World Espresso Stop: Vienna
by Oliver Benjamin

In the 18th century, the Turks were said to describe other countries according to their particular vices. To them, France was the Land of Fashions, England was the Land of Bad Temper and Italy was the Land of Ostentation. One can hazard a guess at what they called Austria: The Land That Stole Our Goddamn Coffee.

For a century, the Ottoman Empire enjoyed a virtual coffee monopoly; they only sold the roasted seeds—beans too burnt to grow a lucrative tree. Wealthy, powerful and over-caffeinated as a result, the Turks marshaled their forces and tried to conquer Europe. In 1683, Kara Mustafa set his sights on its very heart: Vienna. He failed, and as the armies retreated, they were forced to abandon their enormous stockpile of green coffee beans, a key staple of the soldiers’ diet.

The monopoly was broken at last. Europe has enjoyed a free market of coffee ever since, and nowhere is this more evident than in the same city in which the great bean was emancipated. Vienna: City of Coffeehouses.

Aside from St. Stephen’s Cathedral and the Vienna Opera House, the greatest tourist attractions of Vienna are undoubtedly its coffeehouses. Nowhere is the city’s history more accessible, as many still make a point of cataloguing their former regulars: Freud at Café Landtmann, Mozart and Beethoven at Café Frauenhuber, Hertzl, Klimt and Trotsky at Café Central, and so on. Practically all of them claim they were patronized by the great Austrian Emperor Franz-Joseph at one time or another.

But out of all these historical hotspots, three in particular stand out—Café Demel, Café Central and Café Sacher—perhaps not so much for their actual historical value or quality of their coffee, but for their ability to market themselves to tourists and locals alike. They are the original antecedents of Starbucks—coffeehouses that recognized early that they weren’t just serving coffee, they were selling an association and an experience.

Café Demel: The Emperor’s Repose

I am on a tour of Vienna’s coffeehouses with my “uncle” Karl, an old family friend whose pride in the glory of old Austria is eclipsed only by his ability to laugh at the vanities of his own people. Karl is an upstanding member of society and seems to be known all over town. Everyone addresses him as Herr Doctor, a term of the highest respect. Yet Karl has no compunctions about putting his fingers in his ears and blowing raspberries in Café Demel’s posh upstairs sitting room. I find his high-pitched laugh infectious and disarming, but an old Austrian lady at the table beside us glares at him with snooty disdain.

If location, location, location are the three rules for a successful business, then it is no wonder Demel became one of the most famously associated coffeehouses in the city. Right across from the Hofburg, it was the café most visited by Emperor Franz Joseph himself (no matter what the others might say). Consequently, Demel has an atmosphere that is decidedly baroque, if not a bit stuffy. The Viennese have made living in the past into an art form, and nowhere is this more visible than Demel, where grandes-dames squire their poodles and waitresses look down hawkish noses at motley-dressed backpackers. Cramped little partitions ensure that encounters with hoi polloi are kept to a minimum.

But Demel has changed with the times as well, having cordoned off one section into a gift store selling expensive goodies for eager throngs of tourists. As one passes through to the back seating area, it is impossible not to notice the incredibly ornate novelty cakes on display in the kitchen, particularly the one made to look like a bust of U.N. Secretary-General Kofi Annan (a salute to the United Nations or simply a pun on coffee?). There is also Princess Grace, a baby Bacchus and a naked woman in a mask. It seems this is where Demel lets its Herr down a bit.

We order hauskaffee mit schlagobers, a pot of brewed coffee with a bowl of rich, unsweetened whipped cream beside it. This in turn is accompanied by three kinds of sugar and, of course, the ever-present glass of water that no respectable Viennese café would ever dare omit. As is his habit, Karl orders us a series of rich and delicious cakes and strudels. In the week I’ve been staying with him, no meal or even beverage has failed to come with dessert, and I’ve already put on at least five pounds of solid flab. I fail to understand how Karl can look so trim at seventy-four and eat like this.

