A few weeks ago- fine MONTHS ago, Seemon and I went to Vienna for the long weekend marked by Easter. Every time I mention this, I'm asked: why Vienna? And as with so many things in my life particularly, the answer is: why not? Neither of us have ever been, so we do not have associations of ex-partners or drunken student brawls. The slate was clean to build romantic memories (even if the memories built had far more to do with pork products than puckering up, to be discussed). I also know very little about Vienna, and I have found in my travels that I appreciate the unknown more than the expected. If I do not have a 'Ten Best', I savour the happen-stance so more than if I had an agenda. I did not walk Vienna's architecturally awing avenues awaiting cultural enlightenment, as I surely have the backstreets of Paris and the alleyways of India.
Although it has been a veritable stretch since our visit, I actually can still feel the pork fat flowing through my veins. Simone notes that if you cannot read German, and we cannot, if you whirl your fingers over a menu and come down at any given moment you surely will place your fingertip upon any given Germanic work for pig. I found that this analysis can be equally extended to beef and horseradish, and that no matter what I ordered, it was delicious, satiating, and previously unknown. And that I would not need to eat for ten or so hours, even if all thoughts went out the pastry shop window come 4pm. I'll never find such schnitzel (not so challenging), tafelspatz (level two: boiled beef with horseradish, hashbrowns, and vegetables), or Schonbrunn (pork knuckle that arrives in a crackling cone, level three) outside of Vienna, so even if not the most thrilling of cities (it is more charming), I will have to return. Just for a magic carpet ride on perfectly pounded pork.
After nearly missing our flight and having a few healthy domestic arguments as a result, Simone and I arrived at our minimalist boutique hotel, Levante Parliament. All cubes of black, grey, white, and red, (no, this isn't a 'frog in a blender' joke) the accommodations were comfortable if characterless and provided the perfect base for exploring the nearby Museumsquartier, Michaelerplatz, and surrounding national monuments and palaces. Not to forget the Stephensplatz, home of 'Steffi', the 445 ft spire of the St Stephen's Cathedral.
For our first night, I wanted a beer hall- the kind of place where men might wear suspenders, sing, and bang their steins on long wooden tables. I knew we were not in Germany, but I had the feeling such places existed- in part because I had done a little bit of research (shocking for the little dork that I am) and read a Mark Bittman review in the New York Times of a restaurant called Schweizerhaus. Bittman was my first celebrity chef- I actually met him at a special dinner in Philadelphia when I was in University– and he is the author of what was my first functional cookbook and the only gastronomic tome to have lived in all of my apartments, How to Cook Everything. Mark does not pitter-patter with his advice, and I knew he would send me somewhere 'real'. He did.
Bittman's take on the quintessential beer garden can be read here: http://travel.nytimes.com/2009/08/02/travel/02bites.html
Bittman describes Shwiezerhaus as nearly meeting his fantasies of a beer garden, with gravel underfoot, umbrellas over head, not too strong beer, and salty, fatty food. I agree, though my fantasy BG would swathe me in a balmy evening instead of late spring winds. Especially as inside was not an option: forget a fireside wooden table for two, brimming with rustic charm. The burly, flirty men I imagine to roam Austria and occasionally chop something down would have been our dining companions, as the crowded tables are also communal. Simone and I would would have neither been able to sit next to each other nor breathe, as our Austrian brothers like to puff tobacco between their bites of pork. Rather than risk a life as a cancer-ridden Austrian milk-maid, I decided we should sit outside.
Bittman neglected to mention the bizarre interior, nor did he address the Schweizerhaus location: in order to get to this Austrian Eden, one must traipse through a semi-abandoned amusement park for a good mile. In a few words, it was freaky as shit.
No matter how traumatic the journey, what we consumed made our struggles seem superfluous, at least in comparison to the cardiac arrest we may still soon face. Schweizerhaus is known for one thing: pork knuckle, or Hintere Schwinsstelze (I admit: those syllables do not easily commit themselves to memory, a good googling was required). Neither of us had ever had a pork knuckle, and the dish's connotations were, to me, similar to those of pig's feet: a cheap cut eaten for adventurous purposes only. Like the time I ate a pig snout in Madrid and did not need calcium for a year.
