Dine and Die on the Danube Express

by Peter King

  I said to Herr Hofstatter, “No doubt you would have preferred to have the shapes made manually,” and he nodded. “Ja, but owing to space limitations, it is not possible. These machines can provide every shape at the twist of a knob.”

  In the storage rooms, we stopped. Rows of boxes, crates, jars, and bottles filled the shelves, and next to them were the freezers, some of them glass-fronted. I could see ducks, quail, pheasants, sides of beef, joints of veal, and saddles of venison. A separate unit contained fish and shellfish.

  “I am amazed,” I told him. “You have an incredible array of food. You must be able to produce almost any dish that a normal restaurant can offer.”

  Herr Hofstatter patted his stomach with both hands in a self-satisfied gesture. “I believe we can.” He led the way down the corridor. This section of the train had no windows, and the absence of a passing view emphasized the extraordinarily sensitive leveling mechanism of the Danube Express. There was none of the swaying and rocking usually associated with a moving train. It was almost as stable as if it was not moving at all.

  At this end of the coach were the spices and the herbs, the flavorings and the condiments, some in temperature-controlled cabinets. I stopped and looked at some labels. Once again, the range of products was remarkably comprehensive.

  I examined several. I said casually, “I am surprised to hear that Magda Malescu showed an interest in your very efficient operation. She enjoys food, I know; I just had lunch with her. But I didn’t realize that she was concerned with anything beyond eating it.”

  “Ah, but she is,” Herr Hofstatter assured me. “She asked me many questions.”

  “About what?” I asked, still examining labels.

  “She asked about bread, she wanted to know all the ingredients, and she asked about baking times, too. Then she asked about herbs—she wanted to know if we used fresh ones, and I told her that we did. She asked how often we replaced them, and I told her that we carry sufficient stock only for three weeks, so they are always fresh.”

  “Nice to know that your passengers are curious about such matters,” I said. “Did she ask anything else?”

  Herr Hofstatter didn’t express surprise at my continued inquisition, but to allay any possible suspicion, I said lightly, “She sounds as if she knows more about food than a lot of famous actresses. Most of them would say they had no time for such things.”

  “That is so,” Hofstatter said. “She asked too about our fruit and nuts. She said she thought it would be difficult to have fresh ones on board at all times.”

  I nodded. This was what I had been hoping for.

  Hofstatter continued. “I told her that we replenish supplies every trip. Of course, we do not make trips all the time. This is a special train.”

  “She didn’t eat any fruit or nuts during the lunch we had together,” I said. “It sounds as if she must be particularly fond of both.”

  “She did not talk about them any further,” said Hofstatter. A kitchen helper came along at that moment and sought Herr Hofstatter’s help in locating the olives. When that quest was satisfied, we walked back to the kitchens.

  I thanked the head chef for the tour of his domain and congratulated him on an extraordinarily competent operation under very difficult circumstances and restrictive space. I strolled back through the train, thinking over what I had just learned.

  When I walked back through the train after dressing for dinner, the view out of the left-side windows was of Slovakia and the view out of the windows to the right was of Hungary.

  The Alfold, the great Hungarian plain, offers a contrast to the hills and mountains visible during the earlier part of the journey. There can be great fascination in flat country, though, even if a river is not the best vantage point. Still, the cruise boats suffer from that disadvantage more than a train, and the Danube Express followed the track that frequently climbed up to the edge of the Danube Valley.

  The Alfold is nearly four hundred feet above sea level and is the most extensive plain in Europe. It did not require a great stretch of the imagination to picture the massed hordes of the Mongols sweeping across the Alfold—the Mongols, those wild warriors who lived, fought, slept, and ate on their horses. Their vast numbers would stretch to the horizon and strike terror into the hearts of all who saw them.

  They attacked, massacring men, women, children, and beasts with equal savagery. Their faces covered with long whiskers, their dress of rough animal skins, the crooked sabers and their fierce yells as they butchered entire populations earned them the deserved name of “Barbarians.” Now, with a gorgeous crimson sunset behind us, it was all too easy to see why contemporary historians said, “The land ran red with blood.”

