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August 27,
2000 Oberhofen, Austria - The cows had returned to the barn in early evening to be milked and fed. Fresh-cut hay that 12-year-old Stefan Feldbacher pitchforks their way is so transportingly aromatic that you imagine the beefy sniffers and munchers ecstatically glazed on a bovine high.
They do look mellow, all right. A look that is enhanced whenever they are given a massage with the large electric brushes of a machine called "Happy Cow."
But now it's time for the human beings to kick back, says Stefan's old man, Johann "Hansi" Feldbacher. Husky, mustachioed Hansi, master of a farm called Grossenbauer, believes in a happy hour fueled by his homemade beverages, applewein and schnappes. Why not, at the end of a 13-hour shift? After all, he was up at 6, as always, and had earned a sip or two of Austrian white lightning. It does make the moon shine brighter.
The Feldbachers aren't exactly the new homesteaders on the block, and Hansi is only distilling potions that have been passed down through the generations.
"My family has been on this farm for 350 years," he says as two other villagers, friends Hella and Fritz Suppan, translate his German remarks. "I guess we're getting used to it."
That's not too hard. Rural Oberhofen, lying about an hour's drive northeast of Salzburg, is soft on the eyes, a mix of lazy green hills, farmland and pastures, forests and small lakes. The residents seem amiably-natured and like to have a good time, especially when the volunteer band - the Blasmusik Kapelle - plays for dances.
If you have to go out for dinner, the Gasthaus, presided over by a cordial young couple, the Ottingers - Norbert cooks, Monika waits on tables - is just fine. Norbert's niftiest dessert, Salzburger Nockerl, is an unimaginably light and fluffy souffle that he probably laces with nectar.
The other night at the Gasthaus we met a farmer named Michael Rauchenschwantner, who joyfully explained that he had everything a man could want: "three cows, three daughters, one horse. And one tuba" that he plays in the local band. "Oh, yes, and one wife." Not as brassy as the tuba, he added, chortling.
Michael was also pleased at having taken advantage of a "huge bargain. I just got my first passport. I'll never use it, but," he said with a smile, "I was just in time - before the price went up five dollars."
A swim in a beautifully landscaped pond called Hellasee, described by a resident as "a woman-made lake, designed and paid for by a generous lady of the village," started the day nicely, and set the tone for pure pleasure. Only a short drive away, the town of St. Gilgen sits on the bank of a much more substantial lake (the second largest in Austria), Wolfgangsee, with a mountainous skyline.
A boat from St. Gilgen calls at other lakeside towns, such as Furberg, where a rock-climbing school has a sheer limestone face as classroom.
"A couple of good things here," Fritz Suppan said. "If these novice climbers fall they only plop into the lake. And have you noticed how quiet it is? No conventional motorboats allowed. Only electric-powered."
It's worth disembarking at St. Wolfgang for a look at the church of the same name with its handsomely carved 15th-century baroque altar that includes images of God and St. Wolfgang himself, a village hero. As the house saint out of the 10th century, Wolfgang has the featured position, upstaging God. A nearby fresco depicts him as a holy hatchet man, ready to chop the devil with a fearsome ax. He is said to have thrown the ax into the valley, vowing to build his church where it landed.
Fritz said, "You can see that St. Wolfgang is big in this neighborhood. Mozart was probably named for him. His mother, Nannerl, came from St. Gilgen on the other side of the lake."
Lunch at Weissen Kirschen, on a terrace above the lake, shaded by the branches of chestnut and linden, included a splendid panorama of irregular peaks (some tinted with snow), the teal green water populated by ducks, swans, swimmers, sailboaters, skiers, oarsmen.
The snow must have reminded my friend Aurelio that we needed milk for breakfast. Having seen cattle in Oberhofen, she felt that "a farmer surely must be peddling the real, fresh kind that you never get anymore unless you get within squeezing distance of a cow."
We had moved on to the village of Mondsee for coffee and delectable Malakoff cake at Frauenschuhn Konditoree, one of the sidewalk cafes along Marktplatz. It should be called ice cream row since the buildings are painted in such flavors as blueberry, pistachio, vanilla, peach, red and black raspberry. Around the corner is the gothic church, St. Michael's, crowded with angels and saints, where Julie Andrews and Christopher Plummer were married in the movie version of "The Sound of Music."
