Dusseldorf-born Ludger Szmania, who turned 18 the year ABBA won the Eurovision Song Contest, has long nursed a dream of opening a nightclub. But his disco ambitions weren't shared by his wife, Julie, a sensible Seattleite who doesn't brook brightly colored cocktails and throbbing bass lines.
Joshua Huston
Chef Szmania seasons and cooks a New York steak.
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SZMANIA'S STEAKHOUSE & BAR 3321 W. McGraw St., 284-7305, szmanias.com. Mon.-Sun., 5 p.m.-close.
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So Szmania called up his dream-in-waiting: a steakhouse, serving four cuts of beef and potatoes in six different guises (two of which entail bacon). Earlier this summer, he scrapped the bric-a-brac menu of continental bistro dishes that's circumscribed Szmania's cookery since the Magnolia restaurant opened in 1990, and drafted a bill of fare worthy of a red-meat temple. Buffed clean of its French and Italian flourishes, Szmania's is still very much a neighborhood restaurant—albeit one deserving of attention from carnivores who have to cross a bridge to eat there.
Szmania, a 20-year veteran of high-end hotel kitchens, might have created a superlative nightclub. But eaters whose culinary moods sometimes ordain a salad slathered with blue cheese dressing, a steak, and a baked potato should thank Julie for insisting her husband go with the steakhouse instead.
The template for the revised Szmania's comes from a different stencil set than the one used by a raft of nationally syndicated steakhouses. The restaurant isn't hung up on transfusing its guests with Mad Men–era glamour: There's no shame here in not putting a meal on an expense account, or skipping cigars after dinner. Szmania's homey dining room plays to a comfortably multigenerational crowd, which seems to drink more soda and milk than martinis and cabernet.
Hanging sconces wearing patterned Ikea lampshades, standard-issue salt and pepper shakers, and floral glass etchings help make Szmania's feel like a restaurant in a much smaller town. It's an impression deepened by the familiarity between staffers and guests. "I know 90 percent of the people who come in, which is a blessing," Szmania says.
And the steakhouse shift was concocted partly to keep those regular customers engaged, he adds. "It's important that we change, not just a little menu change, but that we change drastically, so it's exciting for customers to come in," he says. "Anything you do for 20 years, you deserve a change. You might as well go with gusto."
Szmania has strived to change his restaurant in a palpable way every few years, although he concedes the latest reworking is "rather large." He's tinkered with the menu, added a fireplace, built a bar, and created an open kitchen. While many restaurant owners who've managed to outlast a presidential administration cling to their successful formulas as tightly as an acrophobic grips the restraining bar on a roller coaster, Szmania is neither sentimental nor superstitious. He says his customers have stuck by him through every innovation.
"It's always a risk, but you have to know your clientele," he says. "I think it's important to focus on your neighborhood. I always say 'neighborhood, neighborhood, neighborhood,' but that's where our customers come from."
About the same time Szmania was wrestling with the enervated economy, he began hearing gripes about the difficulties of finding a decent steak anywhere near Magnolia. Taking the complaints as a cue, he spent months sourcing ingredients and devising a pricing structure in which every steak comes with a salad. The steakhouse concept premiered in June, and Szmania reports his longtime guests love it (although a few of them perk up when tuna with Thai curry sauce—a former menu fixture—turns up on the specials list).
"It's been a good changeover," he says.
Szmania didn't discard every established dish: He's always served a steak, and continues to offer two German dishes, presumably because diners who heard his accent would otherwise ask him why he didn't. If you select a German Classic, prepare to covet whatever is on your tablemate's plate, as neither entrée is as good as what one might expect from a restaurant bearing a name that starts with three consonants.
The saltine-hued pretzels are cheats, soaked in a baking-soda solution instead of the lye that gives Bavarian pretzels their characteristic caramelized crust and chew. The Teutonic sides are just fine: Braised red cabbage rumbles with a rustic, sweet flavor, and the mild spätzle is doughy and tender. But the jäger schnitzel is oddly acidic and dry, despite being doused in a mushroom-laden red-wine sauce.
The bratwurst isn't housemade—Szmania's purchases its sausages from Bavarian Meats, so all the kitchen has to do is grill them. But timing was apparently off the night I ordered the bratwurst platter, because the sausages were so desiccated I had to wave down our server for a side of mustard.
Service can be frustratingly inept at Szmania's. On one visit, a server disappeared for nearly 30 minutes after taking our orders; a cook in the open kitchen who spied our empty table and drained glasses finally took pity on us and trotted out a basket of bread. The fugitive server's antipathy for her work was matched only by her apparent dislike of flavor: Asked for recommendations, she suggested a filet mignon "without any fat" and a halibut that "doesn't taste like fish."
