Note: I have made references throughout this blog to timings for certain highlighted moments (e.g 0:03 of track 1) – this is in relation to a recording of the work I will provide a link to below (follow along should you so desire).
Music has a long-running debate which has seemingly for time immemorial caused division amongst its adherents. Should it be viewed purely and absolutely through the lens of its own intrinsic elements (harmony, counterpoint, rhythm, thematic and motivic development etc.) or is it capable of conveying ideas and narratives outside of itself or in other words to paint pictures in sound? In the 19th century this debate raged on, at times ferociously, as the music of central Europe was divided into two rival camps, one comprising the so-called ‘conservatives’ Johannes Brahms, the critic Eduard Hanslick and their circle who preached the gospel of absolute music; the other being composed of the ‘progressives’ Richard Wagner and Franz Liszt (with his tone poems) who believed music should now be entwined with narrative and influences from other art forms. But what of the much younger Gustav Mahler, who came of age during this era of rival visions?
“A Symphony must be like the world – it must encompass everything”
Or so Mahler is famously reported to have said to the Finnish composer, Jean Sibelius, during their meeting. This seems like quite a bold claim to say the least, but in essence what Mahler meant by this was he wanted his symphonies to be more than just musical forms with their own internal logic but rather works capable of reflecting ideas, feelings, and even places to such an extent that they could encompass the whole world. So, it would appear at least from this quote that Mahler was not strictly speaking in the absolutist camp. He did of course continue to utilise traditional musical forms (while stretching them to their limit), after all, the piece I will discuss today is a symphony not a tone poem. One thing, though, is undeniable, Mahler appeared to make a conscious effort in all his symphonies to bring in sounds and references that drew listeners outside the realm of the concert hall and into the world at large. As such I will attempt to incorporate these references in my discussion of his 3rd Symphony in D minor. Ultimately, many will dislike such an analysis that draws from extra-musical themes, but I feel with Mahler it is absolutely necessary to do so.
Wagner and his father-in-law Liszt Brahms pictured bottom right sat next to Hanslick Mahler pictured in 1881
But first another enlightening anecdote, this time from the memoir of Mahler’s protegee Bruno Walter, describing an incident on the latter’s visit to Steinbach am Attersee where the composer had a villa and composing hut:
“I arrived by steamer on a glorious July day; Mahler was there on the jetty to meet me, and despite my protests, insisted on carrying my bag until he was relieved by a porter. As on our way to his house I looked up to the Höllengebirge, whose sheer cliffs made a grim background to the charming landscape, he said: ‘You don’t need to look — I have composed all this already!”
More on the Höllengebirge later, for now it suffices to say that Mahler clearly acknowledged a close connection between the work he was composing at the time of this anecdote (in fact his 3rd symphony) and the landscape around Steinbach am Attersee. To truly grasp this one must really visit the Salzkammergut region and the lake and town in question, but pictures provide a good impression of what might have inspired the music, if still a tame one in comparison to the real thing.
In our interpretation of this work, we are aided by the fact that Mahler originally constructed a programme for the symphony. It seems to illustrate a story arc from an initial awakening of nature, through a description of the many aspects of creation, before concluding with a vision of divine love:
1. Pan Awakens – Summer Marches In
2. What the Flowers and Meadows Tell Me
3. What the Beasts of the Forest Tell Me
4. What the Night Tells Me
5. What the Morning Bells Tell Me
6. What Love Tells Me
Movement 1. – Pan Awakens – Summer Marches In
The symphony begins with a statement by 8 horns in unison, a kind of incantation to bring the symphony to life (0:03 – 0:28 of track 1). Then, begins a descent into a slow introduction, which sounds like the first elements of matter groping towards a more substantial existence (1:20 to 5:10 of track 1). Indeed, Mahler described to his confidante Nathalie Bauer-Lechner the ‘eerie’ way in which the music illustrated ‘life gradually’ breaking ‘through, out of soul-less, rigid matter’. The score indicates this passage should be ‘Schwer und Dumpf’ (heavy and stifling), and throughout motivic fragments played by different instrument groupings struggle to break out into full melodies. In a letter to the soprano Anna Bahr-von-Mildenburg, Mahler entitled the first part of the movement ‘what the stony mountains tell me’. Perhaps, he was inspired by the stony cliff face of the Höllengebirge that could be viewed from his composing hut when he wrote this turgid, primordial music.
