What I enjoy most about enjoying a grilled sausage or wiener in Europe is the lack of buns. They only get in the way. In German-speaking and Scandinavian countries, in contrast to their Mediterranean peers, so does silverware.
The protocol usually follows thusly: take the chosen sausage, or wurst, handed to you by a burly peddler, and hope for the best. The wurst is usually presented on what resembles a flattened French fry boat or on a napkin, which in turn serves as a palette. Splotched on the palette are some serious mustards; angry, spicy and no-nonsense, into which the encased meat is submerged. The sausage is then handled deftly on its way to the mouth. Take that sentence out of context.
Most of the time, though, you’re rewarded with a succulent, flavorful, oral orgy making you instantly wonder why you would ever eat a store-bought hot dog ever again. In budget-decimating Zurich, a wiener is also the cheapest meal in town. I resigned myself to such a reality once I saw how shockingly expensive a restaurant meal – any restaurant meal – was.
Consequently, a whole other reality I had no choice but to surrender to was that of behaving like a true budget traveler, a heading that for the most part I’ve been able to masquerade under. The exception, of course, being the gobs of currency left on top of restaurant bills; the indiscriminate handfuls of pesos/florints/pounds/lyra given to street-side food vendors; the small ransoms paid to market stall workers. The quest to try and cram every culture, core and all, into my digestive tract has never been a cheap one.
Several days before Christmas and the final day of my two-month slog through Eastern Europe and Egypt, my twenty-four hour layover in Zurich had to be especially inexpensive. No small feat as the Swiss have one of the highest per capita incomes in the known universe. Food aside, everything was inflated. The Swiss Franc might as well have been a goddamned gold doubloon; frankly speaking.
So I tried my best to keep it cheap. I had begun by booking the cheapest hotel I could find online, a week prior. When I had arrived at the one-star Zic Zac Rock and Roll Hotel, the attendant manning the front desk nonchalantly asked me if I would prefer the Janis Joplin room or the Bryan Adams room. Was that a real question? I had hoped for The Rolling Stones room but it was a quad. The Who and Led Zeppelin were taken and I couldn’t find a Clash room listed.
I took my key and hoisted my pack over my shoulder. Walking down what more or less resembled a hallway in a hostel, I remember wondering if trashing a room in a self-styled rock and roll themed hotel would be just too ironic.
I finally set my cumbersome bag down in a small hovel about the size of Ms. Joplin’s discography. It was very clean, though, and was equipped with a sink and a surprisingly comfortable bed. About the only thing distinguishing a Janis Joplin room from your ordinary, run-of-the-mill room was one of her album covers and a half-naked, black and white photo of her on the wall. I suppose I didn’t know what to expect from a Janis Joplin room, I had just hoped for a little more Joplin and a little less room.
Since I arrived in the city center that morning on a quick and clean express train from the airport, I had spent the first few hours wandering the storybook (and I hate using that word, but it fits), narrow, cobbled streets of the old town. Zurich is cold in the winter, but unlike past winters, it was snow-less. In a country where skiing is tantamount to breathing, this was a local problem. Likewise, I had wanted to see snow sitting on the spires of old Calvinist churches and the soft glow of weathered, yellow streetlights struggling to penetrate the whiteness.
I didn’t, as such, get my wish. What I was reminded of, on the other hand, was how no place does Christmas like Europe. It’s not snobbery; it’s a fact. All along the city’s main shopping street, the Bahnhofstrasse, simple white lights were strung in neat rows, hanging vertically from wires suspended above. They elegantly lit up the pedestrian walkway without having to resort to candy-bright red and green lights or two metric tons of tinsel. The several incarnations of Santa were nowhere to be seen. Neither, for that matter, was a ‘Sale’ sign.
Surprisingly, Zurich (and luck) made budget traveling relatively easy. Admission to the Kunsthaus Zürich, one of Europe’s flagship modern art museums, was coincidentally free that day and, as I strolled through the minimalist art space, I couldn’t help but smile at the thought of avoiding their normal fifteen Euro extortion.
