Matters of Taste

ROCKY MOUNTAIN HIGH

OK. So they're the Dolomites, not the Rockies. But, as you can see, they are rocky....and hiking from hut to hut does produce a natural high!

We're heading from Vienna to the Süd Tirol today. It's the Sound-of-Music land in Northern Italy, just over the Brenner Pass. (It's called Alto Adige in Italian.)

Last year a similar adventure ranked among my favorite trips of the year. I won't have a computer or Internet access 'til next Saturday. Check back with me then for a re-cap of the adventure. 

What's In a Restaurant Name? A Few Laughs

Where’s Clark Wolf when you need him?

The renowned restaurant consultant, loved by food journalists for his juicy quotes, could make  a bundle telling Viennese restaurateurs what NOT to name their restaurants.

I mean, really, Stomach?? That’s the moniker on a popular spot in the 9^th district. It has an inviting garden and an interesting menu. But, in my book, the name’s a real turnoff.

Then there’s the charming eatery on the banks of the Danube where cyclists, walkers, bathers and the occasional roller-blader stop for lunch. It’s called Mosquito. (The sign in front, pictured here, boasts its fish specialties -- including fish cooked on a skewer -- and hot dogs.)

The grassy patio is out of a fairytale. The Liptauer Toast I ordered was creamy and aggressively seasoned. And the Himbeerkrachl (sparkling water with raspberry syrup) was refreshing. Nonetheless, I kept thinking bugs were biting me. (They were not…mosquitos are rare or non-existent in Vienna, at least in June.) If this were a bottom line-oriented American chain, I’d say maybe it’s their way of turning tables faster?

Also perched on the banks of the Danube: VIRUS. It’s a hip bar/café known for its live music and high-energy crowd. The Web site suggests that those who go to the bar become “infected.” Presumably in a good way.  According to the bar menu, all Happy Hour drinks get a “virus” added for free. 

Belly up to the bar, guys.

MA, WHERE’S THE MEATLOAF!

I hate to break it to you, Will, but the best meatloaf isn’t on the set of "Wedding Crashers," but here in Vienna at a plain-Jane neighborhood eatery called Rebhuhn.

 

Photogenic, it’s not. (But then, meatloaf rarely is.) But this wondrously moist mixture of beef and pork is seasoned with multiple fresh herbs (including intriguing marjoram) and offers lots of crispy bits on the well-charred crust.

 

What sets this meatloaf apart from a million others (including the darn good version I make myself) was the airiness of the meat. Partially because it was so fresh and partially because it was freshly and coarsely ground, the meat had great flavor and a lovely loose texture. The accompanying potatoes and carrots, roasted with butter until sweet and almost creamy, were equally impressive. Come to think of it, the price was pretty impressive, too: 8.90 Euro, about $10.

 

My photo, taken by fading daylight and the hanging street lights above (Rebhuhn doesn’t care about frivolities such as candles), doesn’t quite capture the all the goodness of this dish. But if you ever visit Vienna, you can see (and taste) for yourself.

Rebhuhn has been around for along time and looks it. (The minimalist Web site has a link to a (copied) restaurant review from 1908.) There’s a lovely patina on the old wood that envelops the cozy, simply appointed inside rooms. The dozen or so battered wooden tables and chairs on the sidewalk have been packed nightly during the recent heat wave. Rebhuhn's located on Berggasse (9th district), a stone's throw from the building where Freud lived and worked (now a museum). The restaurant sits catty-corner from the chic Café Porzellan on Porzellangasse (Porcelain Street)…creating a vivid example of how Vienna today successfully blends the traditional and the trendy.

 

"Meierei" Floats My Boat

MILK, of all things, headlines the menu at one of Vienna’s most acclaimed eateries.

Meierei, which translates loosely as “dairy,” is the more casual, milk-obsessed offspring of Steiereck, the glamorous Relais&Chateaux restaurant known for its cutting-edge Austrian cuisine and idyllic setting in the Stadtpark (City Park).

The two restaurants share a magical building that was part of the city’s dairy, way back when there were more sheep and cows here than tourists. Upstairs, and facing meadows and tree-shaded paths, is the elegant and expensive Steireck. Downstairs, Meierei hovers alongside the gravel promenade skirting the Wienfluss (Vienna river). The setting is sublime.