  They took no satisfaction in conquest and occupation. They were not farmers or traders or empire-builders—they lived only for war. Battle was their only satisfaction. Many writers have spoken of the facility with which they poured across the plains, unimpeded by mountains and unhampered by forests or difficult terrain. The Alfold was a feature of geography that facilitated the satisfaction of their ambitions.

  Groves of birch trees and pines were dotted here and there, and orchards could be seen, a ghostly blue in the evening light. In places, the banks of the Danube were willow-grown, while, at the limit of vision, vineyards lay over the land like great blankets.

  The Danube Express wove a slow but steady route along the rim of the river valley, the automatic leveling mechanism of the coaches canceling out the sporadic tilt of the track. Darkness was falling fast, and lights twinkled on in villages, tiny chips of light in the darkness.

  In the dining coach, one table was occupied and caught my immediate attention. Paolo Conti was there, and his companion was none other than Irena Koslova. She looked charming in a dress of soft green with puffy sleeves. She gave me a smile and Conti disbursed a condescending nod. Concealing my disappointment commendably, I smiled back and took a table farther down the coach. I had planned on talking more with Conti myself, but maybe Irena could do it better.

  I ordered a gin and tonic for fortification and devoted my attention to reading the menu. While I was doing so, Helmut Lydecker and Herman Friedlander came in, engrossed in conversation, and sat down at a table together. A magician and a music conductor—not such a strange pair, I supposed, both entertainers though in different spheres.

  I was still studying the menu when my drink arrived. Erich Brenner came in, speaking to those at every table in an apparent goodwill gesture.

  “Everything going well?” he asked me jovially, and with equal bonhomie I said that it was. He lowered his voice and leaned a little closer. He avoided looking conspiratorial and managed to make it appear nothing more than friendly. “The investigation is making progress?” he asked. A tinge of hope was discernible in his tone.

  “Yes,” I said, “it is making progress.”

  “We will be in Budapest soon,” he said. “We need to be able to convince the authorities there that there is no reason to impede our journey onward.”

  “I am sure we will be able to do that,” I said, and hoped he couldn’t see the tongue in my cheek.

  “Good man,” he said. He gave me his best company smile and moved on down the coach.

  Elisha Tabor came in wearing a tailored suit that looked a little severe. She looked around imperiously and chose a table. She had no sooner sat than Henri Larouge entered, saw her, and made his way over to her table. The two of them had a short conversation. He was looking persuasive, and she was seeming unreceptive. Their voices did not carry and lipreading is a skill that I ought to acquire, but I have not yet done so. Consequently, I was not certain what was happening, but Larouge tightened his lips, said something quickly, and went off to another table. It looked like a brush-off from where I sat.

  I devoted myself to the menu. I chose a smoked mackerel pâté to start, to be followed by Rollmopse. These brine-pickled herrings are a German specialty, but many neighboring countries have adopted them, and their populari
ty has spread enough that we eat them in America and England, and the restaurateurs are sufficiently unoriginal as to call them by the same name, “rollmops.”

  In France, rollmops are put into a marinade that is based on white wine, but the Germans prefer the herrings much more acidic in taste. They use vinegar instead of the wine and add dill pickles and onions.

  The main course required a lengthier decision. The Escallopes of Veal cooked in Dubrovnik Style sounded enticing. It is not a dominant cuisine, but the waiter explained that onions and mushrooms are sautéed in butter and seasoned with thyme and bay leaves. Rice and chicken broth are added, then cooked in the oven until the rice is tender. It is then pureed, and egg yolks, unsweetened whipped cream, and grated Parmesan cheese are added. The escallopes are sautéed in butter, sherry is added, and the liquid reduced. The sauce is added, the rice mixture is spread on top, and Parmesan cheese on top of that. The dish is heated quickly under the broiler till golden brown.

