Gypsy Kitchens: Rösti In The Mountains

There’s nothing like cooking out on a warm August evening, when the light lingers just long enough to finish eating and the air cools to a neutral, delicious temperature. On one recent summer night, we made a feast that was probably twice as big as it should have been. The meal centered around a dish that we’ve been meaning to make, but have dreaded consuming. It’s called “rösti,” and it’s an essentially Liechtensteinische food.
Really, rösti is an alpine food, and it goes by as many names as there are mountain valleys, it seems. Some places call the stuff "deruny", others spell it "röschti" - in America, we might refer to it as “cheesy hashbrowns,” or something like that. Basically, rösti is fried potato with seasonings, often glued together with melted cheese. We decided to make the recipe more interesting and colorful with some other ingredients. At a public park in Triesen, Liechtenstein, we fried it over an open fire as part of a big cookout. To arrange around our potatoes on the plate, we grilled up some mushrooms, a trout, and a selection of wursts. Rebecca seasoned her fish simply with salt, pepper and a few chives and slices of lemon inside it’s chest. I just put the wurst over the coals and let it sit.
The park is nearby our campsite and is usually occupied at dinnertime by a few families and their grilling sausages. There’s a short zipline, a few swings, a little splashpool and an assortment of picnic tables and grills. A pile of firewood is provided by the town, and the fireplaces are open to any and everyone. We had a good time watching the kids play around us, and feeling as though we were part of a community.To make the rösti, we started with packaged rösti potatoes. They are conveniently stocked in every grocery store in Switzerland and Liechtenstien, and are little more than boiled and grated potatoes. We would have done the extra work in a kitchen, but decided against it given that we were cooking in the field. Some packaged rösti is pre-seasoned and oiled, but your home-cooked potatoes wont be. To one pound of boiled and grated potatoes, add about three tablespoons of olive oil, some salt, a teaspoon of sugar (or honey, our choice) and a bit of fresh pepper. It would be great to throw in some dill, parsley or paprika.The mixture could be complete here, but it can also be better. We added some carrots – a combined half pound of regular orange ones, a yellow variety and a purple type. Also, one red jalapeno pepper, two cloves of garlic and one julienned, medium-sized apple. The apple was inspired by another alpine region dish called “Älplermagronen”, which is basically pasta, potato and cheese. It’s often served with apple sauce, which we thought might go well with our dish. Not wanting to take the time to stew apples, we just added the fruit into our mix.

I should add that this isn't so much a recipe as it is a suggestion. The idea: don't stop at potatoes when frying up root vegetables. Turnip, fennel root or beets could also make a rösti-like dish better by providing some different flavor note. Our version turned out sweeter than traditional recipes. Beets would be sweeter still; fennel could transform it with a little bitterness.

It’s pretty easy once everything is grated – just sauté an onion in a large pan, then add the grated mess of roots and fruit. Cook it until the carrots (or other raw vegetables) are done, stirring occasionally. It helps to add a bit more oil to the pan in the beginning. Stir enough to allow everything to cook, but not too much that the potatoes can’t brown. After about twenty minutes, or when everything seems well cooked through, mash and smush everything into a large cake. Sprinkle a large handful of chives over the whole thing, then grate a hard, pungent cheese over the top. We used Appenzeller, which is a local specialty (though Swiss, not Liechtensteinische), but Gruyere works well and sharp cheddar would do in a pinch. Let your rösti cook for a few minutes more, until the cheese has melted down into the cracks.
Rösti is a dish that’s best appreciated at altitude after a long hike – we first had it in a Berggasthaus in Switzerland. Though Liechtenstein isn’t a particularly high country, it is steep, and this meal followed a long day of strenuous walking. The size (if not the density) of the meal probably has more to do with the allure of grilling, though. It's hard not to want to cook dozens of things when there's real fire involved.

