December is the month of abundance – of indulgence, of the good life, of too many parties and too little time, and of that vague, delicious sense that everything is just a bit ‘zu viel des Guten’. And because we live in the age of perpetual acceleration, December doesn’t even bother waiting for its turn in the calendar anymore. It begins in November now, like the pre-drinks before the main event: a kind of informal Pre-Advent we’re allowed to enjoy long before we open the first tiny door of our chocolate-filled advent calendars.

However, Vienna has always been one for abundance. Nothing in this city is ever as basic as it technically needs to be. Life here is embellished: decorated in Stuck and gold, tiled in Otto Wagner’s favourite green, sprinkled with a touch of glamour on every corner. Even our public toilets have chandeliers. On any ordinary Wednesday, you walk into a traditional Kaffeehaus and face a menu that reads like a novella: twenty types of coffee, a dozen cakes, and the option to crown any of it with Schlag or even ice cream. And that’s just coffee and cake.

We’ve become so accustomed to this quiet opulence that we barely register it anymore. A café offering twenty different coffee styles used to feel extravagant – now we expect the same choices with oat milk, soy milk, almond milk, lactose-free, and other ‘barista edition’ milks (I know, I know, the courts say we’re no longer allowed to call them milk, but hopefully nobody rats me out).

Vienna was swimming in abundance long before capitalism turbocharged it. And if we’re honest, we rather enjoy it – like stepping under a cool splash on a hot day in one of Vienna’s 44 public swimming pools, or like taking a sip of Punsch on the 14 different official Christmas markets we have (try counting the unofficial ones, I dare you). Our whole identity comes with a built-in comfort for ‘a little extra’.

Which brings me to what I can only call our culture of generous indulgence – the Viennese, or I guess Austrian, Gönnerkultur. That subtle, ritualised generosity that insists you take another slice of Esterházy-Schnitte, another ladle of Gulasch, another glass of Gemischter Satz – not because you need it, but because it’s there, and withholding would somehow be un-Viennese. It’s giving as soft power: affectionate, over-the-top, and laced with a gentle expectation that you’ll play along, because if not, where would that lead us?
One of my favourite examples is my husband’s ritual line at the end of any night out, after we’ve already finished ‘our last drink’: ‘Anen hamma imma noch trunken.’ Meaning: we always had one more, even after the last one. And of course, he didn’t invent it – the phrase is practically encoded in our DNA. It’s less a sentence, more a worldview.

This whole list of choices, though, eventually becomes more of a burden than an option. Yes, we love when restaurants and cafés offer the 38 different choices on their menu, include vegan options, seasonal options, allergy-friendly options, child-friendly options, but in the end? We order Schnitzel. We might be happy to read about our 38 different choices, might even flirt with them for a second or two, but in the end, we just stick to the one thing that gives us peace and will always go home with our Schnitzel. Vienna is solving its problem of overwhelming choices very simply and very Viennese: it simply ignores it.

And nowhere does Vienna ignore the concept of overwhelming choice more beautifully than at the Würstelstand. The menu hasn’t changed since the monarchy fell. The city’s true temples of democracy offer exactly six things, sometimes maybe seven, all vaguely similar – a different type of sausage with bread – and all of which somehow solve every problem life has ever presented.
No tasting menu, no seasonal twist, no oat-drink foam (although as a pescatarian myself, I am very happy that some started offering vegetarian sausages on their menu, but again: don’t tell the EU court).
Just a Käsekrainer, Kren, mustard, a Bucklige, and a quiet understanding that this is what you actually wanted all along. There is something soothing about a place that simply doesn’t care about your existential crisis – it hands you a Wurst and sends you home, with mustard on your coat and clarity in your soul.

Eleonore Marie Stifter - Resident Viennese. Writes about culture, taste, and the art of complaining beautifully.