The restaurant is styled in the tradition of an Alpine chalet and hasn't changed one bit (at least that I've noticed) since I was a kid. You walk in a side door off the parking lot and find yourself at the end of a long, dark hallway.
The walls to the right are decorated with pastoral murals of mountains, farms, and girls in traditional Slovenian dresses (I swear they're holding beer steins). To the left is what I like to call the "Polka Wall of Fame" on which photos of Cleveland-style polka kings (and queens) are displayed. There used to be a cigarette machine that was rumored to be Mob-owned as most of the cigarette machines in Cleveland's bars and restaurants, but I'm not sure if it's still there. A party room is to the right followed by a short hallway where the restrooms are located. I had to stop in the restroom to swoon for a moment, having been overcome by Slovenian sensory overload (yes, Julie and I were laughing hysterically as she took this photo).
Swooning aside, directly across the hallway from the restrooms is the restaurant, bar, and dance floor. You enter the dining room and are immediately greeted by Margo, the owner/manager, who has some sort of Eastern European accent (my brothers know her and could tell you where she is from). The bar is beyond Margo's little reception cubicle where you can usually find an assortment of older European-looking men, some of whom are just too darn cute (in a grandpa kind of way) for words. The bar takes up most of the wall that contains the only windows in the restaurant. I hate to admit it, but my kids have sat at the bar, albeit briefly. Don't ask. The dining room is pretty big and tables are set on the dance floor, except for weekends when there are live polka bands and you can spot many a senior cutting a rug. There is nothing remotely cool or hip about Sterle's decor, but it exudes such an old world ambiance that you don't really care.
The first group of dishes featured on the menu are veal dishes such as wienerschnitzel, Sterle schnitzel (the latter topped with mushrooms and sour cream), and Naravni Sterle (veal au jus with fresh mushrooms). It's followed by pork specialties (my personal favorite) such as roast pork and breaded pork chops. I've never made it past the breaded pork chops, so I can't tell you if any of the remaining menu items such as liver and onions, kidney stew, and klobase and zelje (sauerkraut) are any good.
Julie and I ordered the breaded pork chops with home fries and a Lasko to wash it down. She ordered the salad, which is just plain iceberg lettuce and shredded carrots and red cabbage with a simple Slovenian vinegar and oil dressing. If you're lucky, you might get a stray cherry tomato or two. As you can tell, I'm not overly impressed with their salad. I, on the other hand, ordered my son's favorite - homemade chicken broth and noodles.
My mom had a hard time finding something on the menu that she could eat and I hate to admit that I can't remember what she ended up ordering. My dad ordered the kidney stew, but I doubt it was as good his version that he cooked for us countless times while we were growing up. Our server was brisk and terribly efficient, reminiscent of a German prison guard. Julie and I, in a Slovenia-phile moment, plotted how we could sneak our empty Lasko beer bottles out of the restaurant. Julie kept a lookout for our eagle-eyed server while I nonchalantly slid both bottles into my purse.
Our food arrived not-so-surprisingly quickly after our soup and salad and did not disappoint.
We discussed our course of travel as I unabashedly gnawed on my pork chop bone. I think they're so good because Sterle's fries them in real lard instead of vegetable oil. We ordered apple strudel to go while I lamented the fact that we wouldn't be polka-dancing our meal off. My parents used to be world-class polka dancers before my dad's hip surgery and I used to be so proud watching them glide across the floor. My sisters and I always fought over dancing with him. Always the teacher, he was patient with us while we stomped on his feet (me especially). I don't know if there are any more father-daughter polkas in our future, but one can always hope.
I sighed, rose from my chair, nabbed my precious apple strudel, paid the bill, and took one last look around. I hoped that the next time I came to Sterle's it would be with Lance (who could in turn step on MY toes while I taught him to polka) and the kids. Sterle's has been around almost as long as I have. I hope that it will outlive me.
http://www.sterlescountryhouse.com/index.htm
Next stop, Dad's old stomping grounds.
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