Six Hundred And Thirty

For six hundred and thirty years the waiters of the Stadtbeisl have elegantly sailed the aisle ways of hungry diners, negotiating past hungry Hussars, angry Hungarians, hapless Hapsburgs, Germans Gypsies, irate Istrians and even drunken San Francisco jakies.

Years ago Steve O’Neill and I stumbled upon this shrine to Teutonic tastefulness while taking a Cognac fueled culture crusade thru central Europe. Even two local and friendly frauleins, who we met in an impromptu cultural exchange program in a Bavarian themed beer garden, brought us here when we asked them to take us to a typically Viennese restaurant. We laughed because we had been dining there for several days.

So prior to this trip I have been boring the Baroness with endless stories about this great Viennese temple to Teutonic cuisine. I prattled on about the Goulash soup, the apple strudel, and the Weiner Schnitzel that melts on your tongue, and she smiled wanly as she patted my head and asked if I would like to visit the old beer garden alone.

Last evening we traipsed to the Old town in the shadows of Saint Stephens to the scenic shores of the Stadtbeisl. But whoa ! Hold all tickets mein munchkins, the restaurant has disappeared. Six hundred and thirty years of dirty dishes and hungry Hussars and it is giving up the ghost on my watch ?

It was a sheepish husband who slipped his wife into a late night Hungarian café for a hurried dinner. Our Weiner Schnitzel was from veal that had passed away at some assisted living farm for geriatric veal. It did not melt on your tongue as much as dented your fork. Our race home thru the rain dampened my disappointment.