'Bads' Never Felt So Good

On a sweltering, mid-August day (hotter than normal, according to everyone we asked), we visited Freibad Muhleholz, the outdoor swimming pool in Vaduz. It’s an impressive public swimming space, with an Olympic sized pool, a diving pool, a tall, twisting water slide and a third pool with some sort of strange, large, rubber ball at its center. Primped teenage girls served themselves up on cement tanning platforms and their male counterparts stopped by between dives. Most of the jumpers were younger and less skilled. Some didn’t wind up jumping at all. There's a grassy lawn and beach volleyball court, but even the most intent sun-worshippers sought shade the day we were there. We're in the middle of a heat wave.
Liechtenstein is the only double-landlocked country in Europe and only one of two double-landlocked countries in the world. This means that it doesn’t border any oceans and none of the countries that border it touch any ocean either. So, basically, there’s no such thing as hitting the coast. Understandably, Liechtenstein is swimming in swimming pools or “bads.” “Freibads” are outdoor ones and “hallenbads” are indoor ones. This freibad is at our campsite and is almost consistently occupied. It’s hard to resist when your shelter (i.e. tent) sits in the sun all day. Plus, you can’t beat these views.
In the town of Schellenberg, we moved indoors – both to a bed and a ‘hallenbad.’ You can hear splashing from almost every backyard in the small, residential village. Aboveground pools, some inflatable, some more permanent, can be spotted behind most fences. Not that I’m a Peeping Tom or anything. The best part about the Hotel Krone’s indoor pool was its openness. An entire wall was windowed, which made the room brighter and prettier. Swimming noodles, water weights and boogie boards were piled up on one end, next to an exercise bicycle.
The other indoor pool we’ve utilized is in Eschen and is a lot different than we expected. The speedo-wearing lap swimmers and excited kids were predictable, but the wooden ceilings, paper lanterns and windowed walls made it feel a lot less enclosed, unnatural and gymnasium-like. The atmosphere (and less oppressive chlorine levels) made us feel a lot less guilty for being inside on a summer day. Everyone likes a good swim and double-land-locked Liechtenstein knows that sometimes you’ve just gotta do what you’ve gotta do.

Very Small Farmland

When we take pictures and write things for this blog, we tend to crop out the strips of banks and car dealerships that take up so much room in Europe. In Liechtenstein, that process of snipping and excluding can be somewhat difficult and tedious. It's not impossible though - this was a land, until very recently, of farmers. In some ways, it can still seem that way.
Liechtenstein is a country that seems to exist at the crux of past and present - suspended, almost, between fast paced development and a desire to remain pastoral. There is a chance that the entire country could become a sea of cement towers, built up in an economic flurry of Swiss francs and low regulation. It's already partway there - there are about twice as many businesses registered in Liechtenstein as there are residents. It's a surprise, then, to find traffic stopped - rows of Porsches and Audis in either direction - while herds of Brown Swiss are brought in for milking.
There are farms here, and a whole community of people who have held onto a lifestyle that seems at odds with the funds and letterbox companies that have recently proliferated. Especially where the Rhine has carved out Liechtenstein's valley, and there is a little flat land, the farms appear to thrive. They have more and better equipment than farmers elsewhere, and their barnyards are abustle with laborers and people. Higher up in the Alps, the fields are steeper and less productive, but the farmers there still manage to seem prosperous.

I was amazed when I learned that only ten percent of Liechtenstien's area was used primarily for agriculture. Walking through the valley and the upper meadows, it seems that the entire country is practically covered with corn and grazing cows. In the highest folds of the mountains, the hundreds of plunking cowbells sound like rain in a tin bucket. Alpine dairies have actually experienced a resurgence in recent years, profiting from a newfound appreciation for small-scale production and traditionally made foodstuffs.
Part of the reason that the country isn’t more agricultural is that the bulk of Liechtenstein is unsuitable for anything other than rock-climbing. Also, much of the farmland has been converted into parking lots and for use beneath the walls of commercial buildings. One could be forgiven, actually, for thinking that the screen of highrises along the main road is the entirety of the principality. Driving through Liechtenstien on the primary thoroughfare can feel like traversing a bad stretch of suburban New Jersey. Behind this tax-haven screen, though, another world lies somewhat undisturbed.
It isn't all the way it used to be, though. The country just isn't big enough to support some of the larger farms, and hay and silage need to be imported from neighboring Switzerland and Austria. The feed comes in by the truckload, boosting milk and beef production. It brings involuntary thoughts of commodities trading to mind, and suspicions about how much of this prosperity is actual and how much of it is subsidized in order for the principality to appear more rustic than it actually is.
Really, there's a kind of farm nostalgia here that is maybe more visible than it should be. The principality overplays its past to hide some of the soullessness of its present. One weekend morning, a long procession of dress-shirt-wearing men (and women) rode through Vaduz on their gleaming antique tractors. Neither the drivers nor the machines looked as though they had been close to a farm in a long time, and the whole thing wasn't much different than the usual catwalk of classic and exotic cars that streams through town.
But it is nice to be here, in a place where roadside farm stands (however scantily stocked) stand nearby Raiffeisen and Citigroup. It's great to be able to walk for a long ways through old pastures and to see men cutting hay with scythes. It feels almost more enchanting, given the contrast. And how couldn’t you forgive a country for trying its hardest to maintain a cultural heritage – especially when the nation is so small and could so easily be overwhelmed.

