Bernd Knöller
Chef and owner since 1993
Text by Vicente Agudo (Las Provincias)
His nine-year-old little girl always reminds him with a tease: “How is it possible that you have a horse named Rayo, a daughter you named Nora, and a restaurant called Riff if you can't pronounce the letter R?”. That's Bernd Knöller, a German who has never minded swimming against the current. In fact, he probably thrives on it. Always ready to enjoy a good meal but, above all, to get carried away by an endless conversation. Talking to him is to dive into the unexpected. Interviewing him is a mere pipe dream. It's not worth trying. You just have to let yourself go. He is a wise man, in every sense of the word, so all you can do is get comfortable in your chair, keep quiet, and listen to him attentively.
Behind a stature more typical of a basketball player hides a person happy with what he does. Ideas for his restaurant are constantly bubbling in his head, and he still finds time to enjoy his podcasts and ride his horse.
He was born in Höfen, a small village in the Black Forest, 63 years ago. And it happened on a day that, although he didn't know it at the time, already predestined him for Valencia: March 19th. As a child, there were few things he liked. He was a picky eater. “I tried pizza for the first time in my life at 13, thanks to a friend's invitation. I remember I only ate the crusts, because everything else seemed suspicious to me,” Bernd explains, laughing heartily. Now, there's nothing his palate rejects, although he admits that snails are a bit of a challenge for him.
His training began early. At 15, he was already at the Hotel Ochsen in his hometown, then at 18, he left for the Kensington Hilton International in London and later the Grosvenor in Chester with the firm intention of learning English, something that would serve him well for his real goal: to travel and work anywhere in the world. Like a nomad, he bounced from kitchen to kitchen until he arrived at the Maître restaurant in Berlin. There, chef Henry Levi instilled in him the value of creativity and haute cuisine.
But Bernd's head was saturated. “In Germany, we have a word, 'Fachidiot,' which translated into Spanish means something like 'professional idiot' [or 'one-track-mind specialist']. I didn't want to become someone who couldn't talk about anything other than cooking,” he explains. So, he put a pin in that part of his life. “I even worked caring for the sick in their homes for Caritas. I did that work in the mornings, so my nights were free, and I started doing theatre with friends. Later, I went to Italy and founded a theatre school, and that's where I met my ex-wife.” In the end, the experience away from the kitchen lasted three years, but cooking called to him again. With a backpack full of experiences and emotions, Bernd headed to Sylt, a small German island, to work for a few months at Nösse with Jörg Müller.
Bernd knew he wasn't going to put down roots in that idyllic area. In his mind, he wanted to continue discovering the world and expanding his culinary knowledge. His steps then led him to Spain, but as he didn't know where to land, he settled in Segovia, where his ex-wife's family had livestock. “I dedicated myself completely to milking cows and to the countryside,” explains this German, who claims to learn from all experiences, even the most traumatic ones.
The journey didn't end there. Like nomads, they arrived at Pedro Subijana's restaurant in San Sebastián. When the 'stage' (internship) ended, he knew his place was in Spain, but he still had to decide where. “San Sebastián was ruled out because it was expensive; we thought about Bilbao, but at that time it was a very dirty city; Seville had the Expo, and Barcelona had the Olympic Games, so we finally decided on Valencia.”
With the thousand marks his grandfather gave him for his birthday, he bought a dilapidated Mercedes, older than Bernd can remember, in which they barely managed to reach their destination. “We arrived at Malvarrosa at night, and the first thing I saw was a man telling me not to turn off the car lights; he took out a syringe and injected himself in front of us. Right there I thought: damn, I'm not staying here long.” Nothing could be further from the truth. Let's remember he was born on Saint Joseph's Day; he was predestined.
His ex-wife had already given birth to Yannick, his first son. Bills had to be paid and money was scarce, so the insistence of the owner of the Sorrento pizzeria had an effect, and he started working there, but with three conditions: “I told him that my family would eat with the workers, that he buy me a pasta machine, and that he remove the plastic flowers from the tables. They were something horrible.”
He already knew he wasn't going to move from Valencia, that his life was going to be linked to this city, so he decided to open his first restaurant, El Ángel Azul. It was 1993, and the first reviews already spoke very highly of a German developing a very particular cuisine. Eight years later, he decided to take another path and opened the doors of Riff, his current establishment. “The name means reef in German, and I chose it because I dreamt it during a trip to New York.” The Michelin star soon followed. “The truth is, I didn't work to get it. I want people to come here to enjoy themselves, starting with my employees, which is why I buy them sneakers and make them wear them so they are comfortable. I've never sought luxury. I don't want the customer to be intimidated when they see us, that's why we don't wear suits,” Bernd reflects.
Knöller's life has always been linked to the product. Specifically, to extracting its full potential to the point of imbuing it with personality—his great obsession. He cooks it in a thousand ways, explores every possible angle. Like with the oyster, which he went from serving raw to even drying in the oven and turning into a spice. “I've always gone through phases. Right now, I'm into charcoal grilling, but I had a period where I turned everything into powder. They called me to give a presentation in Alicante and wanted a title, so I called it 'Echando polvos' [Making powders]. They immediately told me it might be too risqué, so I changed it to 'Echando polvos en la cocina' [Making powders in the kitchen],” he explains as his jaw nearly unhinges with laughter and his eyes squint. He's not one for convention.
Bernd wants the customer to savor the product on the plate. He detests hiding it under a mountain of ingredients. But for that to happen, the meat, fish, or vegetables he uses need to achieve personality. He doesn't give up until he achieves it.
That's what happened with lamb. On one of his trips to France, he ended up at Alain Passard's three-star restaurant, where he tried a lamb chop that still lingers in his memory. And a lot of water has passed under the bridge since then. “During the return trip, I started thinking about how I could achieve that very personal flavor, so I came to the conclusion that I had to let the lambs grow much larger than usual.” But of course, these types of animals taste worse the bigger they get, so he decided to castrate them much earlier so that the hormones wouldn't spoil their flavor. “Here, it was unthinkable to do it that way, but with my friend Jaime, I've managed to get 27-kilo lambs with spectacular flavor,” he recounts, while asking a waiter to serve us a ham he makes with the meat of this animal.
The Great Conversationalist
“‘A crack is someone who knows how to do one thing very well; a puto crack is a master. But not only that, it’s someone who cares much more about their profession than about making money.’ In this expressive way, Bernd presents his podcast, accompanied by Paco Cremades. This German is a man of long after-meal conversations; he loves to talk, which is why he launched this project called 'El PutoCrack Club.' For over an hour, guests share their experiences. It's not a typical interview. You already know Knöller is more about chatting without looking at the clock. Chefs of the stature of Ricard Camarena, Manuel Alonso, Steve Anderson, or Begoña Rodrigo (whose interview lasted almost 6 hours) have been on the show. Also, sommeliers like Josep 'Pitu' Roca and countless guests who have nothing to do with cooking. He learns from everyone.
Now he lives like any other Valencian and visits the Central Market daily. It's his temple. The place that brings him serenity and where he has found many friends. Such is the case with barista Martina Requena, who has a small coffee stand. For Bernd, “it's the best you can find.” Therefore, his daily routine involves wandering through the stalls to place orders and then surrendering to Martina's coffee concoctions, which have turned this German chef into an addict of her brews.
Bernd Knöller has dabbled in the cuisine of various cultures, but he soon realized that wasn't his thing; what he really wanted was to bring the Mediterranean to the plate, “but not the one that goes from Castellón to Alicante,” he points out. And he doesn't deviate from that line one bit.