"Ah, milk," said Hella, nodding. "Hansi Feldbacher is the man for that. And some eggs, too."
Hansi's eggs turned out to be so fresh, the yolks such a bright orange, that you need to wear sunglasses while eating them. But the milk! Pure ambrosia, udderly superb in its natural state before the pasteurizers and bottlers take over.
Hansi is saying, "Well, of course I have to sell it to a dairy. It helps make the living. But I'm glad to sell to people I know before it goes away."
Four generations of Feldbachers currently occupy the farm along with bed-and-breakfast customers who relish the fresh environment and food, the hiking, riding, and water sports on the lakes, or just hanging out watching the 50-or-so cows go by.
As we talk, his mother, ruddy-faced Teresia, pulls up on a tractor, finished with work somewhere on the 116 acres, much of it wooded. She says hello, and goes off to fix supper for her husband, Johann.
"They work for me now," says Hansi, "just as someday I will work for Stefan here, and he'll be the boss. That's the way it goes in this family. I'm the oldest son of 11 children. I was working as a sales manager in a factory, marking time.
"I always wanted to come back, and was glad when my father said it was my turn. Then I paid $10,000, dividing it among my brothers and sisters, for the right. I hope Stefan will have a son that he can work for when the time comes to slow down a little. My parents are in their 60s. My grandparents, in their 80s, are pretty much retired."
He has two other boys, Bernhardt, 10, and Mickey, 5, too young to know if they want to be farmers. But Stefan is sure. They are introduced, then go off with their pretty mother, Anneliese, for supper.
"And some TV before bed," says Hansi, laughing. "We are a religious family. The trinity is Jesus, Mary, and TV."
Small farms, he says, "have a hard time staying alive. But we work hard, and sell enough - milk, cheese, beef, and wood - to get along. It is a very good life, and now we can have very good drinks."
We are sitting in the living room of the immaculate 17th- century stone farmhouse as he brings out the pink-toned applewein. "Made from mostly apples, but some pears," he says, pouring. Nice, agreeable taste, like a fruit juice. Goes down well. But look out - 19 percent alcohol.
"A couple of glasses of this and I'll feel like I've been massaged by that 'Happy Cow' machine in the barnyard," says Aurelio.
After three pitchers of applewein, Hansi brings out the schnappes, diluting the clear booze with water.
"It's 65 percent at the moment, but I'll bring that down to drinkable."
Very sporting. Otherwise it would send you to Mars. For good. His schnappes reminds me of Italian grappa or Chinese mao tai. Sampling is sort of like pulling up to the high-test pump at a gas station and imbibing from the hose.
It can play paradiddles on you the way Hansi bangs his drums and cymbals in the village band. But Gene Krupa, Buddy Rich, and Max Roach have their followers.
Anneliese has shooed the kids to bed, and returns with platters of their own cheese. Excellent. And good stomach liners with the schnappes flowing. Hansi's brown eyes turn lovingly on his wife. "I met her at a dance. . . . But we didn't get together for six years."
A straight-faced neighbor named Friel drops by. One schnappes and he's glowing. Ambidextrous Hansi pours well with either hand, and no one is resisting. What happened to the dinner reservations? Who cares?
"This may be healthier," Hansi advises. "Schnappes kills all bacteria."
But it enlivens the atmosphere, and soon we are singing in German, a language that has baffled me until Hansi's schnappes. First, hunting songs. Next the serious, political stuff: revolutionary songs. Jah, jah.
Hansi and Fritz, like countless Austrians, regret the World War I treaty that gave their beloved South Tyrol, including the stunning, craggy Dolomites, to neighboring Italy. There's still more German than Italian spoken in that region.
"We will take back the South Tyrol!" is our promise in song, a trio of defiance. It is an anthem called "Andreas Hofer," for a tragic Austrian hero. Jah, jah!
Aurelio says, "OK, guys. Let us know how your crusade comes out. But let's not forget the milk for breakfast."
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