I was wrong, wrong, wrong.
This meat's possibilities are more similar to those of braised shank or ossobucco: perhaps traditionally 'cheap cuts', they are now fertile ground for a gourmet's musings and a grown-up price tag. The tender meat barely clung to the bone, but the juicy interior was surrounded by the trademark 'honeycomb' of crunchy pork cracklings. Braised AND crunchy? I dare a lamb shank to offer so many attributes. This was one of the most satisfying, original dishes I have ever eaten, though of course an Austrian would not find it original at all.
As you might garner from my description of the dish as fried but also stewed in its own fat, and from the image above, Hintere Schwinsstelze (yup, that was copied and pasted) is not for the feeble. Or maybe it is for the feeble, as in for people who need to consume 2,000 calories in one go, immediately and easily, before they expire.
To 'round out' the meal, I ordered yet more pork: schnitzel. I have had schnitzel before, and have had difficulty separating the German variety from its Italianate cousin, veal milanese. They both just taste of crunched-up and cardboard-like meat that needs sauce and salad, even when ordered at finer Medish restaurants. Or along the dirt paths of Khoh Phangan, Thailand, at the Full Moon Party- classy broad that I am. Wiener Shnitzel from its Wienish birthplace is a completely different animal from either the Italian or Thai versions, literally as it's made from pork not veal or horse (or whatever else roams the interior of Khoh Phangan), and also in terms of preparation. The Wieners make their meat float. Although our more slab than sliver of schnitzel resembles a sad-face, at least according to my mother, it resulted in anything-but. My schnitzel was a marvel, and worth loading another G of energy on top of my belly's existing pork-load. I am not sure such schnitzel is available beyond Vienna, and I think I will not try and find out, if only because I may have to wear a swimsuit some day (Please God no- may it be too chilly throughout my summer).
After a few delicious beers (I confess I cannot recall their names, only the joy they brought me- I need Seemon to start a beer blog to accompany mine), we ended up in a champagne bar to wait out a storm- how convenient. Our first taste of Vienna was promising.
The next day, after a smorgasbord in our hotel, we hopped a few blocks South to the Museumplatz, where I tortured Simon with a few hours of Egon Schiele and Gustave Klimt. I'll stop now with my cultural pedantry.
Afterwards, poor man had earned a beer in the sunshine, and we ambled along in search. Somehow, my foodar brought us to the Naschmarkt, Vienna's better version of Borough Market. I thought there was nothing better than Borough except for the heaven I would never see, but then Naschmarkt entered my life.
Along crowded sidewalks hover cafés of every breed- Japanese, Vietnamese, Austrian, Italian, Lebanese, Chinese. And I do mean hover, as each café seem on the brink of relocating its pop-up walls, dirty laminated menus, and oversized paper signs. Beyond their tenuous divisions, stalls brim with both fresh and prepared vegetables and meats. In the words of my beloved, 'Oh My' (insert Canadian lilt).
Although the Viennese Japanische Specialties were average, they were also plentiful, cheap, and not shimmering with the pork fat coursing through our veins. Sushi and sunshine? While not advisable, viscerally enjoyable.
Although I had just eaten and was on vacation so that I WOULD NOT have to cook, all I wanted to do was purchase goods from each stall and throw the best. dinner party. ever.
After our mouths had filled with too much saliva to be comfortable, I dragged Simone to the Belvedere Palace for grey gardens, more Klimt, and more Schiele.
After a need nap, YAY it's dinner time! In theme of our being cultured gluttons, I chose the Osterreicher restaurant in (im) the Contemporary Art Museum, MAK: http://www.oesterreicherimmak.at/
Simone and I must be glaringly less attractive than other Viennese tourists, because we were sat in our own booth/ ROOM in the restaurant's very back. Which was fine by us, because Simone decided to get in touch with his inner David LaChapelle and take a series of embarrassing photos, one of which is my current facebook profile picture.
Can't you just see how much he loves me in this photo?
Back to the restaurant. We opened with what I THOUGHT was spaghetti-os, but was actually the overtly artsy placemat.
