Love can move mountains.
So proclaimed Canada’s grand shaman-songbird Celine Dion in 1992.
Unfortunate fact: she’s a filthy liar. Mountains are heavy.
But if you could, say, move one from the Germanic region to Somerville, extract a mountainside biergarten and heave the leftover landmass over your shoulder, well... that’d be incredible.
Ooh, which reminds us: Bronwyn, Union Square’s new fortress of pilsner-by-the-liter and foie gras knish, is opening this Wednesday.
Brought to you by the T.W. Food masterminds in homage to the owner’s German heritage, this is the kind of hefeweizen-fueled, Central European charmer you frequented while motorcycling through the Hohe Tauern mountains during your semester abroad. Slatted wooden tables, hand-stitched embroidery, vintage-y hutches. It’s all here for your Schwarzenegger-ian pleasure.
So when one of your freunds group-texts your crew, “I could really go for a liter of Würzburger pilsner,” you’ll charge through the medieval-y door, belly up to the salvaged-zinc bar and start conquering the German-tinged beer list. Along with some rare Austrian schnapps and their chewy, housemade bretzels.
And should that psychologist from Düsseldorf you’re seeing fancy a taste of home, you’ll sink into a pair of Gothic chairs from 19th-century Europe for hand-twisted Bavarian sausages and the aforementioned foie gras knish. Or just a side of riesling sauerkraut.
Sometimes home means pickled cabbage.
So proclaimed Canada’s grand shaman-songbird Celine Dion in 1992.
Unfortunate fact: she’s a filthy liar. Mountains are heavy.
But if you could, say, move one from the Germanic region to Somerville, extract a mountainside biergarten and heave the leftover landmass over your shoulder, well... that’d be incredible.
Ooh, which reminds us: Bronwyn, Union Square’s new fortress of pilsner-by-the-liter and foie gras knish, is opening this Wednesday.
Brought to you by the T.W. Food masterminds in homage to the owner’s German heritage, this is the kind of hefeweizen-fueled, Central European charmer you frequented while motorcycling through the Hohe Tauern mountains during your semester abroad. Slatted wooden tables, hand-stitched embroidery, vintage-y hutches. It’s all here for your Schwarzenegger-ian pleasure.
So when one of your freunds group-texts your crew, “I could really go for a liter of Würzburger pilsner,” you’ll charge through the medieval-y door, belly up to the salvaged-zinc bar and start conquering the German-tinged beer list. Along with some rare Austrian schnapps and their chewy, housemade bretzels.
And should that psychologist from Düsseldorf you’re seeing fancy a taste of home, you’ll sink into a pair of Gothic chairs from 19th-century Europe for hand-twisted Bavarian sausages and the aforementioned foie gras knish. Or just a side of riesling sauerkraut.
Sometimes home means pickled cabbage.