Liechtenstein on Display

It made sense that within two weeks in Liechtenstein, we'd visit all of the country's museums. However, we weren't quite expecting to hit them all in one day. That’s what 95degree weather will do to you. The two most important museums in Liechtenstein, located right in the center of Vaduz, are the Kunstmuseum and the Landesmuseum (Art and National, respectively). We began with the latter, which didn't allow photographs. It's a shame, really, because this was absolutely the best national museum we've ever visited. Exhibitions were along the same lines as so many others - stuffed fauna, excavated spearheads, old maps – but were displayed exquisitely. It was beautiful, really, stylish and creative. But you'll just have to take our word for it.
The Kunstmuseum was also a photo-free zone, but that's to be more expected when you're talking about artistic copyrights. (This was taken through a window outside). The Private Art Collection of the Prince of Liechtenstein is actually housed in Vienna, but it's hard to mind too much when you have this place. The collection of international modern and contemporary art was great and the building was great to walk through. Not only did the curators take pains to make each room its own thematic experience, they also detailed their thought process and reasoning in well-written (and translated) pamphlets. It's nice when an art museum experience is enjoyable no matter your level of art smarts.
We moved on to the less grandiose museums. The ones with smaller admission prices, spaces and breadth of topics covered. The Ski Museum did have one thing in common with the big guys, though. No pictures! The man who told us this and let us in also owns the collection. And what an impressive collection it is. I have never seen so many skis or ski poles or ski suits or ski trophies or ski wax or anything else related to skis, skiing, skiers or - really - snow, in my life. Decades’ worth of equipment and photos cramped the space. It was like a three floored 3D collage dedicated to the sport, which is really big here in Liechtenstein (the only country in the world to have won a Winter Olympic medal but never a Summer one). Once the owner finished his cigarette outside, he came in to tidy up boots and things as we walked around. Soon, he was alongside us, pointing at objects and sharing factoids. When we reached this table full of goggles (and I audibly cooed) he told Merlin that he could take a photo. Just one. As we left, he handed us a souvenir DVD called "High Tech Ski."
Our favorite museum, which also happened to allow pictures, was the Post Museum. Stamps are a big part of tourism in Liechtenstein - and not just the ink passport ones. Liechtensteinische stamps are widely considered to be big collectors’ items and the Post Museum is a philatelist's dream. These drawers were filled with them, along with the design drafts and rare stamps from around the world. I loved the filing system because it reminded me of the post office - utilitarian, sort of ugly and cold, but filled with all of these incredibly interesting little pieces of art and a connection to a part of the human experience which has been around for centuries. Also on display were postcards, old mail bags, bikes, stamp presses, scales, you name it.
The second room brought something completely unexpected - the largest collection of letter openers in the world! One man, Kurt F. Büchel, has been collecting them since 1991 and the museum has just a fraction of his 2,718 piece collection. They’re arranged by theme, including flora (above), weaponry (mini swords and whatnot), female nudes, advertisements, etc. Aside from all of the really beautiful, old ones, the "multipurpose" were our favorites. Attached tools included a stapler, a stamp holder and a lighter, which seemed very 'burn after reading.'
On the way out of Vaduz and up to our next stop, we swung by this firefighter museum, which may not be a museum at all. We've passed by the Triesen firehouse over a dozen times and spotted a small exhibit in a corner window. Certificates, plaques and trophies shaped like hydrants fill the shelves behind this uniformed man and an old fire hose. Sadly, the door was locked. But it still goes to show you how many museums this small country has - whether official or unofficial. Oh well, on to our next and final stop!
Neither of us knew what a Walser was before entering the Walser Museum in Triesenberg. To be honest, we walked out knowing a lot more about Liechtenstein in general from this great little place. You see, as soon as we walked in, we were ushered down into this room for a show. Three slide projectors worked in tandem to present us with a documentary about all sorts of things Walser related and only tangentially Walser related. What it lacked in direction, it made up for in imagery and passion. There was great emphasis placed on Triesenberg's desire to keep over-development at bay and stay connected to nature and traditions, particularly those of the Walser people.
So, who are the Walser? They emigrated from Southwest Germany over a 1000 years ago and settled in the Alps of Italy, Switzerland, Austria and Liechtenstein (right there in Triesenberg). They speak their own dialect of German (Walser) and live at super high altitudes that had previously been unsettled. This remoteness led to specific farming methods, ways of life and tools, of which many were displayed in the museum. Two things that really struck out as unique, to me, were candles that looked like funnel cake and these hair-filled frames. Unfortunately, their significance was explained in German and it wasn’t covered in the slide presentation, so I can’t tell you much about them. They just seemed so odd and pretty – exactly what you’d want out of a small museum in the mountains.

