There were those sweet little chocolate chip muffins that came in the breadbasket.
Then there were the decadent platters of food that came steaming out of the kitchen.
But what I remember best about Haussner’s Restaurant was gazing up at the artwork that covered every inch of the walls.
We didn’t eat out much as a family when I was a child, but Haussner’s was one of the places we went multiple times. It was the Disney World of restaurants. You didn’t care how long the food took to arrive because you were so busy basking in your surroundings.
The paintings and sculptures were everywhere—vibrant and full of characters and history and stories. In my memory, the paintings were displayed in the fanciest of frames, carefully hung to make the most of the space.
Everything was in abundance at Haussner’s, and the menu seemed to go on forever. Then, once we had ordered, my parents would let us slip away from the table and go exploring elsewhere in the restaurant.
There was one room with life-size soldiers painted on the walls. And then there was the treat of all treats, the giant ball of string—as large as us, and maybe larger, when we were little. The string wound around and around and around the ball, which stood proudly and mysteriously in this incredible room.
Memories from the past can be magnified by the sense of wonder and smallness that you have as a little child. But I like to think that Haussner’s was every bit as marvelous and magical as it is in my memories.
I remember going only once an adult. That was 25 years ago this October when my mother called to tell me that the unbelievable was happening: Haussner’s Restaurant was closing. She invited me to come home to go out for one final dinner together.
I was working out of town as a newspaper reporter in Lebanon, Pennsylvania. I was grateful to be able to break away from my job for an evening to make the two-hour drive to Baltimore. I drove downtown, found a parking spot, and joined my parents and my sister Treasa, who had waited in a line that stretched down the street and around the building.
When I joined them, I sat and tried to soak it all in—one last time. I don’t remember what we ate that night, but I was grateful to make one last memory—though I missed being with my grandmother, who was always part of our Haussner’s meals.
Before we left to go home, my father treated me to a poster of “Ise Biggest,” which was always my favorite piece of artwork there—a painting of the little girl standing on a book next to a Saint Bernard. I have had that poster framed and in a series of homes for 25 years. It reminds me of Baltimore and takes me back to my childhood when going out to dinner—and at Haussner’s—was an extraordinary treat.
It’s hard to believe Haussner’s has been closed for 25 years.
I’ve seen many restaurants come and go in my life, and there are a few that stand out—whether for the food or the atmosphere or the memories we made there.
Haussner’s was certainly one of a kind, beloved and irreplaceable and maybe even a little quirky, like the giant ball of string. Like so much of Baltimore’s charming spots and experiences, it wound itself around our hearts and holds on even as the years pass.
Also see: Remembering a Baltimore culinary classic
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