Hi! My Name's Ralph. I'll Be Your Guide Tonight.

Even though I live in London I consider myself a loyal American. I pay taxes, I vote, I start tapping my feet when I hear John Philip Sousa, and I still think baseball is a much better game than cricket with its completely unintelligible set of rules. And there is only one kind of ‘football’ -- one that doesn’t involve overpaid delinquents running around in shorts and flopping on the ground like beached seals when the opposition growls at them.

But there is one part of American life that can drive me to drink even warm English beer. I realize American business people think they invented the concept of upward marketing, constantly trying to get you to spend more than you wanted to, or perhaps should. In some cases like the department store Nordstrom this is done with skill and often a little humor. Once I dared to venture alone (my wife was back in London and my daughter was busy elsewhere) into the Nordstrom store in Seattle to buy a couple of shirts and some ties. Simple transaction, right? Not so simple. The attractive sales assistant didn’t say anything at my choice of ties. She didn’t have to. Her somewhat pitying expression said that perhaps, just perhaps, the chartreuse tie might not be the best combination for the blue checked shirt. About an hour later I walked out with better shirts, ties that actually matched the shirts, and a blazer that I had no idea I needed when I went into the store. Other than a sizeable dent in my credit card it was not an unpleasant experience.

But this approach fails utterly in restaurants. At many American restaurants you’re barely seated at your table when an eager waiter person with the glazed expression of a devout missionary steams across the floor in the direction of your table. Fresh from an inspiring pep talk from the manager (Get this mark’s bill up to $300 or your fired!) he launches into his spiel.

Frozen Customers Don't Cause Problems

“Hi, my name’s Ralph. I’ll be your guide tonight. I’m not really a waiter (no kidding), but I’m happy to help guide you through the menu, chef’s specials, our own very special wine selection.” This rapid fire monologue is delivered as he pours freezing water and ice into your glass despite the fact that the air conditioning is working overtime and the outside temperature is -20 centigrade. He hasn’t really noticed that you’re still bundled up in coat and scarf. American restaurant managers must believe you will eat more if you’re semi-congealed.

Various replies to Ralph’s introductory salvo come to mind, but after your wife delivers a quick kick to your shins and a clenched-teeth “Be Nice!” you limit your remarks to assuring Ralph that your reading skills aren’t all that bad and that the menu does not seem to have too many tricky words.

Oblivious to sarcasm Ralph plunges ahead and gives you the pedigree of each item on the menu. “The meat comes from George Jones’s special farm where the animals are given loving care and fed only the most wholesome grains. The lettuces come from Arthur’s farm garden and never, never come in contact with any chemicals.” He shudders a little at the thought of any chemical coming anywhere near Arthur’s lettuces.

You'll Just Love Our Special Tonight
But this is just a warm-up to his description of the chef’s special. He leans over confidentially and informs us that we are so lucky tonight to have the chance to experience the special – which just happens to be the most expensive item on offer – of a fusion (watch out for that word) of slow roasted bison with prairie grass, tacos, chili peppers, celeriac, etc. etc. By the time he’s through you’re not quite sure what’s getting fused, except perhaps your digestive system.

By this time you’re thinking that maybe a tuna fish sandwich on toast would not be bad at all, but Ralph hasn’t finished with you yet. He has to go through the wine list bottle by bottle only to point out that the $250 bottle from some vineyard you have never heard of would go perfectly with the bison and tacos. Even a glass of Coca Cola sounds good after this.

All this brought back fond memories of a lugubrious Viennese waiter called Gotwald. Gotwald comes from a family of waiters (his ancestors probably served Charlemagne his morning mash) and has spent his entire career in one of Vienna’s finest restaurants. Wearing his starched white jacket with a discreet badge of some medieval Viennese guild he greets you with the barest of nods no matter how many times you have been to this restaurant. He places the menu in front of you and would sooner run naked through the streets than interrupt your contemplation with mindless chatter. Questions are answered intelligently, and if the wine choice is not quite right he might offer the slightest grimace without ever – of course – suggesting that your knowledge of wines is painfully limited. He has perfected the art of profiling his customers and knows instinctively what price range of wine to suggest without a hint of condescension.

Meanwhile Ralph is beginning to wind down and is waiting eagerly with poised pencil to take our orders so he can return to his acting career. His interest in our table drops sharply when we limit our order to grilled sole and a simple veal chop accompanied by two glasses of the house red. He quickly overcomes his disappointment when the food comes and he inevitably waits until our mouths are full before asking if we are enjoying ourselves. The service is remarkably quick, however, because the sooner we leave the sooner another ‘mark’ will come in and be offered the unique opportunity to experience the chef’s special.

