Meat, Cheese, Wine, the President: Just a Monday Morning in Vienna
Meat, Cheese, Wine, the President: Just a Monday Morning in Vienna
Breakfast in Vienna
I had just flown in from Kiev to Bratislava, in Slovakia, then took a bus to Vienna, another hour-and-a-half’s journey. My body was tired, but I was very hungry.
Crisp air clung to the streets as I approached Vienna’s Naschmarkt—a vast food market with over 100 stalls and several storied restaurants and bars. The scent of braised and smoked meats filled the air as my body, defeated from travel, yearned for a special meal.
The choices were overwhelming. Meats, vegetables, and cheeses were only the beginning; we also passed stands showcasing varieties of vinegar, oils, olives, and spices. To know where to even begin required some expertise. So, following in Anthony Bourdain’s Vienna footsteps, we entered a small butcher shop called Urbanek. The man asked us what we were looking for; we told him to surprise us.
The resulting spread was rich and perfectly paired: each slice of cheese, meat, and sip of wine served to us in the order they were meant to be sampled. Our morning snack—with plenty of Grüner Veltliner—stretched into lunch. The highlight of the meal, for me, was boar; it’s something I rarely eat, and its lean texture surprised me.
One of Urbanek’s regulars stood with us. He was well into his 50s, with warm eyes and a hardened but welcoming smile. He spoke to us in broken sentences, telling us about favorite beaches and cheeses, and why he didn’t care for Chris Christie, my home state’s governor. I have studied German for years and attempted to respond, but he insisted on practicing his English.
He was just about to tell us more about his time in America when another man touched his shoulder. He spoke into our friend’s ear and then the two of them motioned for us to lean forward. “The president of Austria,” the man said in a rough whisper, “is in the market.”
It was 11 a.m. on a Monday and the president of Austria was simply walking through the Naschmarkt? The man repeated this claim, and motioned his head towards a man, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with what seemed to be his wife. I was doubtful.
I tried to recall the Austrian president’s face. Rough images of the man sprang to my head from headlines. “Alexander Van der Bellen,” our new friend assured us. I stared at the man; others did too. Soon, small groups of people approached him gingerly, asking for photographs.
I thought about how, a few minutes earlier, this man was telling me his opinions about my own state’s governor.
“Do you like your president?” I asked.
He smirked and shrugged. “He’s OK.”