Potato Salad: The Soul of Vienna — A Jewish Culinary Legacy (Healthy Vegan)

The full recipe follows this essay—or jump ahead here if you’re in the kitchen already.

Discover the surprisingly deep history and unique tradition of Viennese potato salad, a dish that’s far more than meets the eye.

Simply The Best Jewish Viennese Potato Salad: Our Erdäpfelsalat Recipe

You might say that potato salad is just potato salad. But as the Marx Brothers so aptly put it…

Well, art is art, isn’t it? Still, on the other hand, water is water. And east is east and west is west, and if you take cranberries and stew them like applesauce, they taste much more like prunes than rhubarb does. Now, uh… Now you tell me what you know.

(Groucho Marx as Captain Geoffrey T. Spaulding in Animal Crackers, 1930)

There are some things, dear reader, that simply are. Like the Danube flowing ever eastward, or the persistent charm of a perfectly prepared Wiener Melange—Vienna’s original cappuccino, the wellspring from which all its frothy descendants sprang. And then there’s Viennese potato salad, or Erdäpfelsalat, a dish so ubiquitous, beloved, and layered with memory that to know it is to know Vienna itself.

The Unmistakable Viennese Way.

In this corner of the world, we lovingly call it Erdäpfelsalat. It’s a Shabbos and Yom Tov delight, a culinary bedrock that transcends the boundaries of the holiday table, serving as an ever-present, beloved companion at every party, buffet, and sun-drenched picnic across Vienna. And if you think you know potato salad, well, allow us to disabuse you of that notion.

Crucially, our Erdäpfelsalat embodies a naturally vegan, and thus parve, tradition, rooted in centuries of resourceful, plant-based preparation, long before the term “vegan” existed.

Forget the creamy, mayonnaise-laden concoctions that have sadly infiltrated picnic tables from suburban America to the northern reaches of Germany. Those are, bless their hearts, merely imposters in the grand drama of the Erdäpfelsalat. Our Viennese potato salad is a different story entirely: a delicate, vibrant dish that feels remarkably light and refreshing, a true testament to elegance in simplicity. It gains its luscious, yet never heavy, creaminess solely from the natural starch found in the potatoes themselves, coaxed out by a delicate marinade.

A Recipe Rooted in Ancient Soil.

And here’s a delicious little historical secret: the salad-like preparation of potatoes is truly ancient! As far back as 1601, in Carolus Clusius’s pioneering scientific description of the potato, Rariorum Plantarum historia, he explicitly notes that cooked potatoes were enjoyed simply “with oil, vinegar, and salt.” A remarkably simple, yet profoundly enduring, dressing for a remarkably modest vegetable, laying the groundwork for what would become our beloved Erdäpfelsalat.

From Humble Origins, A Jewish Soul.

Here in Vienna, our potato salad is a nuanced affair, a “poor man’s delight” that has graced Jewish tables for generations. As culinary historian Gil Marks notes in his Encyclopedia of Jewish Food, the unassuming potato was, for centuries, a staple of the working classes and the poor. Yet, despite its humble origins, this dish found its revered spot alongside a schnitzel in any self-respecting Beisl (a delightful Yiddish-derived word, from the Hebrew bayit, בַּיִת, locally used for a tavern, essentially a “house” of good eats). From these very kitchens, Jewish communities lovingly adopted and disseminated its Viennese iterations, carrying a piece of Vienna’s culinary soul to their diaspora around the world.

The Glorious Erdapfel: A Philosophy of Texture.

This isn’t just about regional variations; it’s about a philosophy. It’s about the potato, the glorious Erdapfel (a delightful echo of the French pomme de terre and the Hebrew tapuach adama, תַּפּוּחַ אֲדָמָה, far more poetic than the German Kartoffel, don’t you agree?). It’s about coaxing out its inherent starchy goodness, allowing it to commune with a delicate, yet assertive, marinade, transforming it into something that is, to use the vernacular, utterly glitschig—a term implying a wonderfully smooth, almost slippery texture. It’s a sensory experience, a dance between texture and flavor, where each bite offers a whisper of history and the comfort of tradition.

No Broth, No Bone, No Compromise.

