As the train rolled past villages nestled in the bosom of evergreen hills, I couldn’t shake off a feeling of excitement. Vienna! Broad, shaded avenues and storefronts with glistening, beveled glass windows. Cafes with gold-frame Beidermeier mirrors and layered chocolate cakes sitting daintily atop crystal stands.
Vienna was what Ljubljana aspired to, throughout the centuries that Slovenia fell under Austro-Hungarian rule. The chandelier-fringed Café Europa along Slovenska Cesta or the white Art Nouveau Grand Hotel Union bear traces of a long-ago era when this provincial city emulated the culture and aesthetic of the imperial seat.
Though Ljubljana today stands as a capital in its own right, a lively city of nearly three hundred thousand, I still turn my eyes dreamily towards Vienna. For me, Vienna holds that big city promise of grandeur and action. As the three-bogy train chugged through the base of the Alps, I could relate to a turn-of-the-century Slovene’s anxiousness to reach what must have been the center of his universe.
Morning in Vienna was a regal affair. I drew open the heavy curtains to watch the empty street slowly illuminate in the rosy rays of the day’s first light. The buildings on either side stood white and tidy, like wedding cakes awaiting pick-up atop a bakery counter.
My husband Uros and I walked down the street to Café Central, housed inside what looked like a lonely turret from a medieval castle. We seated ourselves in booth besides the window, where a small placard shared a brief biography of novelist and frequent customer Stefan Zweig. Nearby us stood a rack of local newspapers, each fastened to a rapier-like wooden rod. Despite the tourist-friendly menu written in multiple languages, Café Central draws in mostly locals, who stop by for coffee, Kaiser rolls and the headlines en route to work.
We opted for the Viennese Breakfast, the centerpiece of which was a soft-boiled egg, balanced atop a flared ceramic dish that mimicked a baroness’s ball gown. With the back of his spoon, Uros cracked the top of the shell, and carefully peeled off the fragments. Then he plunged his spoon into the center of the egg, shaking up the warm and yolky interior.
“And to drink?” asked the waiter.
“Mélange,” Uros ordered.
“I’ll have the same,” I repeated.
Though the name is exotically French, the mélange turned out to be an unexciting incarnation of a cappuccino. The brioche, yet another French intruder in my Viennese breakfast, was one of the best croissants I’ve ever eaten: flaky and buttery, without leaving an oily film along my palette.
With our bellies full, we marched towards Hofburg, the imperial city of the Hapsburgs that stands in the dead center of Vienna. We passed by the Imperial Stables, outside of which tourists had gathered to see two Lipizzaner horses cross the road. One of the first things that Uros taught me about Slovenia was that these pristine-white stallions of Austrian fame actually hail from the town of Lipica across the border.
We entered the Hofburg from Michaelerplatz, where fountains graced with Nereids and mermen battling sea-monsters flank the main gate. As we strolled past the Royal Green House (home to a delightful eatery, Palmenhaus, that we have yet to try), perched above the gardens like a jewel box atop a velvet cushion, and toured the Schatzkammer where ancient crowns reveal the inspiration for the shape of the Kaiser Roll, I felt as though I had gained access to a forbidden city. Empress Maria Theresa, clad in silks, ermine and lace, must have stepped lightly over where I now stood. A sturdy wrought iron gate, boasting the crest of the Hapsburg while protecting their gold-trimmed buildings and manicured lawns, reminded me of where I was. I was at the center of a once-formidable empire, and from this vantage point, I could watch the world outside.
I jostled Uros. “From the plains of Pannonia to the palace of Vienna. Your great-great-grandparents would be in awe.”
He laughed, and we left the glorious Hofburg for a common man’s lunch at the Schweizerhaus, a bustling beer-garden on the outskirts of the Prater Park. Just about every table had ordered the house-specialty: a grilled rear-knuckle of pork, sold by weight. Our waiter swiftly carved out the bone, leaving us to tackle the knuckle with mustard, freshly-grated horseradish and a bowl of cumin-studded coleslaw. And so our Frankish feast began. The meat was moist and tender, and the fatty, crispy pork skin melted in my mouth. The mustard, horseradish and coleslaw formed a trinity of sweet, sour and spicy to liven the meat.
“Save room for dinner!” Uros warned me.
We had made an early reservation at Vestibül, a brasserie in the Bergtheater. This was my chance to wear my faux-diamond necklace, and dine in amidst triumphal arches, marble columns, and flamboyant potted palms. Uros’ entrée selection of catfish cooked in a stock of carrot, parsnip, and Pannonian saffron, served with a bed of cress was equally memorable. The broth was mild, with all the flavors united harmoniously. I later learnt that Vestibül has a reputation for dishes that incorporate saffron.
Sunday morning was as glorious as Saturday morning; golden light filtered in between the buildings to admire its shimmering reflection in windows. Uros and I started the day at the classic Café Bräunerhof (Stalburggasse 2, First District), with eier im glas, two shelled soft-boiled eggs served in a drinking glass. We ordered Kaiser rolls, and the waiter, dressed in a black suit with a white shirt, brought us a basket filled with rolls and brioches. We would be charged by however much we ate, a system that certainly tempts self-control. The café stocks English-language newspapers, and I soon lost myself in the fine print, sipping on a mélange that had long grown cold.
It was a brisk morning in a city quelled by Sunday. The tourists made their usual rounds, while the locals buried themselves in café newspapers or headed off to church dressed in neatly ironed clothes. We stopped for another coffee at the Kleines Café, a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop with green wooden tables set up besides the fountain in Franziskanerplats. Just as I was about to lose faith in Julius Meinl and the Viennese coffee tradition, came an outstanding mélange. We drank slowly, watching the crowds pour out of the gray Franciscan church: boys chatting to girls who had kept their hair open, old couples with their arms interlocked chatting with young couples with their arms similarly interlocked, toddlers bundled in sweaters running about, with their mothers fretting that they may trip over the cobblestones.
When the crowd dispersed, we too left and made our way over to Österreicher in Mak, a contemporary restaurant housed in the Museum of Applied Arts. The menu is seasonal, serving classical Viennese dishes as well as modern twists on old favorites.
“Weinerschnitzel,” Uros said as he scanned the menu. “Can’t leave Vienna without trying that.”
I selected the breast of muscovy duck with honey-thyme cabbage and hazelnut dumplings. Uros enjoyed his weinerschnitzel, and since I do not eat beef, I poked at the tasty sides of cold potato salad, lamb’s cabbage and lingonberry jam. My slices of duck were moist and tender, though the cabbage and the drizzle were a bit salty. What intrigued me the most however, were the hazelnut dumplings, boiled and coated in butter, served with a few fried gooseberries. We skipped dessert, though the nuss schmarren, a mashed pancake mound that arrived on the table besides us, looked like a sweet and buttery heaven.
Back home within six hours, Vienna seemed like a dream, of nutty dumplings and sprawling fountains, of the stately buildings and saffron broths. As I walk through the center of Ljubljana, I at times crave Vienna, perhaps as much as much as these streets do.
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