Real deal veal
Schnitzel as it’s meant to be
If you want the full-on Austrian experience, look for a garden restaurant with Schnitzel on the menu. Friends recommended this venerable family-run spot, and they did not steer me wrong.
Unless you’re vegetarian or vegan,[1] you’ve probably had Wiener Schnitzel. Or, more accurately, you’ve eaten something that went by this name on a menu. Sadly, in all likelihood, you’ve been given a mere approximation of the real thing, the dish that is Vienna’s greatest gift to the world—yes, I’m putting it ahead of croissants, [2] Sigmund Freud, and the waltz.
So, how do you know if what sits on a plate before you qualifies as authentic Wiener Schnitzel? Your first clue comes from what the dish is called. The first part of the name tells us very little, just that the dish comes from Wien (Vienna for English speakers). It’s the second word that matters. In German, schneiden means “to slice or cut,” a Schnitt (a slice) is the result, and Schnitzel is its diminutive (literally “little cut” or cutlet). [3]
That means you should look for a piece of meat pounded as thin as possible without tearing holes. This svelte profile allows the cutlet to cook through in a flash, browning its coating without toughening its interior. If you’re faced with something thicker than about 4-5mm (without breading), you’re looking at a chicken-fried steak or a breaded pork chop. Slabs (or patties of ground meat, perish the thought) are simply not schnitzel. The schnitzel should also be quite broad, closer to a sheet of paper than a postcard—pounded correctly, it should spread out like an opened book.
Traditionally, the meat must be veal. But modern sensibilities (even in Vienna) have made calf carne non grate, so pork is an acceptable substitute. Poultry is not: we aren’t seeking chicken Parmesan or its ilk.
Weather permitting, the Viennese like nothing better than dining al fresco, and the city is full of restaurants with front or back gardens—a reminder that Vienna has always embraced sensual pleasures (provided they’re enjoyed in a seemly fashion).
The breading should be wafer-thin and undulate with bubbles and pockets. If the underlying structure of flour-egg-crumbs has been handled correctly, steam will puff up and separate the coating in the short time it spends in the skillet. The crumbs will be oily and dense if cooked too slowly or at too low a temperature. That is Kentucky Fried Schnitzel, a different beast entirely.
Finally, echtes Wiener Schnitzel is served with lemon wedges and nothing else. I’m a crazy person, so I like a little black pepper as well, risking deportation if an Austrian catches me with the grinder.
If your “schnitzel” is smooth, you’re dealing with an imposter. The wrinkled surface is a sure sign you’ve got the real thing in front of you.
If I’m describing something you’ve already eaten, congratulations, and please forgive my mansplaining. But if all you’ve experienced are meat matts masquerading as true schnitzel, then seek out the real thing immediately (whether in Vienna or elsewhere). Life is too short for insipid impersonations.
1 I believe there are misguided plant-based versions of this dish. In a world full of delicious foods for herbivores (two-thirds of Indian cuisine and a good half of Chinese cooking), why is it necessary to create sad ersatz versions of what carnivores consume? This is the Tofurky Fallacy: the dubious notion that vegetarians pine for meat dishes they once enjoyed or see others eating around them., Therefore, they crave re-engineered flesh—so long that it bears some passing resemblance to the original, they won’t care if it’s nasty to eat. See my other diatribes on Food Flaggelants and Alimentary Fascism. ↺ BACK
2 Vienna has to share credit for the croissant with Paris. It’s essentially an Austrian kipferl (a crescent-shaped bread roll found under different names throughout Central Europe) made with French ingredients (puff pastry) and technique. Despite its mixed origins, the croissant still takes pride of place among Vienna’s many delicious baked goods. ↺ BACK
3 In my godmother’s family, they called a tiny sliver of food a schnivy, as in “I’m almost full, just cut me a schnivy of the pork roast.”↺ BACK