DAY 3—A taste of Austrian desserts
(I don’t know what happened I woke up this morning to Tumblr publishing Day 4 at 1 a.m. on its own???)
The crime was sitting on a porcelain plate.
Wrapped in innocent-looking paper, tied with a neat golden ribbon. Deliberate. Treacherous.
“Who,” he asked slowly, “brought this into my house.”
He didn’t repeat himself. He simply turned his head—slightly, imperial—and waited.
Prussia, sprawled across the settee like a bored aristocrat, was the first to cave. “What? It’s cake.”
“It’s not cake,” Austria said coldly. “It’s Demel.”
“So,” Austria said, walking over and placing both hands on the table like a man preparing to negotiate an armistice, “you brought me a Sachertorte. From Demel. In this house. Knowing full well—”
“I didn’t know anything,” Prussia interrupted. “It was chocolate. It looked fancy. I bought it.”
“You might as well have pissed on my doorstep,” Austria muttered.
Hungary poked her head in from the next room. “Oh, is he still going on about the cake?”
“It’s not cake,” Austria snapped. “It’s a declaration of war.”
“Okay, we’ve clearly escalated,” Prussia said, chewing something he wasn’t supposed to be chewing. “You know it tastes the same, right?”
Austria did not respond. He walked, slowly, to the window. He looked out over the garden like a widow reflecting on fallen empires.
“It does,” Prussia insisted. “Chocolate, apricot jam, some whipped cream if you’re lucky—”
“The difference is structural,” Austria said darkly. “And historical.”
“Oh no,” Hungary groaned.
Austria turned, already halfway into lecture-mode. “1832. Franz Sacher. Court bakery apprentice. He invents the torte for Prince Metternich—”
Prussia threw himself backward onto the cushions. “Not again.”
“—invents the torte. And then, years later, his son opens Hotel Sacher. The cake becomes legend. A protected symbol. And then—then—Demel comes in. Claims the rights. They sell a version without the second layer of jam. They sue. I repeat: they sue. For seven years.”
Hungary walked in and cut herself a slice.
Prussia stared. “Aren’t you supposed to be neutral?”
“I’m hungry,” she said flatly. “And if I have to listen to this again, I might as well be chewing.”
Austria stared at her like she’d stabbed him.
“It’s not even layered correctly,” he hissed. “The Hotel Sacher version has jam both under and on top of the sponge—Demel only uses one layer. Their ganache is thinner. The crumb structure is denser. The mouthfeel—”
“You’ve lost your mind,” Prussia said, already stealing a bite from her plate.
“I lost my mind,” Austria muttered, “in 2006, when the court ruled in favour of Hotel Sacher. And yet the lies continue.”
Hungary raised a brow. “You know most people don’t care, right?”
He looked at it like it was poisoned.
“Just try it,” she said, exasperated.
Austria straightened. “And what, may I ask, is the point of being Austrian if not that?”
Prussia clapped, delighted. “See? This is why I came.”
“You came,” Austria said icily, “to defile my table with counterfeit pastry.”
“Oh my god,” Hungary muttered. “Fine. You win. No more Demel.”
Prussia narrowed his eyes. “Wait. Does that mean I have to go get the real one?”
“Yes,” Austria said immediately. “From the hotel. With proof.”
Hungary groaned again. “You’re going to bully him into standing in line behind tourists, aren’t you?”
Prussia muttered something unspeakable in Old High German and got up, grabbing his jacket. “You’re lucky I like cake. And that your rage is funny.”
Austria sat down at the table. Folded his hands.
Hungary shook her head. “You’re not even going to eat it, are you.”
“No,” he said quietly. “But I am going to win.”
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