RESTAURANT REVIEW : Europa, a Place for Those Who Want the World

As far as my Uncle Jack is concerned, the only dinners worth ordering come with soup or salad, preferably both; and meals with real integrity, a vanishing breed, also come with dessert. One selection, one price, a full meal, no surprises--what’s wrong with that, he wants to know?

Appetizers, of course, are anathema to Uncle Jack, although I once witnessed a crab cake pass through his firmly set jaw. The last time he was in town, I took him out to dinner to one of my favorite restaurants in Beverly Hills, and he sat there stoically unemployed before our meat dishes came, while I ate first a salad and then a pasta.

Uncle Jack orders an entree for dinner; if it doesn’t come with starters or side dishes, then the restaurant is not a good restaurant, and this is true no matter who is picking up the tab.

I heard about Europa restaurant in Sherman Oaks just about the time I got wind of the fact that Uncle Jack would be passing through, and this proved to be a tidy, if not remarkable, bit of synchronicity. Europa, I heard, had low prices, great food, and lots of it. I slipped in on my own one night to check it out.

A small corner restaurant, Europa has been serving dinner for six years to a loyal following. It’s a modest establishment with comfortable booths, travel pictures on the walls and lots of potted philodendron. When I called to make a reservation, I was told directly that there is no smoking in the restaurant, “although we do have beer and wine for your dining pleasure.” Lest anybody think otherwise, I assure you, the restaurant staff is adamant about the no-smoking policy: On the doors to both restrooms are hot pink signs that say, “Don’t even think about smoking in here.”

I felt completely comfortable dining alone at Europa. Lee, the owner, a blonde woman in a long white eyelet apron, and Greg, the young waiter, both kept watch over me. My food came out promptly: salad, hot pumpernickel bread, a respectable osso buco on pasta with fresh vegetables, and Aunt Mabel’s sour-cream cake with hot raspberry sauce (OK, OK, dessert was extra, but this light lemony cake with a cinnamon swirl in it was more than worth it). I was in and out in an hour, and had enough dinner left for lunch the next day.

“OK, Uncle Jack,” I told him when he got into town. “I’ve got a place for you.”

We met my dad and his date, and the four of us settled down happily in a booth and tried to decide what to eat, which is easier said than done at Europa. A laminated printed menu is augmented by a long printed list of specials, and then the waiter mentions an additional three or four or five more specials not listed anywhere. Almost every dinner is under $10.

“Does anybody want an appetizer?” I asked.

“Why, won’t they give us enough to eat for dinner?” Uncle Jack said.

We didn’t order any appetizers.

Uncle Jack calmed down when his soup arrived. It was cream of mushroom, rich, garlicky and heady with the flavor of mushrooms. Eating our orders of chopped-up lettuce salads and a few rotelle noodles with institutional-tasting dressings, we looked on jealously and consoled ourselves with the hot, chewy pumpernickel bread.

I don’t remember much conversation once our entrees arrived. There was some discussion about the round slices of roast pork loin stuffed with round cross-sections of Hungarian sausage--how did they get the sausage in there so perfectly? Unfortunately, the evidence was gobbled up before we solved the mystery.

Mostly, we worked on eating--no small task. The portions are enormous, the food quite rich. My chicken with artichokes came in a white wine and mushroom sauce, wonderful chewy s paetzle . Fresh broccoli and squash and shredded carrots, sauteed in butter and garlic, accompanied all our dinners. My dad’s date had the seafood ravioli in a rich, fragrant lobster sauce with green peppercorns, and Uncle Jack had the chicken paprikash, which we all liked best for its intense, rich, evocative paprika flavor. Essentially, this was Continental food at its best. I felt terribly full long before any portion of my dinner plate was uncovered.

“I like this place,” said Uncle Jack. “These people are making an honest living.”

We split a very average piece of cheesecake with canned strawberry topping, and an unremarkable creme caramel. I tried to talk them into ordering Aunt Mabel’s sour-cream cake, just so they could see how wonderful dessert at Europa can be, but Uncle Jack said something to the effect that he probably wouldn’t really want to eat anything more until he got to Tokyo in about three days.

When the bill came and I put my credit card out, the waiter explained that the prices listed on the menu were cash prices, and that a 3% surcharge is added for credit-card purchases.

This temporarily riled Uncle Jack. “What is this, a gas station? I knew they’d get you some way,” he said to me. “Put that card away, I’ll pay cash.”

I held him at bay and explained that credit card companies take a certain percentage from the retailer. I made him look at the amended bill: four meals, a fair tip, and the surcharge came to exactly $60. “And you even had a glass of wine,” I told him.

He looked at the bill, then at me, shamefaced. “You’re right, you’re right,” he said.

I was too irritated to be so easily mollified. “I swear, I’m never taking you to another restaurant,” I said.

“I hope not,” said Uncle Jack. “Because, seriously, I’m not kidding, this is my kind of place.”