"The Viennese Café is an institution of a special kind which is not comparable to any other in the world," Stefan Zweig wrote about his hometown, the glorious capital of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and now the capital of Austria. When Austria became part of the Third Reich in 1938, Zweig had to leave for good, and as we all know, he would never return to Vienna. Likewise, the scene of the Viennese Café that he adored would never recover from World War II.
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Many of the coffeehouses quickly reopened after the war had ended to show that the destruction has not hurt their spirit. On the surface, business was back – the marble tables were standing; the newspapers were placed on the stands; the pleasant aroma of coffee spread all over. But this was a mirage. The backdrop may have been restored, but it was lifeless.
The Viennese coffeehouse scene was created to a large extent by Jews who would frequent them for many generations. The annihilation of the Jewish community emptied the physical shell of its inner greatness. Of course, even today tourists from all over the world come in droves to enjoy Vienna's famous coffeeshops in order to experience some nostalgic era, but this is akin to visiting the pyramids: You see what's left of a large civilization, and this only highlights the fact that it's gone.
Austria was not the first European nation to get a taste of the black beverage, but it quickly got hooked on it. According to the accepted version of events, the first Viennese Café was opened in the late 17th century by a Ukrainian nobleman called Jerzy Franciszek Kulczycki, one of the heroes in the 1683 Battle of Vienna, when the Christian armies defeated the Turkish invaders.
Kulczycki was in Vienna in 1683 when the Ottoman Grand Vizier Kara Mustafa Pasha placed the city under siege. Thanks to Kulczycki's command of the Turkish language and familiarity with Islamic customs, he managed to escape Vienna and pass unnoticed through the Turkish garrisons. In doing so, he managed to relay invaluable intelligence between Vienna and the forces that had been sent to help it break the siege.
In the big battle that eventually unfolded, the Christians managed to crush the Ottomans and Kulczycki was hailed as a hero. In appreciation of his resourcefulness, he was awarded benefits, awards, and practically a free hand in taking whatever he wanted from what the fleeing Ottomans had left behind.
Legend has it that he shocked many when instead of taking the most valuable spoils from the loot – such as weapons – he only wanted to take with him 300 sacks of coffee beans. Everyone around him was convinced that the actual contents of those sacks were just camel feed, but Kulczycki, who had spent some of his years in the Ottoman empire as a young man, knew full well what the coffee beans could be used for.
Kulczycki knew how to make coffee from the beans, but he was also well aware of the coffee scene in the Ottoman Empire and what its allure could be. In order to introduce his fellow Viennese residents to the wonders of coffee, Kulczycki made sure it would become affordable and accessible. Kulczycki knew a thing or two about proper marketing well before it had become a profession and simply walked the streets of the city while offering free tastings of this new beverage.
He went on to open the first Viennese coffeehouse, calling it the "House under the Blue Bottle." To attract customers who were still very much new to drinking something other than alcohol, he carried out two additional masterstrokes in marketing. First, he made sure that add some exotic element by serving it in traditional Turkish garbs. He then adapted the traditional black coffee to make it more acceptable to the Viennese palate: He added milk and sugar.
There is also an alternative version to this story, which attributes the introduction of coffee to Vienna to the Armenian merchant Johannes Diodato. Regardless, there is general consensus that Kulczycki was the chief of the coffee merchant guild after the city became a coffee powerhouse. The two figures – Kulczycki and DIodato – are both memorialized in Vienna, so the virtual spat over who was first has never been fully settled.
Beans, affinity, and spiritualism
The great leap forward of the coffee scene in Vienna took place much after the pioneering duo had left for greener pastures. This time it was not the Ukrainians or Armenians who were at the forefront, but the Jews. Before that could happen, there was the challenging period of 1803-1813, during the height of the Anglo-French Wars, when coffee beans were scarce in the capital because of the geopolitical situation, and they were given permission to serve wine instead.