This luscious texture, however, was for centuries achieved entirely from plants. Indeed, in the past, this was a thoroughly vegan affair, a testament to resourceful ingenuity. Before the early 20th century saw the introduction of beef broth to the recipe (à la the esteemed Adolf and Olga Hess), our Erdäpfelsalat stood proud in its plant-based purity. While many traditional recipes subsequently incorporated beef broth—and you might even encounter one contemporary version (by the otherwise brilliant J. Kenji López-Alt) calling for chicken broth, a choice that truly raises eyebrows among purists here in Vienna—we respectfully suggest any animal broth can distract from the star of the show: the potato itself! Many traditional recipes, including our own, have until recently always used water. However, we now opt for an umami-rich, brothy solution: a miso-water mix (which, by the way, also replaces the salt). While this might make some guardians of the true pedigree scoff, we find it actually enhances the potato’s natural flavor and its interplay with red onions, olive oil, and apple cider vinegar. As we detail further in our “Notes on Ingredients & Technique,” miso allows the potato to truly shine, deepening its flavor with a quiet, satisfying complexity reminiscent of slow-simmered stock—yet without the cholesterol, animal cruelty, or environmental concerns.

A Salad That Refuses to Be Chilled.

One essential point: Erdäpfelsalat should never be served cold. Before the era of refrigeration, chilling it was neither option nor desire. This is not a refrigerator salad—it is a living, breathing expression of warmth and soul. Cold temperatures simply mute the subtle play of vinegar, oil, onion, and miso. Instead, the salad should be served lukewarm—by which we mean kitchen warm—or, at the very least, at room temperature. Lukewarm, they sing and keep the characteristic melt-in-your-mouth quality of a properly made Viennese potato salad. And to complete this perfect harmony, the dish demands a final, vibrant touch: always, always crowned with a generous sprinkle of fresh chives.

Claudia Roden: Chives, Memory, and Culinary Legacy.

Apropos chives: before delving into the sacred art itself, let us pause for a moment of reverence for Claudia Roden, the grande dame of Jewish culinary storytelling. More than a cookbook writer, Roden is a cultural anthropologist in apron form, collecting the edible memories of Jewish communities dispersed across continents. In her seminal work, The Book of Jewish Food, she notes having received no fewer than twelve different recipes for this very dish. Our family’s rendition, we are proud to say, bears a striking resemblance to the one she herself preferred and chose to highlight in that influential volume.

While a couple of key differences persist—she famously used parsley, a fine herb indeed—we gently eschew it for fresh chives, whose delicate pungency flatters the potatoes’ warmth in a way that feels, to our tastebuds, divinely ordained. But chives are not merely a matter of flavor; finely chopped and liberally scattered, they lend the dish its chromatic punctuation—sprightly flecks of green that set off the golden glow of the potatoes and the mauve softness of the red onions, composing a visual harmony as quietly assured as the flavors themselves. Indeed, so essential are the chives to this dish that in Vienna they have become something of a canonical garnish—and in our family, nothing less than an absolute must. The dish’s heart, and its understated sophistication, remain remarkably similar. Roden preserved it, and we carry it forward, seasoned, as always, with memory.

This Is Not Nostalgia. This Is Transmission.

What, then, makes this potato salad Jewish? The answer, like the dish itself, is layered. It lies not only in the ingredients, but in the rhythms of life it served, the hands that prepared it, and the quiet pragmatism of a people who knew how to stretch a coin and dignify a table. For generations, Viennese Jewish households made Erdäpfelsalat on Fridays in preparation for Shabbat—not because it was trendy, but because it was practical, parve, and affordable. It could be prepared in advance, held at room temperature, and served without fuss or flame. No milk, no meat—just plant-based goodness, long before such dietary designations were common parlance.

But this dish wasn’t merely utilitarian; it was soulful. In modest homes, it often served as the main attraction. In more affluent ones, having transcended its proletarian roots, it nestled beside fish, brisket, or roasted chicken. Ultimately, it bridged social classes and genders: often prepared by grandmothers and daughters, just as often by fathers and sons. It carried with it the hush of Sabbath calm, the lightness of Yom Tov joy, and the quiet assurance of nourishment untainted by excess.

