A shameless veteran of more than 60 transatlantic crossings aboard the majestic Queen Elizabeth 2, I initially had certain apprehensions about taking a seven-day cruise down the Danube on the m/v “Mozart.” At a 200-passenger capacity, the Mozart was comparatively tiny. But she had an excellent reputation, and I yearned to visit certain Central European countries (the cruise started in Passau, Germany, and continued through Austria, Hungary, and Slovakia) without subjecting myself to the awful hassle of planes or trains or cars, packing and unpacking, and the like.
So instead of worrying over such bothersome logistical concerns, on this particular morning I made my way to the staggering breakfast buffet in the ship’s handsome dining room and found Pat and John, two of my tablemates, already tucking into plates of creamy scrambled eggs, small German sausages, fresh pineapple, a variety of delicious Austrian and Hungarian cheeses, and, just to round things out nicely, a couple of rich Viennese pastries enhanced by spoonfuls of cherry preserves.
I managed to knock off an equally heroic breakfast. Then, unlike my other dining companions-a young German couple at the next table and the two stylishly dressed Japanese ladies who insisted on discussing at length every dinner menu with the chef - I declined to accompany the organized morning bus tour of Budapest in favor of casually scouting the city on foot at my own pace. This was my practice in Durnstein, Vienna, and Esztergom and every other port of call, a routine that allowed to make unusual discoveries, meet locals, and sample all sorts of exotic foods and drinks without taxing my energy level or keeping me stranded too long from the sybaritic comfort and security of the ship.
Without question, one of the most appealing aspects of a cruise like this is that the ship normally docks right on the banks, or within quick walking distance, of even the largest cities, making it a cinch for independents such as myself to roam, sightsee, eat, drink, and shop at will-and, depending on the time of day or night, return to the ship for a meal or a short doze in the cabin or in a cushioned chair up on the Sun Deck.
The alternative, of course, is to sign up for structured tours, which I decided to join only when they were short and involved a truly special site at a considerable distance from the ship. But I can’t imagine anybody covering more ground than I did on my own or having a more enlightening and exciting time.
How else, for example, could I have spent a full two hours in Budapest nibbling my way through acres of stalls stacked with multicolored paprikas (peppers), salamis, exotic wild mushrooms, goose liver, and dozens of other Hungarian delicacies at the city’s enormous, vaulted Central Market? It’s a mere ten-minute walk from the dock.
A stroll down the cobblestone, pedestrians-only Vaci Street revealed elegant crystal and home-harvested-honey shops, old art galleries and book kiosks, and street musicians. Then I arrived at the legendary café Gerbeaud nearby with its sparkling chandeliers and damask walls, small marble tables, and displays of rich Hungarian tortes, cakes and ice creams. (Predictably, I ran into Pat and John there, polishing off a Dobos torte, lemon cheesecake, and a pot of mocha coffee.)
After a quick dip in a thermal pool at the labyrinthine Gellert Bath on the Buda side of the Danube, I decided to take a trolley up to the town’s medieval Castle District, only to strike up a conversation with a woman wearing dozens of colorful bracelets who spoke perfect English and was determined that I see her city correctly. She gave me a tour of the Neo-Gothic Matthias Church, the Royal Palace, various ramparts with dramatic views of Pest over the river, and the House of Hungarian Wines installed in the cellars of an old stone building.
Exhausted and hungry, I returned to the “Mozart” in time for late-afternoon tea, sandwiches and pastry in the lounge and a good nap. That evening, I was tempted to remain on board for a Hungarian dinners, but instead, I and another passenger sprang for a taxi to dine hedonistically at Budapest’s most famous restaurant, Gundel and its next-door offspring, Bagolyvar Owl’s Castle). Both are owned by legendary New York-based restaurateur George Lang, who was born in Hungary.
The restaurants serve Hungarian cuisine in a spectacular setting on the edge of the City Park. We started at Bagolyvar where we sampled the spicy goulash soup, four styles of velvety goose liver, and glassed of vintage Tokaji Aszu (all prepared and served by an all-female staff). We then proceeded to the more ornate Gundel and began an assault on carp in aspic with pike dumplings, frog legs in parsley sauce, braised wild duck with almond-potato croquettes and a sublime sour-cherry strudel. All of this was accompanied by a roaming Magyar violinist.
If Budapest is the jewel of the Danube, Vienna is an equally dazzling gem. It is an Old Europe fantasy writ large: a city of majestic palaces and churches, a world-renowned opera house and countless concert halls, and luxurious hotels, restaurants, and coffeehouses. Vienna was the one stop on our itinerary in which the town center was not within easy walking distance of the Danube, so I depended on the highly efficient subway system during our day-and-a-half visit.
While most other passengers seemed content touring the famous Ring, Giant Ferris Wheel, and Vienna Woods, I had exactly four major goals: to visit the graves of Beethoven, Schubert, and Brahms at the Central Cemetary: to attend a rare Durer exhibition at the beautifully restored Albertina museum: to roost in a few of the elaborate coffeehouses in Karntnerstrasse and Neuer Markt not far from St. Stephens Cathedral and sample sumptuous Viennese pastries and various types of coffee (Café Heiner and Konditorei Oberlaa were both exceptional); and to eat a truly great Wiener schnitzel.
This last objective was finally realized at a restaurant near St. Stephan’s called Gottweiger Stifskeller. I came upon the place in search of beer during the afternoon and notice (or rather heard) someone back in the kitchen pounding what I suspected was a veal cutlet. I was determined to return for dinner. Suffice it to say that after the first bite of the tender, crusty but billowy, succulent schnitzel, I knew that I’d never eaten a real Wiener schnitzel before. When I asked the stout, rosy-cheeked chef to explain her technique, she spoke of a beer and egg batter, a fresh breadcrumb coating that doesn’t stick to the meat, and very quick frying in clean lard and butter. Then, smiling proudly, she added, “Of course, the real secret is to cook the dish mit Liebe (with love).”
Each fairy-tale hamlet and city we visited had its special attractions: Durstein, Austria’s exquisite Baroque and Gothic architecture, homey taverns featuring Wachau wines, tiny shops with regional preserves and brandies, and villagers dressed in dirndls and alpine jackets; Bratislava, Slovakie’s perfectly restored medieval Old Town, Siklo porcelains, and suave coffee and pastry cafes; Esztergom, Hungary’s great basilica and open-air food markets and butcher shops. To explore these unspoiled places along the beautiful Danube was to catch glimpses of a time when life was so much less complicated and hectic. And to be able to return each day to a ship that somehow managed to emulate this same old-world graciousness couldn’t have been more consoling.
Aboard ship, I continued a habit of eating frightfully well, tucking into such toothsome specialties as roulade of cabbage with bacon pike balls with crayfish butter cream, supreme of guinea fowl with blackberry sauce, different styles of the delectable Austrian dumpling called Nockerl, and numerous sinful tortes, pastries, and creams. I was utterly satiated by the last lunch when the chef dropped by the table and suggested that we try his oxtail soup, glazed saddle of suckling pig, and heaven knows what else.
“Please forgive me,” I stammered to the chef, “but I want to be in good form for tonight’s farewell dinner, and I was wondering….I realize its never been on the menu, and I hate to ask, but…well I was wondering if it could be at all possible for me to have nothing now but a simple hamburger.” Unfazed, he patted me on the shoulder and smiled sympathetically. “Almost anything, sir is possible on the Mozart.” He then leaned down and whispered, “Actually, that’s what I’m having for lunch later on.”
I can report, with no exaggeration, that no hamburger in my life ever tasted so good.