Two of the themes of this movement seem oddly out of place in a formal 19th century symphony. The first is a jaunty melody, which would have perhaps been more at home in the popular music of Mahler’s time (first heard at 5:28 of track 1). Indeed, it has a surprising but probably coincidental affinity to the ‘Be our Guest’ melody from Walt Disney’s ‘Beauty and the Beast’ (1946). The other is like a march for a military band, no doubt similar to marches that were performed in the town square of Mahler’s hometown of Iglau, Bohemia (first heard at 10:02 of track 1). Both illustrate Mahler’s tendency to absorb music from other areas of life and utilise them in his symphonies. The effect of this is a music which at times is unusually raucous for a symphony, for example in the passage (from 20:04 – 23.24 of track 1) immediately preceding the recapitulation! Overall the movement appears to chart the struggle for life to break free from inanimate matter or to use another metaphor: for the chaotic, Bacchic forces of Summer to overcome those of stupefying winter.
Movement 2. What the Flowers and Meadows Tell Me
What do the flowers tell us? They tell us that the world is born again each spring anew in purest simplicity. Flowers represent beauty and life at its most transient and frail, but also its most irresistibly lovable. They are a source of gentle consolation in our lives made tired by work and worry. So, after the gigantic first movement, Mahler now offers us a respite both musically and pictorially. Broadly speaking there are two alternating and contrasting subjects, the first a relatively static and graceful minuet (first heard at 0.02 – 2:16 of track 2), the other comprising a series of frenzied kaleidoscopic episodes which seem to run wild like blossoms blown in the wind (first heard at 2:16 – 3:09 of track 2). This movement reflects Mahler’s superb orchestration and his command of the vast forces at his disposal which he is able to use at times as if they were a chamber ensemble. It is Mahler’s tribute in music to one of the simplest but most precious forms of life. The composer who spent much of the year hard at work as a conductor coping with the great demands of the concert season must have had a special place in his heart for the alpine blooms that greeted him on his summer composing retreats.
Movement 3. What the Beasts of the Forest Tell Me
Mahler composed almost exclusively in two forms: the symphony and song. Song is one clear way in which music can take on meanings outside of itself as it is fitted to texts which express concrete ideas and narratives. But one further way is to reference these songs in purely instrumental music. Mahler frequently made use of themes from his songs in his symphonies, as a way to subtlety aid interpretation. In this scherzo movement, simply brimming with playful energy, Mahler makes use of the melody from one of his earlier songs ‘Ablösung im Sommer‘ (see below video). The song is a classic example of Mahlerian irony, the words tell with nursery rhyme innocence of how the cuckoo has died and been replaced by the Nightingale. The theme of death then is introduced to this symphony almost mockingly. In this way Mahler adds an extra level of grotesqueness to this scherzo which rampages on much like ‘the Beasts of the Forest’ might, without a care in the world for the cuckoo who has died.
The composer’s masterstroke in this movement is to include as a contrasting section the famous ‘Posthorn solo’ (first heard at 6:18 of track 3). The Posthorn was an instrument carried by mail carriers in the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and its sound would have been well known to the symphony’s original audience. Mahler specifically calls for use of the Posthorn, an instrument foreign to the concert hall (most modern performances will utilise either a muted trumpet or a flugelhorn). The composer calls for the Posthorn to be played off stage and to be heard as if from a distance. The effect is a contemplative passage which emanates wistful nostalgia, and provides a tremendous contrast with the rest of the movement’s hurly-burly. It is possible that the inspiration for this section was Nikolaus Lenau’s poem ‘der Postilion’, which tells of a carriage guide who continually sounds his Posthorn at the gravesite of a departed friend. This, then, is perhaps humanity’s perspective shown for the first time, a species with a unique comprehension of its own mortality. The Posthorn solo twice interrupts the main scherzo material, but the latter section returns each time, before the movement concludes with a startling orchestral eruption (from 16:53 of Track 3 onward). The tension remains unresolved.
