Naschmarkt

A fictional travelogue; three minute read.

There’s a category of well-traveled travelers who outspokenly belong to a kind of cult of difficulty. They favor adventure travel to exotic, hard-to-reach, out-of-the-way places. They test their bodies. Endure the cold and wet. Suffer the pangs of hunger.

Not me.

I’m in Vienna to devour it. In the moment, I’m at Naschmarkt (“the nibbles market” founded in 1898). My stomach, spurred on by the cold night air, rumbles with famished anticipation.

The 130 food stalls and restaurants are a layered mélange, a food court of culinary cultures. From Viennese to Vietnamese, Indian to Italian, Greek to Israeli. Fresh fish, butchered meats, cheese wheels, Turkish flatbread, olive oil, candies and cakes, spices. I can buy a warm scarf, wooden spoons and the ever-present tea towel proclaiming I Love Vienna.

No sooner do I seat myself than a wiry woman in her late twenties, about my son’s age, wearing loose fitting khaki clothes arrayed with pockets, zippers and straps, asks if she might share my table. I nod in the affirmative, and in the manner of travelers the world over, soon we’re sharing the outlines of our lives.

“I’m Monica. They say that from here the Balkans start.” Whether she is reacting to the displays of food, the spicy smells or the passing crowd, I can’t tell.

“I guess you know that Austria was once the endpoint for German, Hungarian, Czech, Jewish, Italian and Slavic immigrants,” I add, supporting her quip. I don’t bother to mention the country needs new citizens just to stave off annual net population drops.

Across the street, on either side of a traditional Austrian coffee house, a Japanese sushi place and Turkish kebab stand have customers waiting in line. If ever a metaphor mattered, the Naschmarkt is a melting pot of customs and costumes, cultures and cuisines.

At a patio table across from us, a pair of well-groomed business suits—one Japanese, one with wavy Spanish hair—grip beer steins while staring past each other as if pondering their next counteroffer. Working on a plate of goulash, a Jamaican man with long, elaborate braids is reading. A pregnant woman, hemmed in by a double stroller, holding a baby and tending three fidgety children, has apparently taken it upon herself to reverse Austria’s declining birth rate.

“I was born in Kuwait. My mom worked at the American embassy. I work for Nike in the Oregon headquarters, but I’m on holiday. Next week I’m climbing Wildspitze in the Alps.”

After I reveal myself as a California high school teacher, she adds, “I’ve already scaled El Capitan in Yosemite five times, each time by a different route.”

Tossing modesty aside, I admit to visiting Yosemite Lodge—once.

From a hidden speaker, American musical imperialism has followed us. "Earth Angel" and then "Poor Little Fool" are playing. From guitar to sitar, at Naschmarkt the music, like the food, has no dominant, defining DJ.

We’re at the restaurant Erzherzogtum, my regular Naschmarkt hangout. The liver dumpling soup—the classic Austrian dish—is hot and hearty. The cow’s liver is mixed with breadcrumbs, onion, parsley, egg and fat, then poached in a clear beef broth. This is the Austrian soup culture I need before my late-night wintery walk home.

For a good bowl of soup, there are risks I'm willing to take.

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