The menu was divided into 'Modern' and 'Classical' Viennese cuisine. By 'Classical', I expected dishes like 'Roman Doormouse', but instead got goulash. And... Tafelspitz. And.... Zweiebelrostbrate. After mediocre starters (salad with seeds for the man, Vegan that he is, and a creamy beat-tower for me, nouveau-cuisine circa 1995 lover that I am), we dove into our first pools of Viennese cow.
Tafelspitz- yum! Even if it does look like a TV dinner. Apple horseradish was a nice way to jointly assert two flavors, bitter and sweet, quite necessary for an otherwise dull boil.
But I won. I rarely do, but if a cheeky Brit enquired 'Are you winning?' after munching on my minute- steak, I would have said YES. I. AM. See that's what Zweiebelrostbrat is- minute steak with fried onions, all swathed in a broth I wish I could swathe daily.
On the side, the best potatoes either of us have ever had. Definitely twice-cooked, the way the best potatoes always are. If I could be taught how to make these, I would refuse, because then mealtime would become potato-time and non-starch vegetables would be a thing of the past.
Our little booth was now a magical place, bringing us wine glass upon wine glass and many an opportunity for tom-foolery. We were young, drunk, and in love with the fun people we were on vacation.
To place a final nail in our meal's coffin, we ordered sacher torte, pronounced 'soccer torte' I think because Viennese children use the thing to play a version of soccer– at £30 a pop an expensive version at that. This is a mealy mother fucker not worth the calories. But clearly we ate most of it anyway, Simone putting in a good show because his mum is a baker and he had positive memories of similarly dry and apricotty flour/butter bombs.
Our drinketites had been whet, so off we went in search of more grüner veltliner, that Austrian white that should be famed but isn't. Wandering the main tourist area, we avoided traps and went straight for a cellar: the Meinl Wine Bar, a faux-rustic enclave beneath Meinl's gastro/vino complex. Here, you could purchase any of Meinl's hundreds of ready bottles, including chilled veltliners, and have them corked at your cozy nook for a nominal fee. So cork we did, while taking the opportunity to observe local dynamics. I only wish that Meinl would bring his vandals to Notting Hill and add us to his empire. 
After a few (bottles) too many, we particularly enjoyed the cellar's entryway, where the wine store's goods are on display and promise of treasures beneath.
Like I said, we'd really enjoyed ourselves, and added veltliner to our veins in addition to unctuous pig and cow.
I tire now of recounting Vienna, and will speed along descriptions. Also it's nearing dinner hour. Next day consisted of more museums, particularly of the 'terrible' and 'Contemporary' variety. Blame the all-inclusive Museumsquartier ticket. Speed. Speed.
Finally, rewarding self with booze time, because it's been THAT many hours since we'd had a drink. At least twelve at this point. Back to the Naschmarkt, then.
After hitting Simone over the head with one too many Klimts and one too many 'video art installation', I let him take over where we would go for the afternoon. And since we are well matched, he chose the wine hills (vs wine country) outside of Vienna, where little wine-makers can open up their cottages to guests sans liquor license because of a rather quaint law. Well I'm glad, because the Veltliner was in endless caraffes and consumed for pennies, in sunshine no less. Some Veltliner was much better than others, and we used the most offensive for the glamorous task of swishing antacid. Give me my sin again!
After a scenic tram-ride back into the city, we took a nap and then YAY time for dinner! Again. Since we had such a lovely Meinl wine bar experience, we decided to have a single splurge meal at the Meinl restaurant. Supposedly one of Austria's top five restaurants, we donned our finest, massaged our tummies, and took an elevator above the Meinl gourmet grocery store. I think I ate fancy goat's cheese salad, followed by fancy lamb with vanilla sauce, finished with fancy chocolate fondant. Although we gazed over Stephansplatz and hoary Stephansdom, the food could have been found at any European/Continental hotel dining room- just in front of a TV featuring Viennese sites. My experience recalled Jay Rayner's assertions in The Man Who Ate the World, wherein my ohso English goatee-d hero questions whether authentic taste even exists considering the globalization of Modern European/ Fusion cuisine. While not a bad meal, I cannot taste my lamb today, not like I can still taste my honeycombed pork knuckle. In addition to disappointment, Meinl am Graben (Yes, it's on the Graben) also served us a sweet reminder that great food and experiences don't always have the heftiest price tags, nor do they always require reservations.
http://www.meinlamgraben.at/Page.aspx?target=229088&
We walked home heavy and sober, ready to sleep until our final day of gustatory sin. And sin we would.