Likewise, the sparklingly efficient city buses I took to reach the excellent Buehrle gallery in the more suburban reaches of town, were free for me to hop on and off of with abandon. I’m assuming the French and German instructions on the ticket machines confirmed my behavior but there didn’t seem to be a translator anywhere in sight.
The rest of the day was spent aimlessly – and affordably – meandering through the Old Town; crossing and re-crossing the Limmat River and finding new alleyways to wander down. Dozens of interesting cafes and niche stores were liberally hidden around dark corners and winding, narrow streets. Zurich was so easy to love, yet hard to buy. For an avid shopper, which I was not, a place like Zurich must be a window-shopping hell. How could even the locals manage to eek out a living where a cup of hot chocolate set me back twelve dollars?
“It is expensive for us, too.” A jovial man in his mid-forties said while his wife eagerly nodded in agreement.
Hearing that was a confirmation of insanity. At Kropf, a restaurant highly recommended on the Internet, the couple, whose table they sat me at, were two immensely engaging people. While happy to join me in bemoaning the economic state of affairs, they were equally happy to recommend a good Swiss brew to wash down the only sit-down meal I, and my bank account, allowed myself to have.
The restaurant boasted a few Renaissance-esque frescoes plastering the walls and ceiling. Although, I appreciated the dramatic feel they gave the room, they were still maybe just a tad over the top. I sipped a liter stein of frigid Cardinal beer as the Swiss couple tried to explain the country’s bizarre political structure and its confusing official language policy. As the husband and wife battled with their own language confusion, I scanned the room for any other obvious tourists only to find myself alone.
By the time the waitress had made her third appearance, the happy couple wished me a merry Christmas and bade me farewell. Talking to them relaxed me and I was sincerely touched by their openness. A distant observer might have believed we were old friends, sharing a meal and not the complete strangers we were, brought together by chance and large beers.
Before leaving, the couple and the waitress both agreed that my menu selection was, “very typical Zurich.” I had hoped she wasn’t referring to the price. While calf’s face in a vinaigrette sauce is probably not typical anywhere – save France – I was very curious as to why just reading it on the menu made my stomach growl, or moo, as it were.
Not but a few minutes later, a stout, gray-haired woman was led to my table, and seated diagonally from me. Diane, too, was generally cheery and before long, I was talking it up with her about Italian travel, food, iPods and, of course, how expensive all of those things were in Switzerland. I usually hate dwelling on money matters but it seemed to have been not only a great icebreaker in Zurich but damn near the talk of the town.
When my face came out, I was starving. Beer has that effect on me. Far from being an actual calf face with eyes, ears, etc., the dish was the small tender bits of, primarily, cheek meat. The sauce was light, yet exceedingly flavorful. Accompanying the calf’s mug was a helping of traditional rosti, a slightly greasy, shredded potato treat resembling hashed browns. At some point in the meal, a salad also made an appearance.
Merely two bites in and the verdict was rendered: Kropf gave good face. Diane was enjoying an upscale wurst, at a downscale price. After dinner, she bought me an espresso and ordered herself a coffee, “with a little something in it,” and we chatted about Swiss Christmas traditions while she finished her cigarette.
When her cup emptied, the nurturing Diane eventually paid her tab and said goodbye, too. I lingered on for a few more moments, surrounded by the simmering din. A double espresso goes down quicker when drinking alone, so I finished soon thereafter and then asked for the bill.
Considering my location, I wasn’t too shell-shocked by the final price. Forty-five dollars for some calf, a salad and a beer wouldn’t be that exorbitant if I wasn’t really watching my francs. The assorted company alone was more than worth it.
Cold air billowed out of my mouth with every breath while trekking up the steep hills of the Old Town, post face. I took several postcard-worthy shots of Zurich at night from bridges or atop various outlooks. I could feel it was going to be an early night as the pains and strains of two months of travel reasserted its presence just in case I had forgotten. Not to say I couldn’t feel the allure of a dimly lit bar or a dram of whiskey cooled by two ice cubes. My joints and my mind, however, were telling me to pack it in.
Janis’s mattress couldn’t have been more therapeutic. Cozily staring at her fake gold record on the wall, something dawned on me; the last four letters in the name Zurich. Rich indeed.