Thomas Hampson performing ‘Ablösung im Sommer’
Movement 4. What the Night Tells Me
We have seen so far how this symphony has charted a path in music from inanimate and turgid matter, through to the world of plants and flowers and finally to the beasts of the forests. We had seen the first signs of conscious life with the Posthorn solo in the third movement, which illustrated an awareness of suffering and mortality. It is at this stage that Mahler introduces the human voice for the first time in this symphony. The movement begins with utmost mystery, before the alto soloist delivers a text from Friedrich Nietzsche’s ‘Also Sprach Zarathustra’:
Original German
O Mensch! Gib Acht!
Was spricht die tiefe Mitternacht?
“Ich schlief, ich schlief —,
aus tiefem Traum bin ich erwacht: —
Die Welt ist tief,
und tiefer als der Tag gedacht.
Tief ist ihr Weh —,
Lust — tiefer noch als Herzeleid.
Weh spricht: Vergeh!
Doch all’ Lust will Ewigkeit —,
— will tiefe, tiefe Ewigkeit!”
In English
O Man! Take heed!
What says the deep midnight?
“I slept, I slept —,
from a deep dream have I awoken: —
the world is deep,
and deeper than the day has thought.
Deep is its pain —,
joy — deeper still than heartache.
Pain says: Pass away!
But all joy
seeks eternity —,
— seeks deep, deep eternity!”
Mahler had mixed views about Nietzsche to say the least, he later told his wife, Alma, to burn her copies of the philosopher’s books, but at the time of composing this work he appears to have been highly influenced by his writings. In fact he considered giving the symphony a title of the ‘Joyful Science’ (after Nietzsche’s work of the same name). The text used in this movement describes how sorrow is deep, but joy deeper because sorrow seeks only annihilation while joy seeks a deep eternity. Throughout the movement Mahler has the oboes mimic bird calls which he has marked in one sketch as ‘Der Vogel der Nacht’ (a bird closely associated with the theme of death).
Movement 5. What the Morning Bells Tell Me
From this warning addressed to man at midnight, we now enter the joyful world of angels at the dawning of a new day. The composer sets a song (‘Es Sungen drei Engel’) from ‘Des Knaben Wunderhorn’ (or the ‘Youth’s Magic Horn’, a collection of folk songs assembled at the beginning of the 19th century which were close to Mahler’s heart) for a children’s and women’s chorus and the alto soloist. The children’s chorus imitate the sounds of bells by singing ‘Bimm Bamm’, while the song’s text is divided between the women’s chorus and alto soloist. The text describes the importance of faith in gaining forgiveness. It is not clear whether or not this setting of the song is meant to be entirely sincere, but considering Mahler indicates in the score that it should be ‘keck im Ausdruck’ (‘cheeky in expression’) it appears probably not. The composer was, after all, not to convert to Catholicism until a year after he completed this work in 1897 and then only to gain the directorship of the Hofoper in the notoriously anti-Semitic Vienna. This movement, then, forms the perfect light prelude for Mahler’s true spiritual thoughts which are to be expressed not in words at all but rather in music alone.
Movement 6. What Love Tells Me
It is pointless to attempt much of a description of this majestic movement which unfolds over a series of variations in which conflict must play its part, but which nevertheless must end in the most triumphant D Major. Mahler expressed the meaning of this movement in one simple phrase:
“Father, look upon my wounds! / Let no creature be lost!”