“Sapalot!” he cries, and startles the old lady behind him into dropping her spoon. It is an old Viennese equivalent of an exclamation point—like the American “yeah!” Karl uses it constantly. In this case, he is commenting on the coffee, which is outstanding of course. I tell him that sapalot means “pineapple” in Thailand, where I live, and he laughs and screams, “Pineapple!” At that, the old lady has finally had enough and signals the waitress for the bill.

Karl grows suddenly serious. “You know, Oliver,” he draws me close as if in collusion, “at one time, Vienna had 1,300 coffeehouses. Today, there are less than half that.” He turns his palms up and frowns as if to say: The end of the world is nigh. When I ask why that is, he explains that Austria used to have the greatest empire in Europe, but after the Treaty of Versailles broke it apart in 1919, it became only a shadow of its former self. I ask him if that means a society is powerful in direct proportion to the amount of coffee it consumes. “How much coffee do they drink in Thailand?” he asks me. When I shrug, he grins and says, “Sapalot!”

As we leave Demel, Karl points to the large square that separates it from the Hofburg. When he was a child, he says, his father took him there to see musicians play for free. Karl had a great love of classical music (as all Austrians do) and once considered becoming a professional musician. But times were tough, and he chose medicine instead. When I ask him if he misses his music, he shakes his head no. “Music is everywhere in Vienna,” he says. “Music and coffee.”

Café Central: Schlag ‘n’ Roll

One coffeehouse that incorporates both music and coffee is Café Central, just a few blocks away from Demel. Unlike most other cafés, live music is performed in the evenings in the center of its baroque, high-ceilinged ballroom, a special flourish added by the richest man in Austria, Karl Wlaschek, who renovated the historic space in 2001, calling it “my personal present to the city of Vienna.” For those in search of a realistic slice of old-world charm, Café Central is certainly a rare gift.

Though arguably more elegant than Demel, the atmosphere here seems far more egalitarian. And it should be: This is the café where Trotsky, Lenin and Stalin all met to discuss the Russian revolution. This is where Theodore Hertzl conceived of Zionism. This is where Alfred Adler formulated his “Psychology of the Individual” and coined the term “inferiority complex.” Austria’s most infamous son, Adolph Hitler, came in once to sell his inept paintings and was quickly shown the door. No proto-fascists, please: This was the anti-Demel, an everyman’s café—provided those “everymen” were incredible geniuses scribbling manifestos in coffee-stained notebooks.

The interior design demands a certain camaraderie as well. The entire oversized area is bordered by an undulating, cushioned banquette, allowing most visitors a cozy view on the rest of the room. It is like an enormous Arthurian round table, only without the table. Unlike Demel, where the small rooms offered isolation, Café Central ensures everyone is aware of everyone else, but at the same time potentially alone with one’s thoughts. As art critic Viktor Polgar put it, the “Centralists” were people who “want to be alone but need company to do so.” Café Central thus caters to the benevolent misanthrope in all of us.

As Karl and I walk in, I can’t help but notice the full-size carved figure sitting hunched over by the doorway. It seems incongruous with the room’s gilded charm, like a garage-sale sculpture at the entrance to the Louvre. Karl informs me it’s a likeness of Peter Altenberg, the café’s most irregular of regulars. Altenberg was the original archetype of that obligatory coffeehouse fixture: the sponging bohemian writer. The mustachioed hanger-on spent so much time at Café Central that he even used it as his mailing address. With his effigy still guarding the prime seat by the door, it is as if he never left.

Karl and I order einspanners—shots of espresso with whipped cream in stemmed, handled glasses. Aside from glasses of water, they also come with delicious squares of nutty chocolate. Before I can object, Karl unwraps mine and plunks it into my coffee. He has also ordered a punchtorte, a type of enormous petit-four (a grande-four?) made with cake, rum and a lurid pink frosting. I try to refuse, but it is impossible to avoid Karl’s largesse.

“My dear Oliver, you must enjoy life!” he exults and laughs loudly. Unlike Demel, no one objects to his joyous cackle. The woman next to us even nods approvingly at his mini-manifesto. As I reach over to cut off a chunk of cake, I notice that my hand is trembling.