The golden age of the Viennese coffeehouse began in the second half of the 19th century. By 1830, there were already 80 cafés in the city. Some 50 years later, their numbers would reach 300, and by the early 20th century the figure stood at roughly 600. In a way, the changing nature of the cafes was a microcosm of the changing world. In the mid-19th century, the cafés were for men only, but soon enough entire families would sit there, and by the time the 20th century came along, women could sip coffee on their own.
This period coincided with the realization among many Jews across the Austro-Hungarian Empire that they had to integrate into the general society. They began enrolling in universities, made inroads in new occupations that were both prestigious and rewarding, and of course, flocked to the capital.
At every café, you would see a distinct clientele. Café Schwarzenberg was a hub for business people; Café Parsifal would become the preferred spot for members of the philharmonic orchestra; Café Rebhuhn was the place where journalists would work; Café Central was the place where intellectuals gathered.
Many of the Jews began assimilating but society was not overly keen on having them integrate to the fullest extent, especially if they refused to convert to Christianity. Faced with antisemitism, many Jews opted to sit in cafés, where there were no real barriers. This atmosphere was magic for Jews because they felt a sense of connection. The Viennese café had become the alternative to the synagogue, their spiritual home. Moreover, it was the linchpin that held their lives together.
The Viennese café would serve food and drinks, but what drew the masses was the added value it offered. The customers appreciated the fact that this was a place where they could sit and exchange views, make friends and enemies, pick up their mail and post their responses, shower praise or heap criticism on people, as well as play chess or cards. In other words: They lived in the café.
One of those cafe regulars was Gustav Grüner, who coined the phrase: "A true coffeehouse guest is someone who, when leaving, puts his chair on the table by himself." This was clearly his way of telling how long people should stay at a coffeehouse. Grüner practiced what he preached: His café hopping would only end at 4 a.m.
A house, more than just for coffee
Naturally, the more coffeehouses became a place for social gatherings, the more they catered to a specific clientele. At Café Schwarzenberg, the oldest among the cafés on the Vienna Ring Road, the regulars would normally be those who worked in finance or business. Café Parsifal was the place where the philharmonic orchestra's players would gather with their close associates, and so forth. Café Rebhuhn, which was founded in the 18th century, was the watering hole for journalists, and Café Griensteidl was the place for writers and poets who formed part of the Young Vienna (Jung-Wien) group of intellectuals, including Hugo von Hofmannsthal, Richard Beer-Hofmann, Arthur Schnitzler, and Hermann Bahr.
At Café Central, where intellectuals would gather, you could find the writer Peter Altenberg, the founder of the school of individual psychology Alfred Adler, the historian Egon Friedell, the journalist and author Alfred Polgar, architect Adolf Loos and the mathematician, novelist Leo Perutz, and of course, Theodor Herzl, the founder of political Zionism.
They would be accompanied by members of the Vienna Circle of logical positivists. In the big hall on the first floor, the chess players would play and play to the point that the café would often be referred to as "the Chess Academy." Their small apartments, whose atmosphere was in stark opposition to that of the café, were just for sleeping because their waking hours were dedicated to the café. It is no wonder, then, that in the address book for the residents of Vienna Altenberg's residence was listed as "Café Central, Wien."
Around the tables of the Café Landtmann, near the city hall and the national theater Burgtheater, the celebrities of those days would sit, including Sigmund Freud, Gustav Mahler, Emmerich Kálmán, Felix Salten, Max Reinhardt, and Oskar Kokoschka.
Most of the artists preferred Café Museum, whose internal design was the making of Loos himself. Unlike other coffeehouses, which had the Thonet chairs designed by Austrian Jew Michael Thonet, the furniture in Café Museum was influenced by the desire for simplicity and functionality, and as a consequence, the place was often dubbed Café Nihilismus (café nihilism).
Some celebrities would keep alternating cafés (including Freud, who would sometimes visit Café Central). Others would become regulars at multiple cafes simultaneously, pledging their faith to their preferred coffeehouse at all costs, considering it a crucial part of their daily lives. For them, the coffeehouse was their home, perhaps even more than then real place of residence.
