There's something beautifully endearing about Vienna, and it's the cafés. It's probably been said a thousand times, and it'll be said ad infinitum; that's no bad thing.
Café culture in Vienna is about surrounding yourself in comforting stasis. Close your eyes and you can imagine sharing your table, through time, with a bohemian writer, beat poet or plotting intellectuals. Open your eyes and you're back to sharing the café with ladies who lunch, retirees who linger and tourists that dare not afford the lure of Café Sacher.
The blessing of the city is that the Viennese love their cafés so dearly, you scarcely see the scourge of chain coffee shops. It's something you'd think we could learn here in London.
You hear a lot about the capitol of coffee. My friend's waxed lyrical on the joys of sipping espressos and indulging in melange. While I enjoy my share of coffee, there came a point where I had to switch to tea. As well as being a Londoner, I'm Indian, and going a week without tea is something akin to dry waterboarding.
The best thing for me when it came to the cafés were the beautifully made pastries and treats. I was in awe at the quality of food on offer. Perhaps I've been jaded by the drudge served up at many cafés in London, which are so often shipped in from a faceless factory in an industrial estate close to Slough.
Just the word 'Slough' conjurers up images of sweatshop labour cookie cutting tart cases. It strikes at your very soul.
Each café has it's own speciality, and one that still brings saliva to the fore is Café Diglas with their epic apple strudel.
It's mixture of puréed and cubed apples, and a perfectly crisp top was perfect. It wasn't over-sweet, balancing the flavours well with an element of tartness from the apples. It was that good I had make one than one visit. It seemed rude not to.
I took a short walk to Café Sperl from the highly disappointing main market. I had read about the quaint charm of the place, with it's pool tables at the rear, and the angelic detailing on the ceiling.
Here I plumped for the plum tart. While not looking as sharp as other treats I had sampled, it was sharp to the point of delectable. It was interesting to keep the skin on, and while it added to the presentation, I could have done without it.
Unlike Sperl, Diglas was a haven of locals, still of the ladies/wrinklies kind, yet without the burden of touristas. Except for me of course, who was quite the outsider.
I had heard a lot about the general demeanour of the Viennese. They were said to be rude, short, abrupt and other words which were the opposite of friendly.
In London, those in the service industry are generally the polite ones, while Londoners scuttling across the streets are dour. That's the exact opposite in Vienna. I was taken aback the first dozen times a waiter shrugged me off or grunted at me. The only time their Austrian faces lit up was when I told them how much I enjoyed the food.
Almost everyone, even those not the slight bit interested in food, goes to Café Sacher. There's one reason you go, and it is the world famous Sachertorte.
Walking into Sacher, I was invited (told) to check in my rucksack and jacket. I guess North Face isn't the most typical of dress wear for the venerable coffee house.
Sitting down at their worst table, next to the waiter's station, being bashed constantly, I was surrounded by Japanese and American tourists. The Japanese posing for selfies, and the Americans talking about the surgical options to incontinence.
No sooner had I sat down than a waiter stormed towards me asking for my order. My answer that I had just sat down and wanted a minute or two only drew a scowl.
They must get this every day, the waiters. Tourists trundling in, gawping at the tea room and without thinking, ordering the Sachertorte. I can forgive his haste. He knew what I was going to order. I knew what I was going to order. We all knew what we were doing there.
It arrived. I was in awe. I wasn't sure what I was expecting, but whatever it was, this had exceeded it. I stared into the dark chocolate and became lost in its black hole of opulence.
It was precisely cut. It was delicately formed, and each bite was jaw-dropping. You often hear how food is 'out of this world' or 'a taste sensation', but this. This was. I took a moment between each bite. You never lost the bitter-sweetness of the chocolate flavours. It never became too much.
Sacher is cliché, it is a tourist trap and it is horribly twee, but the torte, it rises above those shackles. The mindless chattering Americans, and the ceaseless bashing of my chair by the waiters became bokeh on my image.
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