The monochromatic milky-white décor -- slatted tables, chairs, cushions, plates -- is made all the more dramatic by the shocking neon green-and-yellow hand-painted floor and bar. It’s a remarkably peaceful place. We went on Monday at 2 pm because the famed hot strudels come out of the oven each day at 1 pm (apple strudel) and 2 pm  (milchrahmstrudel/milk-cream strudel). We sat on the open terrace, serenaded by chirping birds and, across the river in the trees, a practicing flutist playing “Je veux vivre,” Juliet’s song from Gounod’s opera “Romeo and Juliet.”

Meierei’s menu and Web site boast: “We serve everything cool that is produced from milk.” The menu's first page lists whole milk, sour milk, butter milk, goat’s milk, soy, rice, chocolate…you get the picture. (Cocktails, beer and wine are also served and several tables were sipping champagne when we visited.) But, far more interesting are the flavored milks that seem to be the buzz among Meierei fans. I was dying to order the warm milk flavored with bittersweet chocolate, orange and ginger. But, since it was about 80 degrees in  the shade, I settled on a cool glass of lavender milk (all milks are whole and from local dairies). The also-rans included strawberry milk, banana, cardamom, red beet, vanilla and more. A glass costs about $3. The lavender milk was delicious. Wish I could say the same about the famed milk-cream strudel. It looked lovely enough on its elegant glass plate, but I found the pastry limp and skimpy, and the filling short on flavor and slightly rubbery.

Fortunately, at the opposite end of the Satisfaction Spectrum were the white asparagus that my husband ordered. Cooked perfectly, gently swabbed with butter and sprinkled with fresh herbs, including fragrant  bits of lavender flower, they were among the best I’ve ever tasted. (Readers of my blog know from past posts that I’ve eaten my weight in the slender stalks several times over.) The accompanying boiled potatoes also had extraordinary flavor. Meierei boasts that its impressive cheese tray (actually three enormous trays) contains 150 cheeses from 3 countries. The menu also includes an interesting risotto, a fish entrée or two and the ubiquitous Wienerschnitzel.

While I’m not racing back for the strudel, I do plan to visit Meierei again some evening to take advantage of the fairytale setting, along with a dinner of wine and cheese.

 

 

Typed with Greasy Fingers: The Story of "Sommer Butter"

No, that’s not a typo. This morning, the first of our two-week stay in Vienna, Austria, I went shopping to stock the kitchen at our Herminengasse roof-top apartment. Even though I’ve done the gig three years in a row (we rented the apartment for 10 days last year, 3 weeks the year before), I was still pretty flummoxed by the supermarket experience.

I could have read a couple chapters of War and Peace in the time it took to read the labels of the two dozen milks in the case. (I found no differences other than fat content, but clearly the consumers have their preferences.) Then came the butter parade. Austrian butter. Scandinavian butter. Yogurt butter. Sour Cream Butter. Half-fat Butter. Make-believe butter. And Sommer Butter.

Who knew?

Turns out that summer butter is, indeed, different from winter butter (except in places like Australia, New Zealand and California where the cows graze outdoors all year long). The one I tried, from Schärdinger, the country’s largest farmers’ dairy coop, was deliciously creamy, sweet smelling, with a subtle tang that lingered on the tongue. I schmeared some on a pumpkin seed-studded roll that I picked up at the neighborhood bakery after a morning walk along the Danube. The flavor was so satisfying that I needed just one small roll to crank me up for a day of sightseeing.

 

Since cows eat fresh grass and herbs (containing carotene and chlorophyll) in the summer, the butter has more color and increased nutrients. (In winter, cows eat dried hay.) Of course, the  commercial butters in the U.S. marketplace have carotene, coloring and other things added to produce a uniform product year round.

 

Maybe it’s just the fact that I’m sitting here, a stone’s throw from Sound-of-Music-land where cows with clunker bells around their necks wander the hillsides at will…maybe that’s why this butter tastes better. But maybe, just maybe, it’s because it’s pure butter, no additives, in season, locally produced, from free-wheeling cows. Something to think about every time we reach for one of the processed foods that are fueling the world's obesity epidemic. (This evocative photo is from a Web site, Animal Pictures For Kids that sells very cool wallpaper.)

 

A Toast to the Fine Art of Bartending

I loved the recent New York Times article about “The Bartender of Your Dreams.”  Writer Frank Bruni roped me in with his first sentence:

“My mother had eyes in the back of her head; Doug Quinn must have them in the palms of his hands. How else to explain the way he muddled mint for a mojito — and went on to make the rest of the cocktail — while glancing alternately at the door to see if anyone new was coming in, at the far end of the bar to see if anyone was telegraphing thirst, and at the guy in front of him, who was babbling anew about something or other? Not once did Mr. Quinn look down at the drink. It was like bartending in Braille.”

