You have to love a city whose most treasured institution is the coffeehouse. In a Viennese kaffeehaus, all are on equal footing, tourist and seasoned habitué alike. Upon taking a seat in a Viennese kaffeehaus, a formally dressed waiter materializes. "Grüß Gott," he will say, the traditional Austrian greeting, and then await your order. No idle chit-chat. A certain aura of reserve. He is a busy man, but takes civilized pains to conceal it.Entering the Café Schwarzenberg, I’m greeted by such a kaffeehaus waiter, one who could easily pass for an Austrian version of Jeeves. He attentively waits as I give my order in labored German.
"Ein Einspänner, bitte." I’m encouraged that he seems to understand; no doubt he speaks flawless English but does me the courtesy of allowing me to mangle his language.
"Und... ein… Gemischter Salat." A curt nod, the ghost of a smile, and he glides wordlessly away. I lean back with a sigh.
A coffeehouse is an oasis of peace, a "place for people who want to be alone, but need company to do it," as kaffeehaus wit Alfred Polgar once put it. Much more than a place to drink coffee and eat pastry, a coffeehouse is the perfect place to read the newspaper, meet a lover, write a letter, or even hatch a political plot. Once you've taken a seat, it is yours for as long as you care to stay. The waiter will leave you alone yet is quickly summoned by a glance in his direction.
My salad and Einspänner – espresso mixed with milk and topped with whipped cream. - were both delicious. The waiter served them with a flourish, proud of his skill as he deftly balanced the silver coffee tray in one hand. Coffee in Vienna is invariably accompanied by a glass of water with a silver spoon balanced just so across the top. Always. You can depend on it.

Kaffeehaus fare
In the booth next to me, a willowy young woman flips open her cell phone and begins a quiet conversation in Russian. I’m shamelessly eavesdropping, as I sip my einspänner, curious to see how much Russian I can remember. This conversation is easy; she’s giving directions to a friend who is coming to meet her. Her next conversation is in low and rapidly spoken French. No conversation is loud in a coffeehouse; instead, there’s a low buzz: the sound of the contented kaffeehaus hive.
The Café Schwarzenberg sits in the heart of old Vienna, smack on the Kärntner Ring. The Imperial Hotel lies just across the street and the opera house is only two blocks away. While it’s a traditional coffee house in every respect, it has made one concession to modern times and offers a separate room for non-smokers.
Outside, the traffic on the Ringstraße reaches its afternoon crescendo. Inside, I "kill time in order not to be killed by it," as Polgar once put it. And order another cup of coffee.