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By the end of the 19th Century,
the city, then capital of the Austro-Hungarian
Empire, had become famous for its
coffeehouses, enormous establishments
with high vaulted ceilings, dark
wood paneling and comfortable banquettes.
Into these venerable cafes came
well-heeled citizens to dine and
savor the coffee.
In fin-de-siecle Vienna, the city's
most glorious epoch, every illuminary
had his own Stammcafe, a coffeehouse
where he hung out regularly. Sigmund
Freud, the founder of psychoanalysis,
was at home in the Cafe Landtmann;
the exiled Russian revolutionary
Leon Trotsky talked politics in
the Cafe Central. Many people passed
entire days in their Stammcafes,
even taking afternoon naps and receiving
mail there. But the primary occupation
of those in the coffeehouses was
newspaper reading. The newspapers,
attached to little wicker frames
that made them easy to hold, came
from all over Europe.
Long before I first arrived in
Vienna as a student in 1985, the
two world wars had reduced Austria's
empire to a smidgen of land in the
eastern Alps. But many of the great
coffeehouses of Vienna had survived,
and it was there that my friends
and I went to channel the charmed
anguish of those turn-of-the-century
artists and intellectuals.
We scribbled away in our journals,
held up ancient editions of Nietzsche
and Rainer Maria Rilke at prominent
angles and breathed in the doomed
air. Ah, the torn velvet upholstery!
Ah, the smoke wafting up toward
the dingy ceiling! Ah, the surly
tuxedoed waiters, adding up the
bill on narrow slips of paper, mumbling
the sums in a curious Viennese dialect.
Even then, however, the most irresistible
prospect of a visit to a coffeehouse
was that first intoxicating sip
of the strong, flavorful coffee,
which arrived in a snow-white teacup
on a silver platter with a small
glass of tap water.
To my distress, no matter which
brand of coffee, or machine or grinder
I tried, I could never achieve the
taste of Vienna's coffee in Chicago.
When I saw that Julius Meinl, the
premier coffee roaster in Austria,
had opened its first American coffeehouse
in the Lake View neighborhood of
Chicago, I wondered whether the
company could succeed in re-creating
the bohemian atmosphere of Vienna
just blocks away from Wrigley Field
at 3601 N. Southport Ave. Even more
important, could it make coffee
that tastes like it does there?
The day I visited Julius Meinl,
the 70-seat cafe was packed. At
the front, a line of customers waited
patiently to order from the counter,
which was loaded with pastries and
bread selections with names like
Salzstangerl, a salt-covered roll;
Topfengolatsche, a Danish with a
cream cheese-like filling, and Esterhazytorte,
a hazelnut flour cake layered with
praline butter cream.
The tables-for-two were filled
with smiling couples exchanging
forkfuls of Apfelstrudel and apricot
roulade. Near the door, a group
of four women and four 1-year-olds
had installed themselves in banquettes,
and one flapped his hands as he
got his first taste of real whipped
cream.
"What can I get for you?" a friendly
young waitress asked one pair.
It was all so very un-Viennese.
The clients were not angst-ridden,
the service much too obliging. There
wasn't even any smoke in the air.
"You're speaking to the wrong person,"
said Thomas Meinl, laughing a little.
"I am an avid, militant, intolerant
anti-smoker." He represents the
fourth Meinl generation in the family
business and flew in from Vienna
to help open the coffeehouse.
The furnishings, designed in Austria,
were right on. The tabletops were
white marble, the banquettes upholstered
in traditional gold, green and red
patterns and the ceiling hung with
the globe lights that are ubiquitous
in Viennese cafes. At the back,
a row of local, national and international
newspapers, including the racy Austrian
tabloid Neue Kronen Zeitung, hung
neatly on their wicker frames, just
like in Vienna.
Tom Meinl, Thomas Meinl's son,
and the fifth generation in the
family business, confirmed my suspicion
that the main obstacle to re-creating
the perfect cup of Viennese coffee
is Chicago's water. In Vienna, he
said, the water comes from the lower
Alps, where the chalk formation
of the mountains meets the sandy
soil of the eastern Austrian plains.
"This geological composition is
great for drinking water," said
the younger Meinl. The minerals,
he said, act as a catalyst to transfer
just the right amount of oils and
flavor from the coffee to the water.
What's more, it's unchlorinated.
Chicago's water, which comes from
Lake Michigan and is relatively
low in mineral content, is treated
with chlorine to kill bacteria.
To eliminate the chlorine taste,
the Meinls installed a water filter.
Christian Glueck, the handsome,
sandy-haired Austrian who trained
the American staff, said that not
just the quality of the water, but
its temperature, the fineness of
the grind and how tightly the coffee
is packed into the espresso maker
all have to be precisely in sync
to produce an excellent brew.
"There are so many things," said
Glueck. "It's like wine."
Glueck had the staff prepare a
melange, the classic Viennese coffee
with one shot of espresso, the same
amount of hot water and steamed
milk, and then he set it on one
of the high tables like a centerpiece.
"First, look at the foam on top,"
he commanded.
It did not, like some cheap froth
on hot chocolate, tower above the
cup, concealing the coffee underneath.
Neither had it dissolved into the
coffee. It clung just below the
rim of the cup, allowing a bit of
coffee to creep out along the sides,
yielding an abstract design in the
foam.
Glueck next took a tiny spoon,
inserted it along the inside of
the cup and pushed back the foam.
"You see it, you see it?" he asked
with the surety of a believer.
I bent my head in and stared into
the creamy brown mixture. It was
neither too watery, nor flecked
with grounds.
"Now taste."
I raised the cup to my lips and
let the foam and coffee run together
into my mouth. It was Vienna all
over again.
Copyright © 2003,
Chicago Tribune
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