A Fine Wine, A Fine Time

The Wine Cellars of the Reigning Prince (or the ‘Hofkellerei’ as they are more casually called) are a point of pride for Liechtensteiners – or at least the ones that write the tourist brochures. The cellars themselves don’t seem to be open to the public, but a tasting room/small shop with wines from the prince’s private vineyards are still worth the visit. Especially if you happen to arrive on a day that was anything like ours.
First of all, the surrounding vineyard is gorgeous. I suppose when you own the whole country, you can get your pick of real estate. Every other time we’ve visited a wine cellar for a tasting, we’ve felt almost delinquent wandering through the vines beforehand. Here, we knew we were welcome. A sign directed us in from the sidewalk and along a walking path through the vineyard.
Each row was bookended by roses, yellow or red, and being as it is almost harvesting time, the grapes were beautifully ripe. Information boards describe each month in the year of a grape grower. Unfortunately, it was all in German. The castle loomed above and the weather was just absolutely perfect.
We were ushered into a room by a friendly carrot-haired woman who apologized for a large group already inside. We followed her to the bar as the group shuffled about in a flurry of throat clearing. Then, all the moving parts fell into place. The women sat around a table, the men stood in a circle; one fellow clinked his glass with a pen and made a short speech. And then the singing began.
In four part harmony, they sang a long, upbeat folk song. They looked around the room at each other and reverently serenaded their glasses, whooping or yelping at crescendos. “I am so sorry! They are crazy!” our guide said, laughing, rolling her eyes and going about her pouring business. She raised her voice over the chorus to describe what we were tasting. This sort of thing must happen all the time for her. I wanted to tell her that the closest thing you’d get to this in America is a particularly good rendition of Happy Birthday with someone going up an octave at the end. In other words, we didn’t mind at all.
On to the pour. The white wines from right there in Vaduz were sold out, but we got to taste some Sauvignon Blanc made from Austrian grapes. The prince has private vineyards there, too. It was delicious and was followed by a Pinot Noir that had been truly born and raised in Liechtenstein. She offered us a dessert wine taste, but we declined. She had a very heavy-handed pour and we had some hiking to do.