And even now, decades after the dislocations of war, the extermination of the Jews of Europe, and exile, the dish travels. It appears in the kitchens of Jews from London to Los Angeles, Tel Aviv to Toronto—cooked by the children and grandchildren of those who fled or survived, anchoring them to Vienna not through monuments or museums, but through taste. It’s Jewish because it remembers. Because it adapts. Because it tells a story that somehow—miraculously—isn’t over.

Echoes from Terezin: Food as Identity.

This adaptability is perhaps best highlighted by a recipe found in In Memory’s Kitchen: A Legacy from the Women of Terezin. This powerful collection, a testament to the brave women who defied Hitler, יִמַּח שְׁמוֹ (yemach shemo, Hebrew for “may his name and memory be blotted out”), by preserving their heritage through culinary memory, includes a Kartoffelsalat recipe. While its suggestion of “soup or water” and even optional mayonnaise highlights the extreme pragmatism and resourcefulness demanded by their circumstances—a broader, less regionally specific approach—it profoundly demonstrates how essential food was to preserving identity, even when far from home and traditional ingredients. It speaks to the enduring Jewish connection to food as memory, even as we champion the distinct character of our Viennese Erdäpfelsalat.

The Unmarked Jewishness of a Staple.

There’s a paradox here: this dish is deeply Jewish, yet it contains no overt markers of Jewishness—no dill, no schmaltz. It’s just a modest salad of potatoes, vinegar, and onion. And yet—ask any Viennese Jew of a certain generation what they ate with Schnitzel on Shabbos, and you’ll get one answer only: Erdäpfelsalat.

A City’s Dish, A People’s Memory.

Jews didn’t invent the Viennese potato salad—that honor, like so many culinary origins, remains charmingly shrouded in the mists of domestic lore. Yet, the Erdäpfelsalat became inextricably woven into the very warp and weft of Jewish lives here. Jews lived with it, loved it, and, with a certain quiet tenacity, adapted it to our rhythms, imbuing its humble, starchy soul with something akin to Sabbath patience. Through our hands and our hunger, it transformed into something remarkably portable, deeply comforting, and yes, dare we muse, even holy.

The Erdäpfelsalat became Jewish not by virtue of our being its progenitors, but rather because we remembered it, fiercely and consistently. This isn’t merely a side dish; it’s a living repository of collective memory, a palpable echo of generations who found solace and sustenance in its familiar embrace. Beyond simple nourishment, it serves as a silent, yet eloquent, ambassador of Viennese Jewish hospitality, often the very first offering extended to a weary guest. Its intrinsic nature—humble tubers transforming into something greater through deliberate preparation—mirrors a profound narrative of adaptation and resilience, a culinary metaphor for a community that, across centuries, absorbed diverse influences while steadfastly retaining its essential character. Indeed, the Erdäpfelsalat possesses a unique terroir of memory, far more potent than mere soil; its nuanced taste evokes specific times, cherished places, and beloved faces. And finally, for countless families, it effortlessly bridges the sacred and the profane, evolving into a quintessential, unheated component of the Sabbath meal, a practical yet profoundly resonant integration into the hallowed weekly rhythm. It stands, in its unassuming way, as a testament to profound resilience, a simple dish rendered extraordinary by the sheer care and remembrance poured into it, much like the very spirit of the Jewish Viennese experience itself.

More Than a Recipe: A Living Heritage.

This recipe is less about innovation, more about getting it right—a precise transmission.

Therefore, it is with a sense of both tradition and subtle reinvention that we offer our family’s rendition. This recipe, refined over decades, embodies the enduring virtues of Viennese Jewish culinary heritage—its simplicity, its profound affordability, and its inherent plant-based nature. Yet, it also testifies to continuous adaptation, showing how these venerable core values can be thoughtfully reinterpreted for contemporary life. This includes the Jewish imperative to safeguard health and our evolving responsibilities, from tikkun olam (repairing the world) to environmental sustainability and animal welfare—principles deeply resonant with this dish’s humble origins. We trust it will find a cherished place at your own table, ensuring our culinary heritage embraces future generations.

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