Tempest in a Coffeepot: Bucking the Trends

In the marketing wars, Café Central seems to have the edge over Demel. The place is bustling with picture-snapping tourists who purchase postcards and a book about the café’s history. The waiters are at once aloof and always at your service, and the décor is straight out of a historical drama, including enormous paintings of the Emperor and his wife, Elizabeth. It is the indoor equivalent of a horse-and-carriage ride, though this doesn’t deter the locals, who cherish their former glory with an obsession bordering on necrophilia. But it is an obsession that is easy to share: Café Central is a moment frozen in time, when the first caffeinated rush of revolution flowed through Europe’s veins, before that rush turned into a rage.

In 1943, under the Nazi occupation of Austria, Café Central ceased to exist. Fascist governments do not tolerate “hotbeds of sedition,” as British Parliament referred to its own country’s coffeehouses in the 1700s. The storied café remained cloistered for the next 43 years. After World War II, it seems, Vienna was no longer so proud of its grand history.

But today, Europe is no longer reluctant to celebrate itself, and the city has undergone a happy re-examination of its national character. This in mind, it is no wonder many Austrians have taken offense at the emergence of a new invasionary force on their doorstep, an open threat to not only their national identity and individual freedoms, but more importantly, to their most treasured cultural artifacts: their coffeehouses.

Seattle-based Starbucks unveiled its first outlet in Vienna in 2001, promising it would roll out a new store every month. However, the invasion has not gone as planned. Four years later, there are only nine outlets, two of them having already gone out of business. After one location failed at the beloved outdoor Naschmarkt, Die Presse slyly responded: “We don’t want to burst out in unrestrained coffeehouse chauvinism here, but a little satisfaction that not every standardized global chain can just take over the Naschmarkt is allowed.” It was a typical restrained Austrian way of saying, “And don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

But Starbucks is slowly making headway, mostly with the younger set, who don’t care so much about Old Austria. They’re dazzled by the iconoclastic aspect and unconventional flavors. And although American offerings have long been accepted in the city—McDonald’s is everywhere—Austria never fancied herself the Land of Cheeseburgers. The threat of this alien interloper evokes memories of the Turks charging Vienna’s city walls 400 years prior.

Karl’s fashionable, vivacious daughter Christina absolutely loves Starbucks. She has little attachment to the ossified historical ornaments of Austria. “I love all the new tastes!” she told me back at their house. And as she’s given up cigarettes, she appreciates the fact that smoking is prohibited—a policy virtually unheard of in Austria. Many predicted that alienating fully half of the population would spell its demise, yet this has never been a problem for any of its other outlets in tobacco-friendly Europe. Despite its small victories, though, most Viennese still seem to regard Starbucks the way they would a kid’s corner lemonade stand: tasty product, cute idea, but hardly a cause for concern. Yet.

Café Sacher: Let Them Eat Cake

Starbucks is not known for pulling its punches: They company constructed its first location directly across from the venerable Sacher Hotel, the only hotel in the world more famous for its cake than its accommodation. Naturally, it is to the Sacher, not Starbucks, that Karl and I are headed. There are three distinct cafés on the ground floor of the distinguished establishment, and we are going to the only one that matters: Café Sacher.

And all at once, I am out of my element. The Sacher positively oozes elegance, and I, at this moment do not.

“Sorry sir, one is not permitted in the Café Sacher with short pants,” the tuxedoed maitre d’ informs me. He is extremely polite, but the way he says “short pants,” I feel as if I might as well have turned up in a bikini. He suggests that we sit out on the “winter garden,” a fancy name for a terrace. Karl will have none of it. The winter garden is simply not the Sacher. For one thing, it’s full of ridiculous tourists in short pants.

Thankfully, the Sacher-Stube is just next door. It’s virtually the same room as the café, except for the small bar and the fact that it’s absolutely empty. It has the identical menu, staff and décor. The one thing it doesn’t have, of course, is history. The Stube was added in 1965 to handle the overflow from the café. Karl submits to our fate with a hearty “Sapalot!” and I am starting to wonder if this word has any specific meaning at all.

