The first time I really noticed Selleriesalat, I was maybe nine years old, standing at a Heuriger buffet outside Vienna with Gretel and my grandmother Eva. The counter was loaded with small bowls of salads, each one different, and Gretel pointed at the pale, glistening strips of celeriac and said: that's the one people walk past, and that's the one they should be eating. She was right. I tried it and the mustard hit first, sharp and warm, then the vinegar, then this clean, peppery crunch from the celeriac itself. It tasted like nothing I'd had before.

Selleriesalat belongs to the family of Marinierte Salate that form the backbone of Austrian cold buffets. At a Heuriger, the wine taverns where new vintage is served alongside simple food, you'll find a whole row of these salads in ceramic bowls: potato, cucumber, tomato, bean, and always, always celeriac. They're dressed not with heavy cream or mayonnaise but with a vinegar-forward Marinade, bright and clean, the kind that makes you reach for another forkful before you've finished chewing the first.

The technique is nothing more than cutting, blanching, and dressing. But the details matter. The celeriac must be cut into proper julienne, thin enough to absorb the Marinade but sturdy enough to keep its bite. The blanching is quick, just enough to take the raw edge off without turning the strips soft. And the Marinade goes on while the celeriac is still warm, because warm vegetables drink up a dressing the way cold ones never will. Gretel always said that the best Austrian salads are made by people who understand timing, not people with fancy knife skills.