In the pedestrian-only streets surrounding St. Stephen’s Cathedral, you can’t throw a stone and not hit an outdoor terrace or a Michael Kors. I opt for the patio seat and a Vienna lager. I avoid eye contact with a couple I recognize from the boat sharing a pizza across the laneway. I didn’t come all the way to Austria to eat Italian, FFS.

I’m having the schnitzel, of course. There’s just nothing like a nice plate of hot pork schnitzel and a bushel of potatoes on a 35º summer afternoon I find. When it arrives, it’s the most succulent, perfectly cooked flat piece of heaven I have ever inhaled. These people have been preparing this meal for centuries and it shows.

But what’s all the banging? I realize I’m seated under a window to the kitchen, the continuous schnitzel-pounding a soundtrack to my ever-expanding belly. Time for that nap.

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