Postscript
Mahler decided to not publish the programme in the end. He concluded that although it had served as a useful scaffolding device for himself, ultimately it should not constrain listener’s interpretation. Bearing that in mind, how should we approach all the detail I have discussed in this blog. I would suggest read it, absorb it, allow it perhaps to form as a useful outline in your mind, but do not let it constrain your interpretation of this music.
Mahler would increasingly move away from programmatic music, he did not design programmes for his later symphonies. That is not to say he ceased to bring musical elements traditionally deemed unsuitable for the concert hall into his music. He always was and would remain a radical. But, unlike, his friend Richard Strauss, he had never completely turned his back on abstract music and the symphony. In fact it was through his redesign of the symphony that the form was brought into a new century. For this reason, along with many others, Mahler must be considered amongst the very greatest composers.
Written by Nick Jenkins
Here is the recording upon which the timings are based, you are more than welcome to choose your own performance but please note the timings could be very different if you do:
Note: I have made references throughout this blog to timings for certain highlighted moments (e.g 0:06 of track 1) – this is in relation to a recording of the work I will link to below (follow along should you so desire)
Beethoven’s Eroica (heroic) Symphony – already the title tells us something, this is a work about heroism. Instrumental music had not really ever been about things in this way before this point. True, there had for a long time been programme music, but never before had a work become so embroiled in the world of ideas, politics and philosophy as this one became from its inception. The “Eroica” of course was not the original title. This was a symphony to be dedicated to a specific hero: Napoleon. It was to be Beethoven’s “Bonaparte Symphony”. Well that was until the former crowned himself emperor, and in response the composer angrily crossed out the dedication on the score. There were other heroes too in the composer’s mind when writing. Consider, for example, that the theme from the final movement is taken from his earlier music for the Ballet: ‘the Creatures of Prometheus’, and that this theme is in fact related to the opening heroic theme of the symphony. Could this then be a Promethean symphony, dedicated to the titan Prometheus who brought fire to mankind? The question to whom this symphony is really dedicated remains to a large extent unanswered, but is a question that I should wish to return to at the end. For now, though, I will focus on the heroic accomplishments of the music.
Image from the manuscript of the Eroica, with Bonaparte angrily crossed out
The symphony begins with two great thundering chords of E-Flat major (0:06 of track 1), so familiar yet each time sounding so thrillingly new. An introductory staccato statement of chords such as this was not an uncommon device at that time, a kind of call to attention for the listener. In Haydn’s first quartet of his Opus 76 set, for example, he begins with three sharp chords, a kind of wake-up call to his aristocratic patrons that now was the time to stop chatting and start listening. But in this case, it feels different. It sounds more like a call to action. Then there begins a theme in the cellos (0:09 of track 1). It is a theme of utmost simplicity built to large extent from intervals of a third. It is in essence rather like a bugle call, but do not be deceived, this is the heroic theme upon which Beethoven will build an immense structure. The key is significant. From the first chords onward up till this point, we have been firmly in the symphony’s home key of E-Flat major. E-flat major was seen at the time as a noble key, a key associated with the enlightenment and works like Mozart’s Singspiel ‘Die Zauberfloete’. The choice was almost certainly deliberate.
Illustration of the opening heroic theme, taken from a website offering an analysis of the work
We are not, however, allowed to dwell in this safe home territory for too long, the music moves down through D-natural to rest at C-sharp (0:13 of track 1). A false note, not within the E-flat major scale. In this short passage, then, already we see a microcosm of the whole movement, a movement which will evolve to become a titanic struggle. Although, we are reassuringly brought back to our home key by the strings and woodwind, the message is already clear: this symphony’s beauty will be built from conflict. It is not long before we encounter our second conflict, this time one rhythmical in nature (from around 0:30 to 0:42 of track 1). So far, the movement has kept unambiguously to its 3/4-time signature. This means there has been a natural accent on the first beat (123, 123, 123), but Beethoven now adds accents or sforzandi on alternating beats so that the meter becomes ambiguous (123, 123, 123, 123, and then, 123, 123). The listener will feel the violence in the music from these forceful sforzandi accents that intrude on the flow of the 3/4 meter.
