Hungary No More
Many places around the world are described as well kept secrets. On arrival, as you weave through the densely packed car park, brimming with tour buses, you realise the folly and naivety of your hope to find an undiscovered retreat. Burgenland, at the Austrian heart of Europe however, really is unknown to much of the travelling public. Ask anyone, anywhere (except Austria), and you will more than likely be misunderstood as they mutter directions to the nearest beef-patty theme park, or McDonalds as they are sometimes known.
The federal state of Burgenland was Hungary until 1922, when the residents chose, by way of referendum, to join Austria. On the edge of the recent Eastern Bloc, it has somehow escaped the ravages of industrial progress. Once the Roman country of Pannonia, and before even that, cultivated by the Celts for its good soil and better grapes, it has seen occupation by Germans, Hungarians and Austrians. It has visible clues to later divisions. The abandoned checkpoints of Mörbisch, at the Hungarian border stand now roofless and impotent, being slowly swallowed whole by the twisting undergrowth. I strolled by unnoticed where only a couple of decades ago, several hours of queuing promised no guarantee of a crossing.
With over 300 days of sunshine a year, a perpetual breeze and an endless supply (and variety) of world class wines, not to mention a good stock of enormous hairy, fat pigs (more on them later), the identity and prosperity of the young province are secure. There is a confidence here, bred from a solid connection to the land and the ancestors. They don’t seem to have a great need for anything extra; in a siege they would have generations of family for company, all living in the one, traditional long house. And more than enough to eat, from rare breed chilies to warm lard, pumpkins galore and dark rye bread. The pace is slow but not idle, chores and tasks, one day at a time. If there is a recession here, it is far from obvious.
At the scenic hub of this rural tract of Lower Austria is Lake Neusiedl, the second largest self-contained lake in Central Europe, over a thousand kilometres squared as it straddles the Austrian–Hungarian border. But we’re not there yet. Landing in Vienna, the first port of call, especially for those with an ear for classical music, is Eisenstaedt, the metropolitan capital of the region. In the mausoleum of the magnificent cake-like Bergkirche lays the sacred marble tomb of Haydn. This is reached through a labyrinth of passages, staffed by rough life-sized wooden statues in unnerving scenes from the Passion of the Christ. (Hardy pilgrims come here year round.) The noted composer lived here from 1761-1790 and in the grand frescoed space of the Haydnsaal, many of his great works were given their first airing. The resonating chords of the cello sing to the heavens with the renowned acoustics of the hall, deep inside the Eszterházy Palace. His Austrian National Anthem never sounded so at home. 2009 sees the 200th anniversary of Haydn’s death with a small raft of events peppering the city and his birthplace at Rohrau (40km away). Here you can see his first piano and his tiny baby Haydn cot in the original house, with a feeble short sighted woman sporting well-worn fingerless gloves as she collects your ticket money at the door.
The fertile country and the lake soon beckon. It is hard to believe that a mere hour’s drive from cosmopolitan Vienna brings you to the northernmost periphery of this vast countrified expanse of water. The pretty shore town of Neusiedl am See is where the well heeled Viennese drop by for a cocktail, or a weekend. Where white-sailed boats glint in the sunlight and windsurfers perform for a comfortably seated lakeside audience. This is the Sea of the Viennese. Food at the admirably trendy Mole West restaurant is best taken al fresco on the long wooden pier, surrounded only by smart Austrians and motorless yachts (no engines allowed on the lake). Featuring wild boar, freshwater-fish soup, game goulash and an ice cold stein of Austrian amber nectar, it is local, modern and very good. The sunsets are truly spectacular and free.
It is good to walk here. Good to hire a bicycle and meander the cross-border perimeter of the Neusiedlersee, now part of a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Bring good binoculars and keep an ornithological eye out for the migratory birds passing through. The air is crisp and clean, filled with the rustic flavour of simpler times. The water is balmy and still. The land lies ancient, rich with produce, walnuts glistening ripe and green on the tree (pocket nutcrackers recommended) whilst nearby pigs and deer roam wild in the national park. Nostalgia ain’t what it used to be, though here it is pretty close. The economy is built upon agriculture: animal farming, superb produce and famous vineyards. The land is spread with wildflower meadows and dotted with pristine Teutonic villages, all white plaster, fairy-tale turreted roofs and not a scrap of litter to be seen. After dark the roads are eerily quiet; the population is small and gathers in pockets around the odd bar, or perhaps just enjoys an early night.
