It was a warm spring night just before a long weekend, and as the sun faded, the city came alive. Along the Danube Canal, diners settled down to their first aperitif at patio restaurants lit by lamps, just lit for the evening. Bicyclists zoomed by on the boardwalk, and little clusters of young people sat cross-legged by the water, in no hurry to get anywhere till Monday. As I crossed through the dense web of this area called the Bermuda Triangle, it was clear that these rollicking bars had already been rocking for hours, frosty mugs of this city’s famous beer flowing freely, as the steady roar of conversation was punctuated by raucous bursts of laughter.
I didn’t stop off for a frosty pint. I was single-minded, driven by one purpose—to secure and consume a steaming plate of the world’s most famous wiener schnitzel. But arriving at Figlmuller on Backerstrasse, things didn’t look good. A line-up spilled out the door, and down the block. Trying their second and what I hoped would be more-secret location down a back lane, just a few paces away, I arrived to find a tuxedoed waiter repeatedly telling hungry, aspiring diners that without a reservation, there was simply no way he could seat them.