From the start onward, then, the movement is full of struggle. It is also grand in size and scope. Beethoven expands the sonata-allegro form that Haydn and Mozart had utilised to suit his titanic designs, in particular, he enlarges the development section and coda greatly. The development section of the Eroica is extraordinary, it includes a passage of immense intensity in which dissonant chord is followed by even more dissonant chord (7:23 – 7:56 of track 1), and afterwards the composer shockingly introduces a new theme in E-minor (8:06 of track 1). The coda is developmental to a greater extent than ever before heard in a symphony, but also crucially to the drama of the whole work, it refrains from bringing the tension to a final close. That will have to wait until the very last movement (13:05 to the end of track 1).
First movement proportions in comparison to works by Mozart (taken from the same website), Mozart’s last three symphonies = A, Eroica = B
The Second movement is a funeral march, something never before included in a symphony (though there is a funeral march in Beethoven’s piano sonata No. 12 published in 1801). By using a funeral march Beethoven was making a reference to the public ceremonial music of the French Revolution, and thereby associating the work with the radical politics of his day. Significantly, this movement can be used to refute any simplistic interpretation of the work as a programmatic piece about Napoleon, since the French general was still very much alive and on the scene at the time. The limited space I have here compels me to focus on one particular moment of this movement and that is the fugue around the mid-point of the movement (from 5:51 of track 2). This is a moment of such sublime, impassioned beauty that it simply demands to be highlighted. With the third movement the audience is to some extent offered a respite from the intensity of the music, though the musicians are certainly not let off from the challenges of the score. I am thinking particularly of the trio section (the middle part of this movement), in which the first horn must play music towards the high end of its register while the two lower horns must execute a difficult passage towards their lower end (2:35 – 3:57 of track 3).
Painting of the procession at Beethoven’s own funeral in Vienna (1827)
As I briefly mentioned above, the main melody from the last movement is found in the composer’s earlier Ballet music for ‘the Creatures of Prometheus’. This meant that Beethoven probably envisaged this final movement first, though the work of musicologists has shown he composed it last. We do not begin, however, with the tune, but instead after an initial burst from the strings (0:00 of track 4), the orchestra outlines the bass line of this theme (0:12 of track 4). This is a theme and variations movement, in which the melody of the theme is heard for the first time only in the third variation (1:51 of track 4). The theme metamorphoses before our eyes through a variety of guises, at times light-hearted, at times serious and grand, and Beethoven demonstrates profoundly his contrapuntal mastery at several points. Towards the end, we have what is for me a truly glorious moment in which the horns take up an augmented version of the melody (7:47 of track 4). A fog of doubt prepares us brilliantly for the final orchestral eruption leading to a triumphant finish for the movement and the symphony.
An image from a staging of the Ballet “The Creatures of Prometheus”
But a triumph for whom? We are, again, confronted with the same question all these years later, who is the hero to which this heroic symphony is ultimately dedicated. Is it Napoleon, dubbed the World-Spirit on horseback by Hegel, who ultimately disappointed so many liberals in Europe including Beethoven? Or is it Prometheus, the mythical Titan and benefactor to mankind, who appeared to be the archetypal hero for the enlightenment. I myself am more attracted by other interpretations. Wagner suggested it was the artist and Beethoven in particular who was the hero. This man who lost that sense most dear to him: his hearing, but who nonetheless struggled through it all anyway, despite the immense pains of illness, the personal strife, the unending setbacks. Without a doubt Beethoven seems to be a very suitable choice. But I would go a step further and caste us all in the role of hero. In the end, every life involves struggle, all life includes sacrifice, those that can take it upon themselves to face the challenges of the world and who choose to live and to live life to its fullest extent can consider themselves heroes.
Here is the recording upon which the timings are based, you are more than welcome to choose your own performance but please note the timings could be very different if you do:
Lad from the Pub: Don’t tell anyone about this place.
Me: ok.
