Bern’s Steakhouse

1208 S Howard Ave

Tampa, Florida 33606

United States

+1 (813) 251-2421

The Food:

Tuna sushi with salmon roe

French onion soupe au gratin

Stone crab claws with house salad

Chateaubriand with Béarnaise sauce, green beans and onion strings

The Wines:

The first rule of Bern’s is: “Don’t talk about Bern’s.”

I remember the furore after some innocent committed the cardinal sin of mentioning Bern’s Steakhouse on ye olde Parker forum. I mean, I get it. A wine list that makes the Mariana Trench look shallow is asking to be pillaged once word gets out. Like the black rhino, Blackberry phones and democracy, such wine lists are on the cusp of extinction. We want those precious bottles for me, me, ME!

It is an understandable but self-serving, hypocritical stance. You could stop right here and read Bern’s full wine list at your leisure—just give yourself a couple of hours and you should have finished the sparkling section.

For years I heard tales of bacchanals involving ancient clarets being martyred one by one simply because it was a Tuesday. Finally, the opportunity to visit arose on a trip to the Sunshine State after a guest appearance at a Commanderie de Bordeaux powwow in nearby Sarasota. Joined by my hip-swinging colleague and Tampa native, Billy “Guitar For Hire” Norris, I had three hours to see if Bern’s deserves its reputation.

The history of Bern’s is fascinating. The steakhouse was founded by Manhattan-born Bern Laxer, who settled in Tampa after running out of money en route to California with Gert, his better half. They inched their way into the restaurant business from opening an ice cream parlour in 1953 to eventually acquiring the “Beer Haven” bar with the help of investors. The original name was supposed to be “Bern and Gert,” however, short of dollars, they reused lettering from the old signage and added “Steak House,” since the phone company disallowed single-name listings. Soon after opening, the duo discovered that their real estate agent had not been granted the landlord’s permission to sell the property and, after threatening not to renew their lease, they placated the landlord by reverting to a restaurant. Over coming years, the couple bought adjoining shops until the restaurant reached its present size. After Bern and Gert died in 2002 and 2020, respectively, their son, David Laxer, took over the operation.

Chefs working in the kitchen.

Bern’s is not located in a salubrious part of town, then again, nor is the three-star Martin Berasagetui in San Sebastien. Arriving at 4pm on a Sunday afternoon, a queue stretched into the car-park, several parties hoping for a last-minute table. Surveying the diners, I saw a mixture of locals and families with children, many dressed smartly for the occasion, a couple of gentlemen clearly wearing a tie for the first time in years. For the record, ties and jackets are not required, though I recommend you dress sharper than you would for your average steakhouse. The clientele seemed to be those that appreciate good food but care little for haute cuisine or celebrity chefs. They are out for their special night, just like me.

The lobby is dark, with moody, soft red lighting, ornate lampshades and oil paintings that imbue the interior with the ambiance of a European maison noblesse with a touch of sixties brothel. It is busy and buzzy, neatly attired staff flitting around, performing their duties with the utmost efficiency. From the moment you enter these doors, the service is impeccable. The staff are not judging anyone based on what they plan to drink. As we are escorted to our table, I realise that Bern’s is certainly much larger than expected—I could get lost here. The décor is classic French in style, and we are seated in a windowless room with oak-panelled walls festooned with old black-and-white framed photographs of André Tchelitscheff and neat white tablecloths. I like the atmosphere. It might be Sunday afternoon, but many restaurants would kill for such a happening vibe.

The inviting and buzzy dining room.

You’re only going to be disappointed with the food if you are a certified food snob or have the misguided notion that fine wine requires fine cuisine. I could not disagree more. No, Bern’s is not Michelin-starred, nor are there pretensions towards such unnecessary accolades. It’s in the name, right? Steakhouse. Bern’s is not pretending to be anything otherwise. I would add that is definitely an upmarket steakhouse, better than the shoddy chains that fester in central London. Give me a straightforward menu when drinking wines that demand contemplation. I want the food to be delicious, but not technical or challenging. I don’t want flavours to impede my senses. I want dishes to provide a blank but delicious canvas. This is exactly what Bern’s does in exemplary fashion.

Tuna sushi with salmon roe.

We begin with a tuna sushi with salmon roe. Perfectly fine, even for someone who’s a stickler for Japanese food. We then move on to a French onion soupe au gratin. This is warming (not that one needs warming in Florida, even in January) and rich in flavour without being overpowering. I’m mindful of letting it cool down so my tongue doesn't sizzle before touching the Riesling.

French onion soupe au gratin.

The stone crab claws are finicky to disassemble, as always. Just my two cents/pence, but the effort put into cracking shells and getting your fingers all mucky is usually rewarded by a morsel of meat that begs the question: Was that worth the effort? That said, the crab meat is succulent and delicious.