Bruni goes on to paint a picture of the venerable P. J. Clarke’s on New York’s East Side and to praise Quinn’s (pictured here in a NYT photo) considerable talents, quoting kudos from other esteemed New York City bartenders. Dale De Groff, who last year won the prestigious James Beard “Outstanding Wine and Spirit Award,” says he drops in on Quinn often, usually in the wee small hours, which is when many other bartenders from around town congregate at Clarke’s after their own shifts.  “You’re not going to get a yuzu gimlet from the guy,” Mr. DeGroff said. “Ain’t going to happen. But you’re going to get a damned good martini.”

At a time when everyone with a shaker and a bottle of Schweppes calls himself (or herself) a mixologist,  it’s impressive to read about the real deal,  a guy with “speed, stamina, dexterity, personality and an awe-inspiring memory.”

Quinn holds court at the original P. J. Clarke’s on the East Side, where seasoned bartenders have been asking “What’ll ya have?” for 126 years. (There are now sibling saloons downtown and on the Upper West Side.) My husband and I were among the fans soaking up the classic ambiance, along with not a few Bloody Marys, in the early ‘70s.

After reading Bruni’s article, I'm excited to re-visit what some call “the Vatican of saloons." I plan to put  a Doug Quinn performance at the top of my agenda the next time I’m in New York. In the meantime, I’m sloshing together a Tanqueray & Tonic on this sunny Memorial Day and giving thanks for the fabulous bartenders and bar scenes I’ve gotten to know over the years.

These are some of my favorites. I’d love to hear about yours.

 I was first introduced to David Nelson (left) over a captivating concoction called a  Kentucky Tuxedo, a heavenly marriage of Bulleit Bourbon, Sherry, homemade lavender syrup and homemade orange bitters. But the engaging bartender/mixologist of Spur Gastropub and Tavern Law in Seattle has charmed me in many other way since that first sip.

At Spur, David’s creative, but never contrived, cocktails share the stage with the fabulous food of chefs Brian McCracken and Dana Tough. But at Tavern Law, it's all David, all the time. Even though McCracken and Tough offer a tantalizing menu, the focus at Tavern Law is on Nelson’s unique,  delicious drinks. It’s a treat to soak up the warmth and quiet energy of the room and to watch Nelson deftly whip up both classics and original potions. He loves to share his knowledge and passion with customers. Pull up a bar stool and you, too, will find out that Becherovka is not a Slavic dance.

 

Matt Murphy’s Pub in Brookline, Mass. may not be quite as raucous as the pubs I found in Galway and Dublin, but it does have flashes of that joy and spirit along with equal reverence for perfectly poured Guinness and Stout. Oh, yeah. And the food is light years better than most fare on the Emerald Isle. Owner Siobhan Carew and the rest of her team behind the bar are consummate pros, both at serving drinks and draughts, and charming guests. The fish and chips, served on wads of newspaper atop the battered old wooden tables, are outtasite.  In a lifetime of Happy St. Patrick’s Days (we with the surname Clancy take the day very seriously), I experienced my happiest at Matt Murphy’s. (Close runners-up: Little Annie’s Eating House in Aspen, and The Tombs in Washington, D.C.)

If Butch Cassidy had galloped into Telluride, Colorado just two years later, he might have ended up drinking up a storm at the hospitable New Sheridan Bar instead of robbing the San Miguel Valley Bank and getting himself thrown in jail. Built during the San Juan Mountains Gold Rush in 1891 (Cassidy and his crew did the dirty deed in 1889), the New Sheridan Hotel retains the look and feel of the period, even though the habitués today are more likely to be mogul skiers than metal miners. In keeping with the town’s persona, the bartenders are a casual, laid back bunch; efficient, outgoing, and seemingly very happy to be part of the Telluride mystique.

I don’t know how versatile the bartenders at Butch McGuire's are. The only drink I ever order    at this beloved Chicago Bar is a Bloody Mary because it is so damn awesome. But I do know that the gents have tons of personality, a great sense of humor, and get the drinks out with lightning speed. This 50-some-year-old institution, renowned for its Sunday Brunch eggs benedict special (the plate has FOUR eggs awash in terrific Hollandaise),  is also cherished for such traditions as the vintage model railroad that chugs through the saloon at Christmas time.