(scene from the Goodmanham Arms circa 2020 AD)
I fear I may be breaking the sacred pledge of a pub promise here, but my duty as a reviewer on the hallowed web-pages of ‘Cedric Suggests’ must, I feel, take precedence, and as such I am obliged to speak of the incredible things I have seen and tasted at the Goodmanham Arms (“the GA”).The above-quoted lad from the pub, being a decent and worthy sort of a chap, was probably conscious of the danger of gems like the GA becoming spoilt by the influx of newcomers. I sympathise with this position but would encourage any interested party to examine Cedric’s blog more closely before calling foul play on this review. You see, the chances of any of Cedric’s readers actually going to this pub are very low indeed. I imagine Cedric’s readership largely comprises of his extended Albanian family and the various good-looking trendy-types he has picked up through a life of cider-drinking and making an effort with his appearance. As such not the sort of people that would be interested in going to an old-fashioned pub in the middle of the Yorkshire Wolds.
Anyway, on with the review. I had been cycling before I got to the GA, in rather inclement weather I might add, so the first thing that struck me about the place was the wood-fires. A very nice touch, and certainly useful to heat up one’s soggy clothes. Once seated and heated, I soon became aware of the superb décor. Slightly cluttered perhaps, but in the tradition of a gothic cathedral, not a student dorm room. Selecting the correct pub knick-knackery is a fine art, but I think the owners of the GA have got it down to a tee. Traditional, tasteful, and not at all off-putting.
My attention was very quickly drawn away from these more trivial matters when I ordered my first pint and tasted one of their ales. The GA has a fine selection of real ales. I had two different bitters (the stallion, and a guest ale called Bass), but I also saw a porter there. Both bitters were very excellent indeed, the best I think I have drunk in the East Riding, and certainly a rival to ‘Pave’ and ‘the Whalebone’ in Hull. A good ale is perhaps not a work of art, but it certainly is a comfort and consolation in a world full of cider-drinkers.
“The landlord of the Goodmanham Arms is Vito Logozzi, who comes from Bari in southern Italy…. Vito looks after the pub, while Abbie [the other side of this husband and wife team] manages a microbrewery across the yard [currently not brewing]. Her brews include Peg Fyfe, named after a 17th-century witch who is now reincarnated in the form of a 3.6% mild, and an elderflower ale called, almost inevitably, Elder & Wiser. The pub’s generous portions and modest prices can attract a big crowd. “I’ve seen the beef run out at 10 past 12 on a Sunday,” one regular recalled. Get there early.” – Christopher Hirst, Daily Telegraph
The food came quickly, I ordered the steak (rare). It came with peppers, chips, a black pudding, and a tomato. The chips were chunky (to my enlightened mind a disappointment), but certainly very respectable. On final reflection I think the pairing of steak and peppers was a very good one. While the food perhaps did not quite live up to the quality of the beer, it certainly was a wonderful accompaniment. The gypsy pot, which I didn’t go for, was supposedly a particular speciality, and it certainly looked like hearty comfort food. Please see below for the full menu.
Overall this was a model pub, a pub to which other pubs should aspire to be like. I think the owners must have sat and said to themselves let’s not just make something adequate that churns out money, let’s make this the best pub it can be. It rightly has a place in CAMRA’S Good Beer Guide 2020, although remember to bring plenty of fasht cash as they don’t take card. It was a real pleasure to dine there, just as it is a pleasure once again to contribute to Cedric’s weblog. I am ever grateful for his friendship, something I particularly noticed during my post-university move to Hull, and as always appreciative of his humour, loyalty and great kindness. I am mindful of the fact that I am the exception to the rule, that people take exception to, especially when it comes to his friends. I hope that I shall continue to be able to contribute reviews to this excellent blog. So, until next time, fair thee well.