Stone crab claws with house salad.

The main course is (quelle surprise) the steak. Bern’s offers steak in an array of taxonomies, a variety of shapes and forms. We plump for the Chateaubriand with Béarnaise sauce and jacket potato. The meat is lightly seasoned, tender and just wonderful. It does not need to be anything else, fulfilling its purpose with minimum of fuss. The fried onion strings are nicely seasoned and not too heavy, and the green beans are al dente.

Chateaubriand with Béarnaise sauce, green beans and onion strings.

We did not have time to visit Bern’s famous dessert room. An unforgivable sin, but it risked me missing my flight back to the UK and the important Southwold tasting. However, we did accept a brief guided tour of their cellar, a veritable Aladdin’s cave of bottles from floor to ceiling. I’m sure that I spotted the ark of the covenant at one point. I was impressed that despite the size of the Bern’s operation, it was clear how much care is taken in terms of storage—for example, they have a separate cold room just for their wines by the glass.

The storied wine cellar at Bern’s.

Given all the hoopla that preceded my visit, anything less than the best wine list I had ever set eyes upon would have disappointed.

It did not disappoint.

To put that into context, perhaps contentiously, I thought it far better than its nearest competitor, Tour d’Argent in Paris, which I had visited just three weeks earlier. Maybe the difference is range, insofar that whilst both cover classic regions, Bern’s has a stunning array of mature Californian bottles that its Parisian cousin ignores. Some bemoan that Bern’s list is not what it used to be, and given the inexorable consumption of older bottles, that is doubtlessly true. Yet it is still an incomparable treasure trove. In fact, the only downside is that wine lovers will require several days to peruse the list and fret about what to choose. Keep that in mind if you are on a romantic date with someone who does not want to listen to your two-hour monologue about the 1974 vintage in Napa.

With so much wine to choose from, I recommend you put together a group, throw in a wad of bills, then go make hay. As tonight was just Billy and myself, I felt the urge to be adventurous whilst still choosing something drinkable, since we were limited to just a white and a red.

How about a 1913 Domaine de Chevalier?

Never had a red Bordeaux from that forgotten vintage. However, the bottle could not be located.

OK. A 1931 Pichon-Lalande, another elusive vintage.

I appreciate that before opening anything, our sommelier returned to show us our suggestions. I can abide a low fill level. Some of my greatest experiences have been with low ullages, however, this 1931 augured disappointment. Right, we were running out of time, so we asked the sommelier to choose a Riesling of her liking, and I plumped for an esoteric vintage Pomerol.

Bacchus must've been smiling, because we hit two bullseyes. Kudos to our sommelier. The 1983 Riesling Ayler Kupp Kabinett from Weingut Adolf Rheinart Erban epitomises everything that is glorious about mature Riesling. Looking youthful for a 43-year-old white, the 1983 delivers a spellbinding bouquet of lanolin, Nashi pear and a splash of Japanese mirin. Just the precision, the shimmering vitality of this wine leaves you grinning from ear to ear. The palate is intense yet effortless and elegant, perfectly balanced with a slight viscosity. Showing fleeting hints of apricot and again, pear, there is a very slight candied note on the finish, though this Ayler Kupp could not be described as “petrolly.” Wonderful. Maybe I should miss that flight and order another?

I chose the 1980 Vieux Château Certan because it is one of the only vintages of VCC that had previously eluded my palate. Flicking through wine literature, it is almost impossible to find any professional reviews. This was an interesting juncture for the Pomerol stalwart. Alexandre Thienpont was in the salad days of his career, shacked up in a rundown farmhouse called Le Pin just a hop, skip and a jump away. Georges Thienpont, his father, ran VCC—his name adorns the label.

I recall a splendid 1980 Le Pin that defied all expectations. Could it be that some of that magic rubbed off on VCC?

Answer: yes.

The 1980 totally defies expectations. It unfurls with brambly red fruit, iron filings and an almost pastille-like purity, developing subtle floral scents with aeration. The palate is light on its feet, nimble thanks to the expected higher acidity than you would find in a warmer vintage like, say, 1982. Yet there is absolutely no sign of dilution or any underripeness. It glistens in the glass, a wine that just seems pleased to be appreciated. Chapeau, Georges Thienpont.

Billy chauffeurs me back to the airport. I am rueing not being able to experience the dessert room, though it gives me an excuse to return. Boarding my plane, I imagine the fabled warehouse on the opposite side of the block stacked with bottles and cases amassed over decades. What treasures does it hold? Even the Bern’s team doesn’t know, since they never kept records or receipts back in the day.

In the words of the Terminator: Bern’s, I’ll be back.

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