Kräutertopfen

The first time I tasted Kräutertopfen properly was at an Almhütte above the Salzkammergut. I was nine or ten, halfway through a summer walk with Gretel and my grandmother Eva. We'd been going since morning and I was complaining about my boots. The woman at the hut set down a crock of white spread flecked with green, a board of bread so dark it was nearly black, and said nothing. I ate three slices before I remembered to be tired.

Kräutertopfen is the simplest thing in Austrian cooking and one of the hardest to get right for exactly that reason. It's fresh Topfen, Austria's beloved quark, mixed with whatever herbs are growing that morning. Chives, parsley, dill, a few leaves of lemon balm if you have it. A whisper of garlic. Good salt. That's it. There's nowhere to hide in this recipe. If your Topfen is bland, your spread is bland. If your herbs are old and tired, you'll taste it in every bite. This is the kind of cooking where the shopping matters more than the technique.

At my restaurant in Salzburg, I serve Kräutertopfen as part of the Brettljause, the cold board of spreads and cured meats that Austrians eat at a Heuriger or Buschenschank with a glass of Grüner Veltliner. It's the first thing people reach for, and it's always the first thing gone. There's something about cool, tangy Topfen against a dense slice of rye that makes you stop talking and start eating. Good Austrian home cooking at its most honest.