Birding In Liechtenstein

Compared with the amount of birding we normally do (which is close to none), we’ve been in ornithological overdrive here in Liechtenstein. After visiting a falconry show in Malbun and an exotic aviary in Mauren, our stay has taken on a certain feathery character. Has it been interesting? Definitely. Informative? Not at all. Our German is terrible.
The “BIRKA Bird Paradise” exotic bird aviary in Mauren is like a small parrot zoo – with a handful of peacocks, pheasants, chickens and goats thrown in for good measure. There are rows of outdoor cages filled with squawking parakeets, cockatoos, cockatiels and parrots. A few signs gave the Latin and German names for the species, as well as the continent the bird was from. It was unclear why these creatures had been collected there – the aviary was free and seemed to be part of some foundation or club, whose purpose we could only guess at.
On a warm Sunday morning there were only a few other birdwatchers at BIRKA, most of them much younger than us. A growing group of older men congregated at the attached canteen, more interested in their pilsners than in the parakeets. For some reason, it seemed to be a popular drinking spot. It’s not especially close to anything other than the surrounding nature reserve, so the beer must have been cheap or the bartender was particularly well-liked (his looks certainly weren't the draw).
It is always a little sad to see animals in cages, even if they seem to be well taken care of. We speculated - maybe to comfort ourselves - that these were rescued birds that had been snatched away from worse situations and taken in by the Bird Paradise foundation.
High up in the mountains, in the alpine town of Malbun, we attended a kind of falconry-dinner-theater spectacular. In comparison with the other falconry shows we’ve happened upon, this performance was both more entertaining and more subdued. Instead of being held in a castle, it was in the back terrace of a gasthaus restaurant. There was beer served and ice cream by the trayful; the audience sat around the falconer and sipped drinks as he told us the legends of the skies. It sounded interesting and funny, but we couldn’t understand any of it. Thankfully, he didn’t wear a medieval-theme costume (which sets him apart in the brotherhood of hunting birders). He also was older and less awkward than other falconers we’ve seen, and appeared to really enjoy his craft – we joked that he got into the business for the chicks.*
The show had a good deal of talking and a fair amount of flying. As with all such experiences, the birds were somewhat uncooperative and discourteous. One tedious episode involved a peregrine that was hard to coax down from a nearby rooftop. As a group, though, the fowl were accommodating enough to keep things moving. This bird performed a back and forth routine between two gloved children, swooping a little too close to our heads as he did.
After each bird was put through its paces, the falconer strode proudly through the crowd with his falcon so that we could all take pictures and be properly awed. Some species could even be stroked on their breastfeathers, and would only occasionally begin beating their wings and flailing dangerously. It was a fun, sunny afternoon experience, and we left laughing and a little impressed.
BIRKA Bird Paradise (“Vogelparadies” in German) is located halfway between Mauren and Schaanwald on the main road. It’s open from May 1st through October and claims to be “always accessible,” which may or may not mean that you can visit 24 hours a day.
The falconry show is held in the back of the Hotel Falknerei Galina in the middle of Malbun at three o’clock PM every day except Monday, and only when the weather is good.

*Pun intended.

An Introductory Stroll

It took us three planes and eight hours of driving, broken up over two days, to make it from New York to Ljubljana to Liechtenstein. So, once we’d arrived and unpacked our little tent home, we went out to stretch our legs. It’s about an hour’s journey along a walking trail into the capital (Vaduz) from our campsite outside of Trieson. Being as the entire length of this microstate would probably take about five hours to traverse on foot, the commute gave us a good first look at our new country – and its people.

The path closer to the river was reserved for bicyclists. So, our route serviced every other conceivable mode of transportation. I can’t tell you much about Liechtenstein yet, on our second day, but I do know that its people really like saying hello. No matter their level of exertion, passersby gave us a smile or nod and a “Grüß Gott!” or “Hallo!” This man road past us on both our maiden and return trips. The second greeting was even more cheerful than the first. A woman on horseback said hello mid trot. The student driver steering her scooter in circles on a practice track nearby probably would have given us a greeting, had she not been so focused on staying upright.

Then, there was this hang-glider. We first spotted him above our heads and then, about a half hour later, there he was beside us, packing up with a friend. About as quickly as Merlin's camera audibly snapped this picture, he lunged toward us, itching to take his own photo. We posed with his glider as he took our portrait from one angle and then another and then “another to get the mountains!” We don’t have many pictures of the two of us on this trip. Now, we have at least five more.

