A Historical Mystery Book Series

Darren Priest Mysteries - Dick Rosano

Series Excerpt

The heartbeat of Vienna is felt most keenly in Stephansplatz, a great square at the junction of several streets with massive stone churches, sculptured fountains, and monuments to the past intermingled with the chrome and glass restaurants and bars of the present.

Towering over all is St. Stephen’s Cathedral, known to the Austrians as Stephansdom, an immense Gothic-style church that dates from the 14th Century. Like other churches that dominate the streets of medieval cities, this one has been host and witness to years and years of historic events in Vienna. Saints and sinners, politicians, statesmen, and charlatans all vying for the attention of the crowd, whatever the century. Whenever I walk through the squares and grand avenues of Europe, I understand Americans’ fascination with European culture better, especially considering how so much of it is rooted in the seamless – though often troubling – mingling of Church and State. Just as Americans stand in awe of the Church-State marriage that typifies Old Europe, that same mingling is expressly – though often inadequately – banned in the United States.

Cantinetta Antinori sits on a quiet street just off the main plaza and down from St. Stephen’s Cathedral. It’s a classic ristorante with a superb menu that is considered the best among the best of excellent Italian eating establishments sprinkled throughout the city.

On my way to dinner at the Cantinetta, and approaching too early for my reservation, I stopped by the Onyx bar across the plaza from Stephansdom for a cocktail before dinner. The bar is on the second floor of the DO & CO Hotel and features a glass wall and front row view of the crowds milling about below on Stephansplatz. Malach was behind the counter, swirling a towel through the interior of a large wine glass to dry and polish it, when I entered.

“Guten abend,” he said with cheer. I had met Malach on a prior visit to Vienna. He prided himself on two things: gossip about the celebrities who passed through his bar, and the velvety smooth cocktails he concocted, blending sweetness and texture from the ingredients to seductively disguise the alcohol and, in so doing, get his customers’ tongues a-wagging. I had to secretly admire his approach. Perhaps his means of getting at the truth was even better than my own.

“Good evening to you too, Malach,” I responded, settling onto the bar stool in front of him. Since I was alone, I didn’t need to take up one of the small, knee-height settees that crowded the glass view overlooking Stephansplatz. Besides, I enjoyed the conversation with Malach and looked forward to the endless stream of stories about the glitterati who frequented the Onyx.

“So, who’s been here lately?” I asked.

He set the glass down on the counter and leaned in towards me. He didn’t intend to whisper or conceal his next comments about the famous people who came to enjoy his drinks. Instead, he used this rather obvious maneuver to get the attention of customers sitting nearby that an important story was in the offing.

“George Clooney,” he said, though he shrugged his shoulders. “But he was less interesting to me than the beautiful Amal Alamuddin.”

So, Malach was more interested in Clooney’s spouse – equally accomplished as her husband – than in the guy whose face was spread across the billboards of Viennese movie houses on this very day.

“What’s he like?”

“Friendly. Very friendly,” he said, resuming his polishing of the wine glass. “I was pleased. He asked me for my best cocktail,” Malach began, but smiled. “How can I tell him my best? They are all good!”

I had to laugh. Bartenders are taught to be good listeners, but I had learned from past visits that Malach was a talker, not a listener.

“What did you fix for him?”

“Well, he asked about vodka, so I blended it with vermouth, Campari, and a hint of ginger.”

“That’s not far off from a Negroni,” I said in protest.

“Of course, it is far off from that. It’s mine!”

“And Amal?”

“She only drinks wine. Fine wine.”

While we talked, Malach began mixing a drink. With a flourish, he presented it to me, although I hadn’t ordered anything yet.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Campari and soda,” he replied simply.

“That’s not completely true, is it?”

“Well, Campari and soda is a common drink in Italy, but I make it uncommonly here. You are going to Cantinetta Antinori for dinner, yes?”

I hadn’t told him this, but only smiled at his intuition.

“You always stop by here on your way to the Cantinetta,” he continued, making light of my apparent confusion. Maybe he was also a bit clairvoyant, another trait that I envied.

I lifted the tumbler and examined it with my eyes first, then looked at Malach for an answer to my question.

“Amaro,” he added, indicating a smooth liqueur favored by Italians. “Just a few drops.”

I settled in with my drink while Malach attended to other guests at the bar. Swinging to the side on my barstool, I looked out the windows onto the plaza below, observing the throngs of tourists who wound through the streets and around the cathedral. It was a typical spring evening in Vienna, with occasional notes of a cooling breeze piercing the calm warmth of the earlier hours. The pedestrians below were enjoying the fresh air and lights of the city, and we – comfortable in the plush seating of the Onyx Bar above – were enjoying our people-watching from above.

When I had finished the drink, I thanked Malach, dropped a twenty Euro note on the bar and headed back to the elevators to return to the street level below.

