Michael Polo

The Impresario of Vienna

‘Café Museum’, with its red velvet seats and dangling chandeliers, was a cozy little corner for a meeting place on an autumn evening. I entered the cafe, Hans took me to my table and greeted me, “Welcome home sir.” I smiled at my seasonal friend as we exchanged simple pleasantries in my broken German. I am quite fortunate that nearly everyone in this country speaks English. As I hung from my jacket on a slightly taller than normal coat rack, a server appeared with my regular order; a soda citron, double espresso, and glass of Vienna’s famed white wine - Grüner Veltliner, down on the marble table.