  If the chefs were going to spend that much time cooking this dish, I thought it was only fair to order it. I did so after considering first a Slovak specialty—pork chops with apricots—and second a German dish—baby chickens with sauerkraut. The birds used are very small, the size of the French “poussins,” and I knew that Cornish game hens are used in this dish in the USA.

  The Stanton Walburgs had come in meanwhile and were interrogating the waiter about the menu. I noticed that Karl Kramer was not present, then realized that I had never seen him in the dining coach.

  Then came the grand entrance. Magda Malescu, with Dr. Stolz once again in attendance, paused dramatically in the doorway, lit up the coach with a smile, and swept down the corridor. She smiled delightfully at me in passing, and the doctor bade me a good evening. She wore a gown that she must have kept after performing in Madame Dubarry.

  My pate pâté was excellent, with just the right addition of Cognac. It was served on small crackers of indefinable origin but unobtrusive, as they should be. The Rollmopse were as mouth-puckering as expected. I drank San Pellegrino with those two courses as a wine would be ruined, completely overwhelmed by the vinegar, the onions, and the dill pickles. I chose the Italian sparkling water as it is high in minerals and less gassy than many of its competitors.

  With the veal, I had ordered—at the waiter’s recommendation—a bottle of Szamorodni, a Hungarian white wine. A light red wine would go well with the veal, too, he said, but this was a white more assertive than most and was equal to the task. Both dry and sweet wines are offered with the Szamorodni label, and this one was pale golden in color and very much like a good Riesling.

  The Veal Dubrovnik was a rich, satisfying dish. The escallopes were small, maybe two inches in diameter and tender enough to cut with a fork. The use of pureed rice is unusual, a clever way of avoiding the cream so loved by Middle European chefs, while the liberal application of Parmesan cheese gave it substance. A few tiny roasted potatoes came with it and just a spoonful of slim green beans, cooked then sautéed quickly in seasoned oil.

  I wasn’t really watching the table where Irena Koslova and Paolo Conti were sitting facing each other, but I could hardly help noticing that they were having some long conversations. They were eating and drinking, too, though I couldn’t see what had been their choices.

  My waiter came, highly recommending the desserts. “The pastry chef is from Vienna,” he told me. “He spent many years at Sacher’s.”

  I knew the restaurant. It played a prominent role in one of the most publicized incidents in the history of cuisine. In the heyday of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the famous Sachertorte had been a dessert that no visitor to Vienna could leave without tasting. Sacher’s Restaurant, where it was served, became world-renowned.

  Then the Café Demel began serving it, too. Sacher’s claimed that Demel’s could not do that—it was their specialty. Franz Sacher had concocted the confection for Prince von Metternich, they said. Demel’s kept on serving it, claiming they had the original recipe.

  A huge court case began, and most of Europe hung on every line uttered by the learned counsels. Fortunes were spent by the protagonists—and presumably fortunes were made by the legal profession. Demel’s went bankrupt and was sold to a conglomerate, while Sacher’s general manager committed suicide. Dessert can be a tough business.

  Sacher’s is still there today though. It’s on Philharmonikastrasse, and much of the secret of making Sachertorte has been leaked. It is a chocolate sponge cake and, after baking, it is sliced in two and filled with apricot jam.

  “I don’t suppose he bakes—” I began, and the waiter smiled.

  “No, Meinherr, he doesn’t bake Sachertorte but he does make an excellent Salzburger Nockerl.”

  That is another outstanding Austrian dessert, and I opted for it without hesitation. It is a soufflé that offers the diner the chance to feel righteous as it contains only eggs, flour, lemon, milk, and a little sugar. Raspberry syrup is offered on the side, but may be declined if one wishes to avoid shattering that righteous image.

