1950s Archive

Viennese Memoir

Part VI—Early-Fork-Piece

Originally Published May 1958

In most places, from the moment an infant is born, there is always someone struggling to wean him into a three-meal-a-day pattern as quickly as possible. Mothers and infant nurses heave a great sigh of relief when the midnight feeding can be discontinued. Governesses and school teachers are delighted nine years later, when the child has outgrown his need for midmorning milk and crackers. The child's wishes in these matters are seldom considered—he must usually wait about eighteen years before he can have a gay little supper at midnight, a coffee break at eleven, or a substantial tea at four, without feeling guilty about it.

In Vienna, where they live quite simply on six meals a day, and no one ever eats between meals, all things are different. The infants midnight feeding bottle changes painlessly into a bottle of ice-cold Sekt, and the child's midmorning milk and crackers drift gently into the Gabelfrübstük. Viennese children are trained to eat more, rather than less, as they grow older, and more rather than fewer times each day.

The first opportunity to take food comes at the moment of waking. This snack is called the Frübstük— the “early-piece”—and comes to the Viennese in bed so that no time is lost between waking and eating. It is considered much more pleasant to be awakened with food than to have to ring for it.

The Viennese could waltz all night under the stars or cross the city in open carriages at dawn in their thinnest ball gowns, but once at home and in bed, they took the dangers of exposure to night air seriously and carefully guarded against them. To be caught in a draft or to take cold were catastrophies against which all Viennese barricaded themselves as against the pest.

Heavy portieres shrouded double doors, double windows had cushions in between to prevent the slightest draft. (This Polster made a comfortable elbow rest when, later in the day, it became necessary to see what was going on in Vienna.) The jalousies were closed, the heavy window draperies were drawn, a low screen served as a final shield in front of the window. The bed usually stood in a niche protected by more curtains and screens. The Viennese, in heavy sleeping attire, buried themselves under their feather beds (eighteen to twenty-four inches deep of the finest goose down in a covering of softest linen) with a white fur rug next to the bed so that they could step into warmth when they finally arose. The bed itself was a lovely Biedermeier sleigh bed with high footboard to insure against any Zug that might have found its way through an unprotected crack.

Into this dungeon of darkness and warmth came the sound of a gentle tap on the door, and the Sophies and Annas greeted their Herrscbaft with a “Kuss die Hand” and Frübstük. This “early-piece,” which required no fork, came in a lovely Alt Wien chocolate or coffee pitcher with a delicate cup, accompanied by a bowl of sweetened whipped cream and a crescent roll fresh and crisp from the baker. The hermetically sealed Viennese brought themselves slowly back to consciousness with sweet refreshment. They spooned several portions of cream into their chocolate or coffee cups and asked about the day. Any indication of the weather or temperature outside was impossible to ascertain from within.

The jalousies, the screens, the curtains, and the draperies were finally drawn and the day was faced. Whether the day was an important one—whether it meant only household planning or a momentous contract to be signed at the bureau—promptly at eleven all major and minor activity ceased for the day's second important pause, the Gabelfrübstük, or, as it might be literally translated, “early-fork-piece.”

A Gabelfrübstük represents all the name implies, since eating it demands a fork. For those who live in the provinces, it can be an egg eaten at home, but in Vienna an egg eaten at home alone would be an egg wasted. The Frübstück having been eaten alone or intimately ä deux, the Gabelfrübstük is eaten in public, if possible.

Ladies who may have stopped in at a few shops before a late-morning concert fortify themselves with a glass of Sherry and a tiny asparagus roll. Frau Direktor may have a little scoop of foie gras on a slice of Kastenbrot at a very smart Utile shop, while Herr Direktor strolls on the Ringstrasse, where he can see the other members of his profession, and stops for a scrambled egg on smoked salmon at a café. Frau Müller, with her shopping bag, cats an open sandwich at her butcher's, and the taxi driver stops for a sausage at a stand. All over Vienna, from the porlier's lodge to the Schloss Garten, everyone had and still has a little tiny Gabelfrübstük, a little something for the system to work on, a little something to occupy the brain and perhaps a little meeting to occupy the heart. A half hour may be lost out of the day, but time given over to food is never thought of as lost.

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