Tossed Over

"So in our pride, we ordered for breakfast an omelet, toast and coffee and what has just arrived is a tomato salad with onions, a dish of pickles, a big slice of watermelon and two bottles of cream soda."

John Steinbeck













I wasn't so daft on purpose. I just didn't have any experience. Or, clearly-worded forewarning.

We'd been in Austria about twelve hours and already made the mistake of sleeping through breakfast. We were supposed to put ourselves on Germany time the moment we landed in Munich. Mostly, we succeeded. We had lunch at the correct time at a downtown McDonald's, because my father-in-law thought that it was cool to eat at a McDonald's in Germany that used fresh-ground meat for the sandwiches and cut fresh french fries from real potatoes on site.



He was not particularly adventuresome in the culinary department. His condition often posed challenges for me, but I tried to be quiet about it because he had given this trip to Europe to the family as a Christmas gift. He had about a million frequent flyer miles, and cashed in a small section of them to get everyone across the pond. He said he was paying for everything from the beginning. But, that could only mean one thing. We would eat when he ate. We would eat where he wanted to eat.

We were in the habit of respecting his wishes because the alternative was unthinkable. But, we lived in San Francisco at the time and were among the most spoiled of the spoiled when it came to eating. The best of the best, sometimes the best of the only, was available to us in such mass quantity and quality, we had forgotten how the rest of the world lived. Ate.



Indeed.



We piled into the cars for the drive from Munich to Bad Gastein, the world-famous health resort in one of Austria's biggest ski areas. We arrived in the dark, but it was obvious that we had landed in the middle of a postcard. I thought that morning would come easy. We would jump out of the featherbeds and run to the windows, pull open the heavy drapes, lift the shades and bask in this fairy tale. Then, we would meet the family for breakfast somewhere downstairs. We weren't sure where, but we would find it.



Wrong.



We almost missed lunch. I don't know how we could have slept that long, given that I felt hungrier than I had ever felt in my life. The rumbling of my stomach should have done what no alarm clock could handle that day. In the days well before cell phones, this type of stuff could occur with regularity. Because family members generally didn't like to knock on the doors of others and wait to see what appeared. They probably would have made an exception in the event of a fire. But, I'm not entirely sure.

I couldn't remember what day it was. But at home, during the work week, this stomach activity generally signalled the need to go downstairs to the alley known as Maiden Lane and get a small caesar salad and soup of the day. Every day except Friday, because I still don't like clam chowder. On that day, I'd plan to have enough time to run up Powell Street to the mediterranean wonder-thing on the corner and get Aram sandwiches. One part turkey, one part vegetarian. To go, of course.

Those Aram sandwiches have subsequently appeared in supermarkets nationwide, renamed something stupid like "pinwheels." Known by the masses as any concoction laid out on a 12" lavosh bread, rolled up and sliced about an inch wide into delightful, exotic lunch. The generic sandwich category advanced to include anything in the "wrap" group. Back then, I was an early adopter and liked being in the exclusive know-it-all foodie group that got to eat these sandwiches in private before the little people got hold of them. But, of course, anything worth eating started somewhere. In my world, everything must have started either in France or San Francisco.

But, I thought that a place like the Hotel Elisabethpark could be holding some culinary creations unheard of even by the most sophisticated eaters. And, I was ready to partake. I envisioned only the best and had my mouth set for something I had not consumed in, I don't know, at least 36 hours.

Salad. A big, crunchy bowl of lettuce -- preferably romaine -- maybe some freshly toasted croutons, slivers of freshly-sliced parmesan. Perhaps some cherry tomatoes. Who could know what wonder awaited.

We were seated, not as late as we thought we would be. Everyone else was already studying the special, English-only menus that the hotel had printed out just for this table. I was embarrassed to think that all the Ugly Americans staying in Austria that day happened to be seated at my table. My husband and I were determined to order in German.

Most of the family on this trip really liked salad bars, and we were all mostly enthused to hear that Hotel Elisabethpark "was known" for its salad bar. At least, that's what my two years of high school and two semesters of college German thought it heard. Anyway, the waiter was quite animated about it, and I could see through the double doors from our table, that an entire ROOM had been set aside for this Seventh Wonder.

My mother-in-law quietly offered to me that they had stayed there before and that the salad bar wasn't like the ones they had at home. Well, I thought -- No Kidding. They lived in Wichita, Kansas. My food snob brain cells really kicked in as I silently considered what a step up from their miserable existence this salad bar must really represent.

It was February of 1985 -- winter in Austria. But, it never even crossed my snooty mind that the weather, location, or local eating habits could influence the availability of my dream lunch. I expected it to hold the makings for Salad Nicoise, the Austrian interpretation of an Italian antipasti, and a big bowl of German Potato Salad. Right next to that big bowl of lettuce that would form the base of whatever else I deigned to select.

I was first in line for the Hotel Elisabethpark Salad Bar. Row upon row of platters, bowls, plates, and crocks circled the enormous table. It was so big, I couldn't even imagine what I was seeing.

I mean, I couldn't really identify what I was seeing. The extent of the fresh produce was a sparcely-populated plate of Belgian endive, apparently carefully separated into individual leaves to stretch the supply as far as possible.

My salad bar lunch could be anything I wanted it to be, so long as the ingredients had been preserved, pickled, soaked in brine, lacquered together with mayonnaise, cured, smoked, or aged.

All manner of cheese -- soft, hard, or in-between; all manner of meat -- bratwurst from every corner of the region, ham, canned beef spread; all manner of seafood -- from a can, packed in oil or poached to a lifeless white; all manner of bread and crackers -- dried-out rolls, cocktail rye bread, zwieback, anything with sesame, poppy, celery or caraway seeds; mayo- or oil-based salads of tuna, chicken, salmon, cabbage, potato, and egg; every vegetable that can possibly be pickled, and even some pickled fruit; the regular kind of pickles, with every kind of imaginable olive; every kind of fruit that can be canned, which means every kind of fruit.

And, much, much more.

I didn't recognize half of the items on that salad bar that day. If it had been situated in San Francisco, I probably would have identified the assortment as an opportunity to learn. The bountiful array in Bad Gastein was clearly revered by those "in the know." Which, didn't include me. My mouth was set for leafy greens, but it would have to wait. Wait all the way through Austria, Germany, and Italy until we got to London.

London had lettuce.

God Save the Queen.