“So, what was your favorite meal?” This has dominated the list of most frequently asked questions after returning from a five-week trip in Europe. I usually respond with something along the lines of, “How much time do you have?” Sure, the Michelin starred Tanti in Budapest is an obvious stand out, as is the hidden basement milk bar U Babci Maliny in Krakow; these restaurants are typically granted a worthy mention. However, a favorite that often goes unspoken was in Salzburg, where I was served the chestnut celeriac soup that inspired this recipe. The rich and velvety sweetness of the soup undoubtedly plays a role in why I remember it so fondly, but to understand why this soup weighs so heavily on my memory requires knowing the events that lead up to it. Maybe the soup was just that good, or maybe it just happened to exist in the perfect moment of crucial respite from the flurry of the previous twenty-four hours.
A day earlier, Jonny and I were tiredly traveling by bus from Bregenz to Salzburg, reflecting on our recent ten mile jaunt through the mountains and daydreaming of what adventures our new city had in store for us. Over the seven-hour ride we sipped beer and grazed on our supply of sandwiches, sausage and gummies; these treats would be our last repast of the day. By the time we reached Salzburg, the day had turned to night, clear skies had turned to a chilled downpour, and our excited hearts had grown weary as we sat on the cold bus platform, waiting for our host.
Andi was a family friend and native Austrian who had lived in Minnesota when I was growing up there. I had vague memories of him making cheese at the buffalo ranch in our town, dancing wildly at family weddings, and occasionally donning lederhosen and cooking schnitzel for the family at dinner parties. As a teenager, I was amused by his eccentricities, but shied from his intensity. Andi possessed a seemingly bottomless well of energy, both physically and in spirit, and knowing he was to be our host for the next four days intimidated the hell out of me.
Finally, a man with familiar set of sharp blue eyes and fiery long strawberry blonde hair bounded up from the escalator and marched towards us. Andi greeted us both with a firm handshake and quick kiss on each cheek, took our bags, and then sprinted in the opposite direction.
“C’mon guys,” he yelled, urging us to keep up, “I’m parked illegally!”
The next thing we knew, we were tearing down the dark and glistening Austrian streets in his hatchback, ending up at the local beer hall for a nightcap. Because it was late, Augustiner Bräu’s cavernous rooms were near empty. Our small talk echoed throughout the hall as we sipped steins full of the only beer on tap. At about 10:55pm Andi ushered us towards the door.
“They get mean,” he warned, “Let’s leave before they yell at us.”
Hurriedly reemerging into the rainy October streets, we agreed to go on a little walk to see the city. We followed our host up through the woods that snaked above the beer hall; the dimly lit trails were slippery with a blanket of degrading leaves. Andi neither flailed in footing nor failed in words. Like a toddler at a zoo he pointed wildly at each monument we passed, explaining in his thick accent the significance of each building, the history of the churches, the origin of the stones mined beneath our feet, and the celebrities that have stayed in the inns. With every new landmark he would take the opportunity to snap our picture.
Salzburg from above, the castle from below.
We ascended the bluff until we reached a proper lookout of the city. Below, the churches were regally lit with spotlights; their rusted steeples gleamed green against the black backdrop of the pinpricked sky. Streetlights twinkled in reflection upon the weaving river as the slurs of drunks gaily echoed up from the narrow corridors of the streets down below. Though we looked down at Salzburg, the great white castle in the near distance still dwarfed us. For a moment, I lost myself in the vast history of this old city, attempting to comprehend all of those who had stood in this exact spot throughout the years.
Andi quickly snapped me back to the present. “C’mon guys, no time to waste…. We gotta keep moving… there’s more to see!”
Our trek continued along the perimeter of the city, switch-backing until we reached ground level. After exploring the dignified old town, we stopped at an Irish bar for a final drink of the night and then headed home. By the time we reached Andi’s apartment – over an hour’s soggy walk out of town – it was nearly three in the morning. Despite the seven-hour bus ride, we’d clocked over ten miles of walking that day.
Morning came quickly with a persistent rapping on our bedroom door.
“C’mon guys!” Andi called, “Gotta get up! You’re wasting the day!”
Jonny breathed a heavy sigh into his pillow implying something in the realm of – you’ve got to be kidding me – and with our feet dragging, we got up to meet our host in the living room. He sat us down on the sofa and opened his laptop.
“I want to show you what I did this morning,” he said. As he returned to busy himself in the kitchen, a somber guitar tone broke through the air and the words, for nora and jonny, appeared on the screen. For the next nine minutes the two of us sat in silence, watching the drenched and smiling faces of our prior selves pan across the frame at least a hundred times. The night before – mere hours earlier – was already encapsulated in slideshow format for our entertainment. With three more days to go in Salzburg, we were certain that by the end we would possess a full-length movie.
After breakfast we hopped back in the hatchback and succumbed to the mercy of Andi’s whim. For the next six hours, our gracious host drove us around the foothills of the eastern Alps, stopping intermittently to capture the view with his old Nikon. We weaved through the crescent lakes of the Mondsee and Attersee, both stepping foot on their rocky shores and viewing them through fog from miles above. Against the backdrop of 90’s grunge music, Andi regaled us with stories of the areas history and his own personal relationship with the region. At one point we stopped at a tiny distillery, D’Brennerin, and were elated to have a private tour and one of the best schnapps tastings of our trip.