And now, a piece from the Saint Mother, Mrs St Nick
We arrived at the Aiolos restaurant after dark on a balmy evening during our stay in Nafplio, on the East coast of the Peloponnese. It‘s one of the most popular restaurants on the Odos Vasilissis Olga, a lovely marble paved street typical of the old town, with bright blossoms climbing up the sides of the houses.
We ordered a local red wine, from nearby Nemea, dry but very smooth. Our starter, following an amuse bouche of home made hummus, was called Bougiourdi, a piquant combination of baked feta cheese with sliced tomatoes, onions and peppers.
We had Beef Stifado to follow and one of the specials, Chicken Mavrodafni (featured image). Both were served with fried potatoes.
Stifado is a favourite of the Greek menu – a casserole of slow cooked beef in a tomato based sauce with whole small onions. The onions created a sweet taste complementing the tender meat.
The Mavrodafni consisted of chicken breast cooked in the eponymous red wine with cream, perhaps more inspired by french cuisine but equally delicious and tender.
We ordered two Greek coffees, medium sweet which were the best we had on our trip – strong but not too sludgy at the bottom! The restaurant gave us a small complementary bottle of grappa and desert – ravani, which is a sponge made with semolina soaked in an orange flavoured syrup. To make it well you need to let it soak up all the syrup slowly until it is completely and evenly absorbed. I wonder if they guessed we were doing a review! The desert was delicious and just the right side of something sweet to end the meal.
All in all a very friendly and relaxed atmosphere- including traditional musicians to entertain. The price was very reasonable. I would definitely recommend a visit if you are passing through Nafplio.
The Heuriger is an institution in Vienna. The idea is simple: serve new wines, locally sourced, together with a largely cold buffet, add some traditional Viennese songs in the background for some extra Gemütlichkeit, and watch the paying public come rolling on in. It’s easy to see why these wine taverns are so successful, especially the one dad and I visited in Grinzing, a suburb north of the city centre.
Heuriger translates to “this year’s wine” in Austrian and Bavarian dialects of German. The tradition of serving new wines like this dates back to the reign of enlightened Habsburg emperor Joseph II who decreed that his subjects could sell wine from their own properties without a special permit. Enlightened indeed! Grinzing itself has its own fair share of history. In Beethoven’s day it was a village outside the city walls, and the great composer visited here often to recover from his many illnesses, as well as famously nearby Heiligenstadt. Franz Schubert, too, came here often and I believe Einstein may have lived here briefly. Gustav Mahler is buried in the local cemetery.
Anyhow, I think that’s enough mention of dead people and cemeteries for one food review, let’s give some thought to the cuisine. Starting with the drinks. Pater and I enjoyed the local wines greatly, but the particular highlights were the Veltliner and Riesling (from Nussberg). No doubt a distinguished wine critic like Cedric would be able to tell you the various different flavours of fruit and vegetables these hinted at, but I also distinctly tasted wine alongside these.
The food is a kind of walk up to the stout waiter and ask for a plateful kind of affair, which suits me wonderfully because of my enormous gluttony. To start with we opted for a couple of small dishes, a variety of local cheeses, a salad of sliced carrots and sauerkraut, a tasty quiche and a dish of Speck accompanied by a rather long sausage.
For what I suppose might be described as the mains, dad and I went our separate culinary ways, himself opting for the mushroom goulash, yours truly judiciously choosing the Braten (roast pork). Both came with a big dumpling which soaked up the alcohol nicely.
The atmosphere is key to the success of this place. It’s convivial, and very Austrian. It’s the sort place you could see Brahms (the North German interloper to Vienna) turning up to, cigar in hand, to admire some of the Grinzing Fräulein or Schubert, rocking up with his circle of friends, drinking their wistful melancholy away.
I am pleased to say a storm interrupted proceedings halfway through, as if in homage to Beethoven’s sixth symphony. This was a quite a joy for dad and I as we appreciated mother nature’s knowing reference. The heavens soon cleared as well, and the two of us left this charming spot, with “Freude” in our hearts and wine in our guts.
Image from the manuscript of the Eroica, with Bonaparte angrily crossed out