Newspapers and shortbread
The story of District Court Judge Reiter underscored what it meant to be a regular at the Viennese Café. His honor would arrive every day at 4 p.m. sharp and sit at the same table at Café Colosseum, immediately being served a melange with whipped cream and two horn-shaped shortbreads. He would then be handed the evening papers and all other national and international newspapers, pay, and finally leave – without uttering a word.
Generations of waiters would be trained on how to properly serve the judge. Then one day, the unthinkable happened: Two waiters were quarreling with the owner and then stormed out. When the judge arrived at his designated time, no one was there to wait his table. At 4:06 p.m., the crestfallen judge turned to the substitute waiter and sent him to Café Hacker across the road to bring his Melange with the whipped cream and two horn-shaped shortbreads
There was often a joke that in Vienna coffeehouses that if you went there, you would consume time and occupy a seat but you would end up paying only for coffee. Even if some of the regulars thought this was too pricey, they would never even entertain the thought of giving up their favorite pastime. It is often said that Zweig would often find himself without money to pay the bill and then he would turn to the waiter and ask, "Can you please keep this table for me. I will go drink my coffee at home and then come back."
During the 1920s, many of the city's intellectual elite relocated from Central and Museum to the Jewish-owned Café Herrenhof. It became a powerhouse of Judeo-Viennese culture with colorful figures descending on it every day. The thoughts and ideas they articulated would fly far and wide, well beyond the walls of the coffeehouse.
One example was the brilliant Jewish jurist and card player Hugo Sperber. When asked how long a game would last, the eccentric lawyer would respond with one of two answers. If he answered, "Unfortunately, I have a court appearance tomorrow," it was understood that he would not be able to play long because he would have to get a good night's sleep. The other response, "Until the students arrive," was a well-known reference to the Passover Haggadah, meaning, until dawn.
As for the brews available in the coffee shops, there was a wide variety. They would have to choose the kind of drink (which usually referred to the ratio of coffee to milk) and its size ("nut-cup", "piccolo" or "teacup"). Melange, for example, had equal amounts of coffee and milk. In a Brauner, you would find the coffee to be dominant and in others, milk was most of the beverage. At a later stage, there was also a variety of combinations and variations that could include ice cream, ice cubes, rum, and a whole host of glasses.
The sophisticated waiters at Herrenhof had a paint-color scale with 20 different shades of brown, each with its own number. The regulars would choose their preferred number and got the coffee in the color of their choice. The numbers would be meaningless in any other coffeehouse, and even the types of coffees would have their own nomenclature in the Herrenhof. If you ordered a Sperber Turk, the waiter would know that your choice is Turkish coffee with a double shot along with two cubes of sugar. This was the coffee that Sperber would ask for before important legal proceedings.
Humanity's heritage
After the Anschluss, the golden era of the Viennese coffeehouse came to an abrupt end. Cafe Herrenhof was seized from its Jewish owner and no Jewish customers were allowed in. The lucky few Jews managed to flee the country, but others were persecuted and murdered. Nevertheless, in the Herrenhof, they continued to serve the coffee to Aryans who would frequent it all through the war, and the headwaiter Franz Hnatek continued to carry the baton as he had done since its founding in 1918.
When news broke that the Allies had landed on the beaches of Normandy, it was all too clear where the pendulum was shifting in the war. Hnatek whispered into the ears of one of the patrons who could hardly be suspected of being a Nazi sympathizer: "Does this mean that the other gentlemen are coming back soon?"
The ever-so energetic Hnatek knew the world only through the prism of his clients, or rather through their presence or absence. Most of his customers would never return. Only a handful of the Jews of the city, which in 1938 stood at 250,000, survived the Holocaust.
With the disappearance of the Jews, the routine that had been built around the Viennese coffeehouse came to an end, even if the tourist information centers claim otherwise. We can at least take solace in that UNESCO has listed the Viennese Coffee House Culture in its inventory of Intangible Cultural Heritage institutions. The memory, at least in that regard, will live on.
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