Next day, I forwent pretense: pull on pants, white sneakers, and an enormous bag announced my nationality before I opened my mouth. Last day of touring and we would make the most of it, dancing along the Danube, prancing through the parks, and choking on our last wieners (hot dogs, you pervert).
But you don't care! I don't care. Letuce get to the meat and potatoes of this blog: meat and potatoes. Ambling makes appetites, and on our last day I wanted a quintessentially Viennese experience– the centuries-old Palmenhaus, a restaurant in the Hoffburg Palace's greenhouse. http://www.palmenhaus.at/.
We took a seat outside, suffered from second-hand smoking, and ordered up blonde beer. Wieners, salad, and tortellini more than sufficed- for the moment, that is.
Waddling home, we stopped at yet ANOTHER museum- this one with a rather fine Van Eyck collection (Kunsthistorisches Musem- http://www.khm.at/). As we were used to diets of many million calories, just hours later my fried cheese and tortellini were no longer sustaining me. And Simone's little wiener just couldn't cope (do NOT misunderstand me here). And so, we committed our umpteenth sin of the vacation: a McDonald's in Vienna. I swore I would never tell a soul, but since no one reads this blog but my mother, truthful I will be. When travelling, snacks are hard to come by- and as it was Easter Sunday, all the 'good' sausage stands had closed their shutters. In a moment of desperation, almost through tears, I nibbled a fried chicken wrap and Simone scarfed some kind of quarter pounder that had somehow been deemed 'Royal'. There was nothing royal about it, and we did not speak for a near-hour after.
Dirty. I should have showered afterwards.
Another reason for our plummeting blood sugar was that our dinner plans (yes, of course we had dinner plans!) were for late that night. Simone had taken control, particularly tired of my food choices after the Meinl mishap. So he trip-advisored away and found that 'Moto' was meant to be fabulous. I choose 'fabulous' to describe this hidden den because it's also really gay. I am not being a bigot. You actually HAVE to be gay to work at Moto, which is why we wanted to go there. In my limited experience, gay people are nice, eat well, and have good taste. Although this is a massive stereotype, Moto totally reinforced it. The waiters were the nicest we had had, particularly in comparison to Meinl's servers. Maybe they just need more gay people there, not sure. The decor was hysterical: Ally Mcbealish babies were 'subtly' mounted to the wall, not sure why. And the drinks.... gay people really do drink well I guess, again in my limited experience and particularly with reference to Moto and its bartenders. We started with drinks at the bar, and our tab was seamlessly transferred to table.
The menu flitted oft far from Austria, which was fine given that we were on day 4 of our venture. We obviously didn't know this, as the entire thing was in German. I had my guidebook out and was over-utilizing its dictionary when our beautiful blonde waiter came to my rescue. Kind thing kneeled to our level, as if to wee ones, and spouted the entire menu (roughly) in our native tongue. We had met nothing but pleasantness in Austria, but our server-dude was Jesus-like with his caring.
Now that we could order and not just play roulette, Simone (apparently a secret woman) ordered chilli shrimp and a simple bass. Lauren, ever the glutton I mean gourmand (and perhaps with some kind of gender secret herself), selected prosciutto wrapped figs stuffed with blue cheese OH MY GOD followed by some heavily sauced steak, only ordered because the Jesus-like waiter stated it was a Viennese specialty. Perhaps so, but he had evidently never eaten such a thing given his physique.
We did not order desert because we were already obese. We did drink desert, however, and returned to the bar for 'omakase'; as in, we told the bartender to bring us what he would.
Although the food was far from a revelation, and the experience more New York than Old World, Moto was the most energetic and perhaps memorable of our evenings. I would give anything for these Germanic gays to set up shop in London, maybe nearby the Meinl wine bar as part of a 'little Vienna'.
