitstaff. (Hmm.)

So okay, we ate inside the dining room. The decor was elegant. The pianist was good, and her selections from the Great American Songbook added greatly to our enjoyment. There were plenty of waiters around, and I was glad that we’d be well cared for during our meal. (Note the foreshadowing.)

And the meal was wonderful. I had the braised baby back ribs with polenta and tobacco onions. I have to admit that the last was what made me order the plate—I’ve heard about a “new” trend among chefs to use tobacco as a seasoning ingredient for sauces, and I was thrilled to have a chance to try it. And yes, it was delicious; it didn’t taste like an ashtray at all. {{Note: Read the comments below! --JS 8/25/09}} And the cooked onions paired wonderfully with the rich flavor of the ribs. And the meat was tender and perfect. The polenta, of course, was just the right backdrop for all the savory, salty, smoky richness.

Sue and my dad both got the crab cakes and were very happy with it. The slaw it came with was really fresh, light, tasty, not heavily sauced.

The bread pudding we had for dessert was “kicked up” with cranberries and nuts (I think I remember they were pecans) and possibly some other goodies. I can’t remember, and I didn’t take notes. But yes, it was delicious, too.

So the ambience was excellent. The food was more than excellent.

But here’s the part where I complain bitterly: My water glass was never refilled. Nooo, I didn’t order another beverage. I really just wanted water. I can’t have alcohol, and I didn’t want to mess up my palate for the exquisite flavors I anticipated.

Sue and my dad both ordered glasses of wine, each of which was delivered to the table in a tiny, single-serving carafe that many people would be happy to use as a flower vase. The waiter poured the wine into the glass for them, and another waiter, later on, visited the table just to refill their wine glasses from the carafes—something Sue and Dad could have done perfectly easily themselves. But the waiters were trying to be impressive, I guess.

Meanwhile, I sucked on my ice cubes and rattled my glass as the waiters drifted past: Hint, hint.

I suppose I could have asked for more water, but then again, it’s the point of the thing.

I’ve been to all kinds of restaurants, some little more than greasy spoons, and dang it, they are usually happy to refill my water glass until I’m about to float away. And we were right next to the beverage station; the waiters’ water pitcher was in my sightline, just over my mom’s shoulder. (Agua . . . agua . . .)

So I was already a little ticked off at this small, but important detail, and then the waiter presented the bill to my dad, and it had two orders of . . . macaroni listed on it. Huh? My mom had gotten a salad. So my dad patiently waited for the waiter to return, explained the problem, and the waiter, who didn’t seem surprised that two orders of macaroni were on our bill, did at least agree to fix the bill. He asked if he could take my dad’s card then, or did my dad want to see the revised bill first. My dad chose the latter (well, yeah!), and I sensed that the waiter felt this was being too persnickety. But he eventually returned with a new bill, my dad inspected and paid it, and our evening went along nicely from there.

I don’t know what my dad tipped those guys, but I hope it wasn’t the full amount. In this kind of place, with these kinds of prices, you should receive at least the kind of attention you’d get at a greasy diner, where they get your bill right because they paid attention to what you ordered, or else quickly fix the error, snooty attitude be damned.

So yes, I can recommend the restaurant for the ambiance and the food. But check your bill carefully, and bring along a canteen of water.

And yes, this town is famous for its water.

(Oh, the irony.)

The Bavarian Inn, Eureka Springs

First I want to say how sick and wrong it is to drive clear down to Arkansas and then find excellent Czech-German food. Come on, y’all! This is the place to get yer fill of fried catfish, barbecued-anything, pulled pork, ribs, greens and grits and fried okra, beans an’ cornbread . . . and chicken. Northern Arkansas is the land of Tyson!

But then you come upon a place like the Bavarian Inn, and you think: “Maybe I should make an exception.” You think: “We can have catfish at lunch tomorrow. And we can have ’cue for dinner after that.” And those would be good ideas.

First, as usual, I have to disclose my bias: I’m a German American gal, and my grandmas are dead, so if I want the food of my people, either I’ve got to make it myself, or I have to find it at a restaurant. And for some reason—ridiculous, considering how many German Americans there are—German cuisine is crazy hard to find.

Well, unless you count America’s first choices in fast foods: Hamburgers and Frankfurters! Thank the Germans when you enjoy these foods!

Okay, I’m digressing. But it’s my blog, so there.

The Inn

As I mentioned previously, we were glad we didn’t stay at the famous Basin Park Hotel in downtown Eureka Springs, because there was a biker rally that weekend, and we do sleep better when Harleys aren’t roaring and rattling the windows.

I should mention that selecting lodging is often a harrowing experience for me, because I am rather picky. I like the idea of choosing locally owned, independent motels, but I have had bad experiences in the past; the so-called nonsmoking room that reeks; the soiled carpets; the doors with broken locks. . . . But trust me: The Bavarian Inn is a keeper. Put it in your address book; “favorite” it.