As my brain is abuzz from all the caffeine and sugar and my jiggling eyeballs can hardly read the menu, considerate Karl comes to the rescue. He orders us two kleine braune (espressos), and of course, the most famous cake in the world: Sacher torte. I don’t think my endocrine system can take any more abuse, but to refuse Sacher torte at the Sacher is like passing up pizza in New York City. I ready myself for the challenge.

One of the sublime things about Sacher torte, a fact I appreciated now more than ever, is that it’s really not that sweet. It’s a dense chocolate cake layered with apricot jam, covered in a firm semi-sweet chocolate glaze, served with unsweetened whipped cream. In fact, it was originally intended to be a more “masculine” sort of dessert, devoid of the syrupy frills that 19th-century Viennese ladyfolk were alleged to prefer. This is a man’s take on cake.

Or a boy’s, rather.

The story of the Sacher torte is legendary but mostly true, and it’s one that you can read on virtually every menu of every restaurant that serves it: In 1832, the omnipresent Emperor Franz Joseph wanted a cake made for a special occasion, but his personal chef fell ill at the last moment. It was then that the chef’s understudy, quick-thinking 16-year-old apprentice Franz Sacher, conceived the confection with what limited ingredients were available.

Shortly thereafter, Franz sold the recipe to Demel. But years later, when Franz’ son Eduard founded the Sacher hotel in 1876, he offered “the original Sacher torte,” and a drawn-out battle ensued. What was in a name? In the case of a simple chocolate cake, as it turns out, everything. And so it transpired that the eponymous Sacher was awarded the honor of indeed possessing the “original.”

To paraphrase Shakespeare: A cake by any other name would not taste as (semi-) sweet. Demel and others still proudly serve it, but they all must call it “Sachertorte.” No one is fooled. What a difference a space makes!

Sacher-Eck: The Empire Strikes Back

I stumble out of the Sacher-Stube utterly sated, my teeth grinding from all the caffeine. Karl senses that I’ve had all I can take and offers to take me home. “Time for an afternoon nap,” he suggests. A nap! Nicht! Nein! Out of the question. In this condition, I will not sleep for weeks.

Which is fine actually. I’ve suddenly got an urge to write a manifesto. Or perhaps compose a symphony, or a novel, or invent a new psychological theory. I think I am beginning to comprehend the origin of Austria’s enormous cultural accomplishments. Karl is right: It was the coffee all along.

Taking manic strides toward the car, I spy the third and final café in the Sacher Hotel, the “Sacher-Eck,” and stop short. It is an open-air café situated directly across the street from Starbucks. I grab Karl and jump in for a quick look. The place is packed with tourists, and everyone is talking loudly and gesticulating with tall glasses of iced coffee. Drink specials are written on little chalkboards. Cute little pastries are on display behind the glass counter. And suddenly it hits me. Incredible! This is Sacherbucks—Sacher’s hip response to the American interloper across the way. In fact, the Sacher-Eck was built not long after that first Starbucks opened. And the Sacher again seems to be winning its duel: There are far more people in the Eck than in the ’buck. Perhaps Starbucks has been beaten at its own game. And who better to do it than Vienna: The Original City of Coffeehouses? Take that, Turkey.

All seems to be fine, then, on the western front. The Turks are at bay, history is holding sway over the hip, and you can still enjoy an einspanner with old Peter Altenberg almost 90 years after his death. Austria is standing firm not only in the coffee wars but in maintaining its status as one of the few places in the world that isn’t trying to go nowhere fast. As one café in Vienna purportedly advertises: “We don’t have time for customers who are in a hurry.” Wake up and smell the history.

Thankfully, Karl introduces me that night to another of Austria’s celebrated liquors —Gumpoldskirchen wine—and I manage to fall asleep. The next morning, we plan to go shopping for new pants, not so I can get into the Sacher Café, but so I can get into my pants. There are still a few hundred coffeehouses left to visit, and as Karl puts it over breakfast, “You’re not in Vienna every day.”

To which I reply, my mouth full of goopy strudel, “Sa-pa-lot!”

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