A City to Experience in December

There are cities best experienced in the warm spring and summer months, and there are cities that shine brightest when snow starts to fall. Paris and Rome are famous for their sidewalk cafes filled with people watching other people – most of whom are scantily clad wearing very expensive thin bits of leather on their feet. Very nice in May; very cold, wet and miserable in December. Parisians and Romans don't do puffy down parkas and sensible shoes. The trouble is you can not even warm up by going inside, where you are often greeted with the incredulous attitude ‘This is Paris. You want central heating too?’


Then there is Vienna. This old imperial city is pleasant in the summer but doesn’t really display all its finery until December. The Christmas markets, the concerts, the decorations down Karntner Strasse, and, perhaps most of all, the welcoming, warm coffee houses where you can fill the long hours between breakfast and lunch by indulging in rich coffee topped with thick cream and a few of the ever-so-delicate pastries. You are welcome to stay as long as you want, and most coffee houses provide newspapers to pass the time while you sample the Sachertorte or perhaps the Esterhazy Torte.

Unlike Londoners, the Viennese do not go wobbly in the knees at the first hint of snow. Streets and sidewalks are cleared faster than ladies can get their fur coats out. One of the best views of the ornate, imperial architecture decorating Vienna like an operatic stage set is from the inside of a warm tram as it rattles gently around the elegant Ring in a light snow fall.

But most of all, December in Vienna is a peak of the music season. Vienna is a city that takes music very seriously, indeed, and it’s best to book tickets at least two months in advance. One December we forgot which venue had our particular concert. When we asked at the main concert hall, the Muzikverein, the clerk put on a sympathetic smile and reminded us that there were concerts in 40 different locations that evening.

One wants to be very careful in Viennese Advent concerts where there is the possibility of audience participation. We were at such a concert looking forward to joining in a rousing rendition of Silent Night when the father of the family of four next to us pulled out a pitch pipe and made sure everyone was in tune and prepared to sing in harmony. Right. We decided it might be best if we just listened.

Vienna is one of the few cities we have visited where the churches are packed on Sunday morning. The ancient Gothic masterpieces may lack any heating, but this does not stop the well wrapped crowds from getting there at least half an hour early. While the Catholic liturgy undoubtedly draws a good many parishioners another attraction is the full orchestra and chorus and enormous organ performing any one of the great masses of Mozart, Bach, Haydn, Handel, Beethoven – just to name a few. These churches are wise enough to put the schedule of masses on their web sites.

It is easy to forget that not that long ago Vienna was the intellectual and musical capital of Europe. The musical legacy of Vienna speaks for itself, and a brief walk around the courtyard of the university filled with busts of famous scientists reminds us of the intellectual power of a city where Sigmund Freud attended concerts directed by Gustav Mahler. The 20th century was not kind to Vienna. The tottering Hapsburg Empire collapsed after World War I leaving Vienna with the architectural accoutrements of an empire and the political power of New Jersey. The rise of the Austrian Nazis revealed the darker underside of the society, and haunting walks through the Jewish district of the city bring home the horror of those atrocities. While there are some who would like to pretend those events never happened (Beethoven, of course was Austrian while Hitler was German), modern Vienna has become a vibrant melange of cultures that were once a grudging part of the political empire.

Even the Turks, who twice besieged the city, have become an integral part of the city in many different ways. Those people who miss the lazy lunches alongside the Bosphorus need go no further than the Kervanseray restaurant in the middle of the city to get the same quality seafood and service. After a few days of Central European meat and potatoes – however disguised – it’s nice to taste the fresh vegetables and green salad more common to the Mediterranean than the Danube.

Vienna might be a member in good standing of the European Union, but at least one part of the city is a very reluctant member of the 21st century. Enjoying good cigars is as much of the city’s life today as it was in Freud’s time. Bars that in the rest of Europe would ban smokers to frigid gardens offer a welcome haven to cigar smokers.

Somehow, in Vienna this fits. It is not California with its brash, thrusting modernity and cadres of self -righteous politically correct zealots roaming the streets stamping out any deviations like red meat and cigars. This is Vienna, a city that has seen it all, lived through it all and has found a way to combine the best of the past with the reality of the present.