The Bavarian Inn (and its restaurant) are just about a mile from downtown Eureka Springs, west of town on Highway 62. It looks like a Swiss chalet on a little hill; you can’t miss it. The owners are immigrants from Czechoslovakia and have run it since the 1970s. I got the idea that the employees and owners are a tight-knit group.

Every experience at the hotel was pleasant. The lobby staff were friendly, knowledgeable, helpful, and enthusiastic about the town, the inn, and the restaurant. “Were you thinking of dining here tonight? If you were wanting the duck, let me know about when you’ll be arriving, and I’ll make sure they have it cooking for you, since it takes extra time.”

And the morning we left, we were encouraged to take extra (fresh made) blueberry coffee cake with us from the complimentary breakfast: “We weren’t full last night, so take all you want; we have more than enough.”

For what we got, the room rates were very reasonable: An enormous, clean room, comfortable king bed, nonsmoking, a gas fireplace, sofa, coffee table, jacuzzi, a nice private balcony overlooking peaceful pine trees and the rest of the forest, oak furniture, and truly soundproofed walls and doors—for just about a hundred dollars. It was great to wake up early, slide the door open onto the patio, and let clean air and the voices of fish crows, towhees, cardinals, and mockingbirds drift in.

The folks at the Bavarian Inn advertise their packages and ability to do special requests—champagne in the room, welcome baskets, in-room massages, horseback riding and canoeing packages, etc.—but we didn’t partake of any of these. I suspect they do take good care of their guests in these respects, too.

The Restaurant

Again, it seems strange to have German-Czech cuisine in the heart of hillbilly country, but don’t let that bother you. You can see the complete menu online at the lodge and restaurant’s Web site, here.

The rye bread served with every meal was lightly flavored and pleasantly crusty, definitely homemade. All the food was excellent. The soup of the day had sauerkraut in an orange, creamy base, with paprika, I think, and it was great. Actually, that and the rye bread would have satisfied me as a light meal right there.

I also want to mention that they had nonalcoholic beer available, and I am grateful for that.

But the entrées were worth waiting for. I had the duck, which was cooked perfectly, and yes, Dr. Johnson, I couldn’t resist eating some of the skin—it was really good. The “sweet and sour cabbage” was what I’d call “cooked red cabbage”; mild, not too sweet or too sour—who wouldn’t like this? (Why doesn’t it appear on more restaurant menus?) The Bohemian dumplings were the big, thick kind, sliced so that they looked like pieces of bread. It was all really yummy.

Sue got the “Chicken Anna Marie”—I think because my name is Julianna Marie, and Sue thought it was funny—the owners of the Bavarian Inn named it after two of their grandmothers, or their mothers (I can’t remember). The chicken breast was topped with a creamy sauce with mushroom, smoky bacon, and onion and was accompanied with red cabbage and those pretty potato dumplings—which were wonderful dipped in the sauce.

By the way, our waiter was right-on. She was a little late getting to us at first, but the host who seated us warned us that she’d be a little delayed beginning our service—about five minutes. Since we had been advised of this when we were seated, we didn’t mind the wait at all. And once she began serving us, she was attentive and helpful.

I overheard a couple at a table next to us, clearly on vacation and visiting Eureka Springs and this restaurant for a second time, tell our waiter they were so glad to have had her again this visit, too. You know, that’s something when you remember your waiter after perhaps months or even years.

The ambiance and decor: Darkish but with an open feel, chalet-style; quiet, decorated with a lot of German stuff. Lots of wood. Comfortable and rather informal, but still a place for you and your children to sit upright and display good manners. Comfortable like being at grandma’s house, but still a wine-list-and-cloth-napkins kind of place.

My mom got the “Bavarian plate,” which was a sampler with bratwurst, sliced smoked pork, potato pancakes, and a side of sauerkraut. She let me try samples, and it was all good. The sauerkraut was mild and tasty; it had definitely been cooked with broth or onions or white wine or something. In other words, they took the time to doctor it up so it tasted terrific.

My dad got the sauerbraten—which the menu says is actually a Czech version of the dish, called Svickova. He must have enjoyed it okay, because he made it disappear and I didn’t get any! He did comment that it lacked the intensity of flavor that my sauerbraten has: “Maybe they didn’t marinate it long enough.” Well, or maybe they don’t like it as strong as I do! Anyway, he might have been saying that to flatter me and encourage me to make sauerbraten more often.

We had apple strudel for dessert, served warm, and it was perfect—the layers of pastry were crisp and thin as paper on the outside, and inside were substantial enough against the filling to maintain the shape. The filling was just sweet enough, and the apple flavor shined through. Powdered sugar garnished the top; and you can get it with a scoop of ice cream. Yes.

In summary, the thumbs are all up in our party of four; we’d love to return again: The Bavarian Inn Hotel—check. The Bavarian Inn Restaurant—check.

(. . . Or should I say, “Czech.” Ha ha ha.)

Yeah . . . you can go get barbecue some other night.