At another point high in the mountains we escaped the confines of the two-door and trudged across the snowy landscape. Cows grazed on elusive patches of grass as children took their sleds on maiden voyages down tiny hills. The fog hung low and precipitation was fresh in the air; the cold stung our noses. To curb our hunger, Andi offered us peanuts as we followed him blindly down the frozen path. Eventually we came across a wooden bridge, white but for a few footprints. Hugging the bare rock face of the mountain, it stretched maybe a hundred feet to stable land. At the halfway point, the trees opposite the rock face cleared, which allowed us to look down upon the vast entirety of Salzburg. The majestic castle that squatted above the city appeared smaller than a monopoly piece. We took turns testing gravity by throwing snowballs, and reveled in the view. This time, Andi did not rush us along.
Miraculously, less than an hour later we were back in the city streets. Andi had dropped Jonny and I off near the old town to give us a couple hours alone before we met up for dinner. Thankful for the solitude and desperate for a beer, a bite, and a bathroom, we set out in Mozart’s city in seek of the perfect safe haven to satisfy our desires. Like rats in a maze, we scurried about and were lured into either dead ends or cleverly disguised tourist traps. After an hour of discovering only disappointments, I spotted a humble sandwich board boasting a modest menu. Our throats were parched and the prices seemed right. “This is it,” I said. “This is the place we rest.”
The opening thrust of the door wafted the thick cigarette smoke back just enough so we could see all four heads of the men sitting at the bar rise from their beers and turn to stare. The woman behind the bar, wrinkled and heavy eyed, immediately informed us in English that the kitchen wasn’t open. We ordered two beers anyway and took a lonely seat in a pastel floral booth behind the short wall that designated the non-smoking section of the restaurant. One wall was halfheartedly adorned in Venetian masks, on the other walls hung large floral prints worthy of midrange retirement homes. A table in the center of the room offered free tabloids, appropriately accompanying the American top-40 that played over static on the speakers above. If it weren’t for a tiny dusty display case of simple but elegant looking Austrian cakes, I would have sworn I was in the middle of Wisconsin.
“Where in the hell are we?” I asked Jonny, over my beer. He just smiled and shook his head, unable to answer. We had successfully found small town USA in the heart of one of the most elegant cities in Europe. While the beer was refreshing enough, my stomach still trembled. This, it seemed, was certainly not the place of our great repose.
Back on the streets of Salzburg we continued our search. After another twenty minutes or so, we spotted an intriguing little restaurant on the corner of a market square (the name of which, unfortunately, I never recorded). As soon as we entered I breathed a sigh of relief. Every table was filled, every plate held huge colorful portions of classic Austrian fare, and the room was abuzz with lively conversation. Our waiter was friendly and sat us at a corner table, looking over the restaurant. Tucked away, we had finally found our oasis. I ordered hot chocolate with amaretto, and the soup of the day, celery chestnut. Perhaps it was the relief, the sanctuary, or the success, but that was, at that moment, the best soup I’d ever had.
(And, for the record, we did end up receiving a grandiose final slideshow of our stay in Salzburg, which Andi eagerly showed us on the platform as we waited for our train to Vienna. Because of him, we got to know that city inside and out. He was a spirited host, eager to share his beloved town. Though we cherished our moments of solitude, tourist boot camp was exhilarating too; we wouldn’t trade our experience, or our slideshow, for anything.)
Salzburg-Inspired Chestnut Celeriac Soup
Yield: about 1 quart
Prep time: 15 minutes
Cook time: just over an hour
This was my first time playing with fresh chestnuts and man, were they ever a pain. However, they were also one of the most delicious whole foods I’ve ever had the pleasure of scraping my thumbs raw over. Perhaps the roasting method isn’t the best (I’ve heard rumors of frying them to loosen the shells), or perhaps my chestnuts were on the old end, but the pods were incredibly stubborn to remove. If you go this route, get comfy with a bottle of wine and a long movie to distract yourself. Or, better yet, treat yourself to canned chestnuts, no raw thumbs required.
(Musically) pairs well with: Mozart, of course
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 onion, sliced in half moons
pinch sea salt
2 tablespoons Madeira, sherry, or other sweet liquor
2 bay leaves
1 cup roasted chestnuts
1 medium sized celeriac (celery root), peeled and chopped
1 sprig thyme
3 cups good- quality vegetable stock
1/3 cup heavy cream
salt and pepper to taste
To garnish:
Fresh thyme
Jaggery or brown sugar
Unsweetened whipped cream
Heat butter in a medium sized stock pot over medium-high heat. Add onions and a pinch of salt and stir to coat. Turn down heat to low and summon patience to caramelize, stirring only occasionally, for at least 15 minutes. Add the Madeira to deglaze, and then add the bay, chestnuts, celeriac, thyme and broth. Bring to a boil, then cover and simmer until the celery root and chestnuts are tender, about 40 minutes. Remove the bay and thyme sprig, and blend until smooth. Return to pot, add the cream and let simmer gently on low for an additional ten minutes. Add salt and pepper to taste.
For garnishing, I used fresh thyme sprigs (parsley would be good too), grated jaggery, and some heavy cream I’d whipped using a hand mixer.
Guten Appetit!
The new.