On our map of Liechtenstein, the country’s border is represented by a dashed yellow line. I’m convinced the marks also signify cornfields. So. Much. Corn. Since we still don’t have any idea what the royals look like, we joked that each passing person was a prince or princess and waited for a paparazzo to jump out from behind the corn stalks. These are the things you do to entertain yourself when you’re jetlagged and walking in a ninety degree day’s bright sun.

Leaving Vaduz, in late evening, we turned off the main road, back onto our trail. Clawlike bailers sat back in barns, their work done for the season. All piled up in the dusk, the marshmallows looked a little like clouds fallen from the sky.

The trail was mostly pitch dark, except for a chunk illuminated by this Erdgas station. Pretty futuristic, huh? A Liechtenstein Bus pulled in to fill up with natural and the industrial fans whirred overhead. We made it back safe and sound and fell right a sleep. Like I said, we're a little jet lagged.

Castle Hunting: Schloss Vaduz

It would be wrong to claim that Liechtenstein is stuck in time – this is a country dominated by exclusive banks and modern sports cars. Still, it could serve as the archetype for the imaginary kingdoms of micro-state Europe. It is little more than a valley and a few dramatic peaks, it’s inhabitants number only 35,000, the tractors have license plates and the land is ruled by a prince who validates or negates all laws and taxes. That prince – H.S.H Hans-Adam II von und zu Liechtenstein – lives in Vaduz castle on a hillside above the capital town of Vaduz. It isn’t a magnificent castle, but it has an interesting history and it is visible from most of the country. Also, there aren’t many castles that can claim to be the functional and permanent residence of a ruling monarch. Rebecca claims that it’s the most politically important castle in Europe, but that seems like hyperbole. This is, after all, the sixth smallest country on earth.
Liechtenstein’s castle has been mostly ceremonial since the 1870’s, when the country’s army was disbanded (after their last military engagement – the Austro-Prussian War in 1866 – all of Liechtenstein’s 80 troops returned home alive, and brought with them one extra soldier, who is often described as “an Italian friend”). The fortification fell into general disrepair over the decades, serving as a prison and then a garrison in advance of the army’s dissolution. For a few years, it actually served as a tavern, before being completely abandoned in 1896. In 1905, though, the ruling prince began extensive repairs. In 1938, much spiffed-up, it became the permanent residence of the ruling princes of Liechtenstein, which is its current function.
There is a stub of an older, ruined castle higher up on the hill, about an hours steep walk from Schloss Vaduz. It is called Burgruine Schalun or Wildschloss Vaduz, and very little of it remains. Built in the 12th and 13th centuries, it was a more secure fortification above the increasingly residential castle downhill. Eventually its remoteness proved more of an impediment to its survival than its defenses, as it survived for several centuries until the royals decided that it was too inconvenient to keep up. Today, it isn't even mentioned in Liechtenstein's tourist information, even though they are relatively starved for things to mention.
When we walked up to Wildschloss, a family was roasting ears of corn on a small heap of coals. They asked, very courteously, if we “needed any fire.” We didn’t, but it was still very nice of them to ask. A map of the castle’s original walls was posted on a signboard, showing how much bigger the structure once was. It was difficult to see any trace of masonry on the brushy slopes, and only the one stump of tower rose preserved from the earth.
The surviving Schloss Vaduz is the evolutionary embodiment of a fortress that was first documented in 1322. It’s main tower dates from the 12th century, and remained largely intact over the years. It was initially a stand-alone defensive structure with an auxiliary fortified house just adjacent, but circling walls were built along the knoll eventually. After partial destruction during the Swabian wars, the castle was expanded and refurbished in the 16th century, when both round tower-keeps were added.
Vaduz sits on a well-maintained plot of meadowland, flanked by closed gardens and kept very private by the prince. It is possible to walk right up to the walls and in the pastureland above, but the building itself and formal gardens are closed to the public. The castle is said to have some 160 rooms, which seems like more than its walls could possibly hold, but it might be deceptively small from the rear. There certainly aren’t many windows or visible chimneys; I can’t imagine that Hans-Adams really spends too much of his time here. Still, it’s nice to think that countries like this continue to exist, where the ruling prince lives in a castle on the hill and surveys his lands from the ramparts.