  It was indeed superb, and I told the waiter that he could convey my compliments to the pastry chef. I stole a few more glances in the direction of that other table. Conti was giving Irena his Italian smile. She was listening intently to what he was saying. I reflected on the excellent meal I had just enjoyed and pushed out all other thoughts—except the one about Magda Malescu and her visit to the kitchens and the food storage coach. That should tell me a lot, and I kept turning it over and over in my mind to find the kernel of knowledge in that nut …

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  TINY LIGHTS PULSED BY, fleeting fireflies in the coal black night. I watched for a while from the seclusion of my compartment. A spatter of rain came, miniscule drops flung at the glass so suddenly that I jerked back. It was during one of those moments when I felt a pang of nostalgia for the old days of train travel—the thump of the wheels over the rail joints, the shriek of the wind past ill-fitting windows, and the rolling of the coach. All gone now, eclipsed by technology, which gave us instead, quiet, calm, and balance.

  I thought I remembered the rhythmic thump, the steely rattle and the hypnotic sway of the coach as being conducive to sleep, but maybe nostalgia was overplaying its role. I pulled the curtain and must have been asleep within minutes.

  The seductive aroma of coffee filled the air of the dining coach the next morning. Many passengers preferred to have breakfast in their compartments, and there were empty tables as I entered.

  I was enjoying a glass of Italian orange juice while I contemplated the breakfast choice. It is different from the orange juice of Spain or Israel, the two leaders in the field, as it is bloodred. First-time visitors to Italy who order orange juice send it back when they see it, complaining that they have been brought tomato juice instead. It is, in fact, squeezed from the blood oranges that the Italians prefer.

  I selected a bowl of Swiss muesli with pineapple and pumpernickel bread with butter made earlier on the train. The waiter looked disappointed, but I was being prudent after the excellent meal of the previous night. He offered me a choice of newspapers—Paris Matin, Frankfurter Zeitung, Zurcher Tagblatt, and the London Times. He had others, he said, but to carry all exceeded his lifting capacity. He mentioned the papers of Vienna, Budapest, Berlin, Rome, and was prepared to go on, but I stopped him there. I took the Zurich and the London papers and saw that they were both that morning’s edition. I had expected no less from the ever-efficient Danube Express, but I asked the waiter how they received them so promptly, and he told me that they were downloaded into the train’s computer and printed out almost simultaneously.

  I was partway into a juicy scandal in Switzerland and finishing the muesli when I became aware that Irena Koslova was standing there. “May I join you?” she asked.

  She was wearing a casual light-wool dress in mauve and russet colors, and her hair looked as if she had come directly from the beauty shop.

  “Certainly,” I said.

  She s
at opposite me and ordered a half grapefruit and black coffee from the waiter, who appeared as if by magic.

  “That’s all?” I asked.

  “That’s all I ever have for breakfast. So—did you enjoy your dinner last night?”

  “It was very good indeed. All German-Austrian dishes.”

  “Mine was very good, too. I had fish.”

  “You looked as if you were enjoying yourself,” I said.

  “I was doing what you told me to do.”

  “Me? What did I tell you to do?”

  “You said I would make a good detective.”

  I took a final mouthful of muesli. There was just enough milk. “I didn’t say that,” I protested, “you said that.”

  “No, I asked you if I would make a good detective, and you said I would if I weren’t so attractive.”

  “Did I say that?” I reached for the pumpernickel and the butter.

  She waved her grapefruit spoon. “Well, something like that—anyway, that’s what I was doing last night. I was being a detective. I decided you need an assistant.”

  She gave me a triumphant look.

  “Good,” I said, perhaps a little faintly. “What did you learn?”

  She attacked the grapefruit with vigor. It didn’t stand a chance. “Paolo Conti is something of a mystery man. He told me about his writing for the European Wine Journal but when I asked him what other magazines or newspapers he writes for, he was vague. I asked him about wine festivals and wine fairs, and he says he attends some of them but on an irregular basis.”

  She put the spoon down, having achieved the complete demolition of the grapefruit. “I asked him about VinItalia—you know, the Italian Wine Fair they have in Verona every year—”

  “Yes, I know it, I have attended a few.”

  “I said he must know the president, Luigi Barcarolli.”

  “And did he?”

  “He hesitated, then he said he didn’t exactly know him but he had met him.”

  “Maybe he had,” I suggested.