Across the lake in Rust I go to meet the Triebaumers and uncover why the pigs matter. Before I reach my appointment, I hear a rhythmic tap-tap-tapping overhead and look up to see a six foot nest on a (sturdy) chimney, a pair of graceful white storks, brazenly preparing to deliver the latest crop of fresh babies to the unsuspecting citizens below.
Richard and his brother Herbert are the sons of well known Austrian winemaker Ernst Triebaumer. Between them they reveal a microcosm of modern Burgenland, reaping the harvests of beast, grape and vegetables they have sown across the bountiful land. The pulse of the relationship between this historic family of winegrowers, the land, their wines and the famous Mangalitza pigs, is palpable in the brothers smile and easy, rooted manner.
Richard, the elder of the two, left behind a flourishing career as a chef to return to his hometown of Rust am Neusiedlersee and open a thoroughly modern delikatessen,( much like a savvy yet suitably archaic French charcuterie) in a building dating from 1735 at the heart of the country town. His passion is the Mangalitza pig, an enormous curly ginger brute from which he makes aromatic speck, lard, schmaltz and salivatingly rich, thin slices of smoked ham. These creatures come rumbling through the amaranth on the brothers’ smallholding. Richard strokes their ears, rubs their bellies and offers them tasty leaves. He loves them and he kills them himself knowing their names. Primitive, respectful and beautiful.
Herbert has now been handed the reins of the winery by his father. It began its current incarnation in 1972 and spans a modest 20 hectares making 100,000 bottles of wine a year. His calm yet passionate approach is similar to Richard’s; wild herbs and flowers grow between the lush green vines, the grapes are painstakingly picked by hand and the resulting wines, including Blaufrankisch red, have rewarded him with numerous competition wins. He stands between the tended rows of ripening grapes, simultaneously proud and humble; he nurtured them yet they belong to the earth. Nature is allowed to co-exist with commerce and the balance is kept.
“We don’t want to make any more wine. This is enough.”
Everything they have, indeed all that they are, is from the land itself. They grow all their own produce making exquisite fruit marmalades, vegetable conserves with chilli and herbs, full of abundance and creativity. Since 1691 generations of Triebaumers have lived and worked here and the brothers take this sumptuous legacy of tradition and add, just a little, a complement to make it fresh, modern and tantalizing, yet never leaving behind the cultural roots, which are also their own.
This year sees the brothers completing the building of a new winery that looks like it has been there forever. Most of the work was done between them, including the carpentry. While their school friends played football, the brothers would build tree houses in the woods. “Our grandfathers were all woodworkers – they made horse carts. We still have these traditional skills.” There is an awareness of the past and their personal heritage. Like Native Americans, they honour what they take and respect nature, knowing too that they are at its mercy. To see them at work is to be nudged by lost memories, by a yearning for simpler times, in touch with the sacred.
Added to this rolling timelessness is just a little technology. In the smokehouse where Richard cold smokes hams a text is automatically sent if the temperature rises above optimum.
Before I leave this unexpected Austria behind, I stop off at Vienna’s famous Plachutta restaurant for the national dish, Tafelspitz; the slender, tender continental cousin of Irish Stew. Sublime boiled beef, simmered along with root vegetables and spices served straight from a copper skillet at the table. It really is shockingly good even with the slimy bone marrow, served in a bone, beside it. Emperor Franz Joseph I allegedly insisted on eating Tafelspitz daily. “His Majesty’s private table is never without a fine piece of boiled beef,” I hope he had plenty of greens with his. I silently honour the young Burgenland ox who gave his hind leg for this last meal of mine. In the end I am sad to leave all that rustic abundance behind to return to the greyer skies of our small island.
It will still be here, I know. In this little known region of former Hungary, where the Eastern European traditions have spread and melded with the West, the rhythm of life is as it has always been; plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose . . . or however they say that in Austrian.
MICHAEL RAFFAEL
1:04 pm, February 11, 2010
Reminds me of Grapes of Wrath. The guy could or probably should be a movie star. Great portrait!