“Buona sera,” Malach called after me as I lifted my hand in salute and retreated to the lobby.

Three young people in business attire stepped out of the elevator as the doors opened. I held the door for the last of them and stepped into the empty carriage. After a quick descent to the street level, I exited the hotel from the corner doorway of the building, turned to my right and headed toward the Cantinetta.

Luca greeted me at the door as he had on each previous visit. He was familiar with my published articles and even the occasional mention of the Cantinetta Antinori itself when my visits to the city justified reference to my time in Vienna.

“Buona sera, Signor Priest,” he said, shaking my hand. “È passato molto tempo.”

“Sì, sì,” I said, without making any excuses for the passage of time since my last visit.

I settled into the small table to the left of the service bar and was greeted warmly by the other waiters. I had met each of them on several occasions in my visits to Vienna, and they remembered me for this but most likely for the generous tips I left.

“Risotto con tartufi,” I said to Luca while spreading the napkin on my lap. I couldn’t suppress a grin, knowing that he would not be able to produce my favorite risotto with the white truffles of Piedmont.

“Non è la stagione,” he replied. “No matter how much you like the white truffle, it’s not available in April.”

“Sì,” I responded with a smile. “Regrettably. But there are so many other dishes to choose from here, non è vero?”

Luca nodded with confidence, and I allowed him to choose my dinner.

The waiter brought a glass of Prosecco, a sparkling wine that had gained many followers in recent years. Then he settled a basket of rolls and bread on the table and poured a bit of olive oil onto the small plate by its side. I sampled the wine and tore off a bite-size chunk of the still-warm bread to dip into the olive oil that he brought to the table.

Several minutes later, a small serving of Gamberi con pomodoro arrived, shrimp with tomatoes and avocadoes over which a saffron mayonnaise had been spread. The tomato accompaniment embellished the sweet flavors of the shrimp which had been grilled to perfection, and the saffron mayo completed the taste sensation. He had chosen the wine well – the Prosecco paired beautifully with the dish.

After I consumed this course, the waiter whisked away the plates and the empty flute of wine and Luca looked in my direction for approval. I nodded and smiled, and he returned the gesture, full of confidence that I had been well treated.

The Cantinetta Antinori has collected a sumptuous wine list with a foundation of Antinori wines, but it also boasted an impressive assortment of other estates that had been acquired during Piero Antinori’s stewardship. Luca knew that I preferred the simple pleasures of Santa Cristina, a Tuscan red wine produced by the Antinori estate, so I was not surprised that the waiter brought a glass of it to my table. I could tell the wine’s identity by its forward aromas and supple texture, an astonishingly well-made wine for an easy price, and I tipped the glass in Luca’s direction, thanking him for remembering my preference.

Next came a plate of Stinco d’agnello stracotto, lamb shank that had been braised in red wine until the meat fell easily from the bone. The mixture of potatoes and plums served on the side were an added surprise and I knew that I hadn’t tasted this combination before. There was no time to fixate on lost memories, however; instead, I used my fork to dive into the assorted pleasures of the plate.

Twenty minutes passed, then more, as I enjoyed the dish and relaxed in between bites.

“Tutto bene?” Luca asked. “Everything is good?”

Caught with the glass of Santa Cristina at my lips, I could only smile and nod, and he returned to his station before moving toward another table that needed his attention.

The waiter removed the empty plate and now-empty wine glass but held out his hand to me, palm down, indicating that I should not be in a hurry and suggesting that the meal was not over yet. I had left myself to their intuition and not ordered anything thus far, and yet I knew that they were planning another course, and probably more wine.

A tiny glass of Vin Santo came first, Italy’s famous dessert wine, followed quickly by Sorbetto di fragole, a sorbet of strawberries served with a sprig of mint lazily leaning against the rim of the martini-style glass. It was refreshing and invigorating at the same time, and the Vin Santo was smooth and delicious, a golden nectar that coated the tongue and back palate.

“And, where to now?” Luca asked as I finished the repast.

“There is a wine tasting at Ristorante Firenze Enoteca tomorrow night,” I replied.

“Sì,” he responded, “I know of it. But it is good that you come here for dinner first.”

His smile reminded me of the friendly competition that the Italian restaurants in Vienna shared. They each had their followers and, despite Luca’s light disparagement, he had nothing against the Enoteca.

“Yes, it is good that I have,” I said, spreading my hands to indicate my presence for dinner on that evening.

“No, but I mean for tomorrow!” he answered. “You will come back again for dinner before the tasting?”

“Perhaps,” I said. “We’ll see,” but I doubted that I could manage another meal at Cantinetta on the brink of a tasting at the Enoteca.

A double espresso appeared soon afterward, and I leaned back to enjoy the aromas of roasted beans that the drink held in the cup. One sip, then another, and by the third sip the tiny cup was empty. But such is the way with espresso. It is best when hot and quick.