Just then, Ernst Jr., now 16, and Willi, 15, stumble in sleepily. Branka grabs a catfish head and holds it in front of her face. "Morgen [Morning]," she says in a deep voice, moving the mouth of the fish like a puppet's. The boys roll their eyes, but Branka erupts with laughter. As they sip fruit tea and eat kipferln (croissants), Branka chops carrots and celery root for tonight's catfish soup. She tells me how she learned to cook. "My parents brought us to Vienna from Croatia when I was six. They opened a gasthaus a few years later, and by the time I was ten I was working in the kitchen with my mother. I worked there every day after school until I started studying to be a nurse." Branka is now the head nurse in an emergency room, and she explains that Ernst's first restaurant job was at the gasthaus as well, shortly after they got married, when she was 18 and he was 20. "We met at a costume party. He was a dog and I was a cat," she tells me and bursts into laughter again. She pours the vegetables into a stockpot, along with water and a shockingly large scoop of paprika. The fish head and tail go in last. "The head is for my father; he loves it. We have to leave him alone at the table to eat it. It's so disgusting. He slurps on the fish eyes."

After the soup has simmered for a while, she takes it off the stove. "Come with me," she says, nodding at pans of prepared catfish. I pick them up and follow her (and the soup) into what I believe is their bedroom, except there's a roasted pig in a box on a desk, and the floor is covered with bowls of Croatian black bean salad, potato salad garnished with mâche, and containers of Christmas cookies. During the holidays, there's no room in the refrigerator, so their chilly bedroom has become the pantry. The pig will be eaten after midnight—a Croatian tradition.

Ernst and the boys go off to pick out a Christmas tree and to pick up my now well-rested brother. Branka's family starts to arrive: her brother Ivan and his wife, Lily, with their children, Tim and Srinka. After quick introductions, the children vanish into the boys' room to watch TV while we start in on the tree. We fasten candles to branches (an obvious fire hazard that has me a bit concerned) and take turns climbing the ladder to string pearls and hang ornaments.

At about 6 p.m., we all bundle up and go to mass. It's surprisingly informal: no coats and ties or fancy dresses (my childhood Christmas mass usually involved thick tights and some form of velvet skirt). One thing is familiar, though—the cousins whisper and laugh all through the service. Neil spots them too and smiles at me.

We are back home moments before Branka's parents, Nada and Rudolf Kos, arrive. Having lit the candles on the tree, Ernst invites us all to the living room with the ringing of a little bell. After a brief musical interlude by Ernst Jr. on the piano and Srinka on the flute—this is Vienna, after all—gifts start to fly. New York Rangers sweatshirts go over big with the boys. A print by my favorite Viennese artist, Friedensreich Hundertwasser, is a particularly touching gift from Ernst and Branka for me. Neil gets assorted schnapps; Ernst, a good Kentucky bourbon.

Eventually we make our way to the table (after blowing out the candles on the tree, much to my relief). Branka ladles out her paprika-spiked soup, now filled with moist flakes of catfish. The center of the table is laden with fried catfish, roasted catfish with parsley and garlic, and roasted pike, as well as a huge smoked carp, compliments of Ivan and Lily. We pile our plates full and add roasted potatoes, green salad and potato salad, both drizzled with pumpkin seed oil, and black bean salad. Ernst, who is passionate about wine, pours us glasses of bright young grüner veltliner and riesling from Freie Weingärtner Wachau.

Once we've cleared away the remnants of fish and potatoes and salads, Branka sets an enormous platter of cookies on the table. She's made about 15 different kinds, including lebkuchen (gingerbread cookies), crumbly vanillekipferln, and the fruitcakelike bischofsbrot. With the cookies comes the schnapps. Ivan keeps filling my glass whenever I empty it. At 1:10, Christmas Eve being over, it's time for roast pig. Branka fixes a platter of sliced pork, grated horseradish, and beets for all of us to snack on. Eventually Neil and I head for the hotel, our arms full of presents and cookies, feeling fine.

Around 11 a.m., a bit worse for wear, Neil and I go off to have a festive, reassuring Christmas Day dinner at Altwienerhof, a 75-year-old restaurant and inn run by the Kellner family, which Ernst has recommended. Our waiter talks us through the Christtag (Christmas Day) menu and then asks us about wine. Ignoring the pained, hungover look on my brother's face, I let him choose some Austrian vintages for us. The meal begins with goose pâté and sekt, followed by smoked salmon and creamy white potato soup, both paired with Hirtzberger riesling. After that comes roasted pike perch with puréed peas and purple potatoes, accompanied by Pichler grüner veltliner.

Knowing that we have come especially for the menu's pièce de résistance, roast goose, Klaus, the Kellners' son, invites me into the kitchen to see the bird in all its glory before it is carved. It lies burnished on its platter, surrounded by spiced red cabbage, buttery glazed chestnuts, potato dumplings, and roasted apples stuffed with rum-soaked raisins. Back at the table, our plates arrive, loaded with dark, rich goose meat and all the trimmings. I have been given a large slice of breast meat and a leg. A glass of deep red Arachon TFXT (a blend made jointly by winemakers Pichler, Tement, and Szemes) arrives, which helps. Eventually Mrs. Kellner comes to clear our plates and looks sternly at the amount of food still in front of me. "You are not used to all this food, ja? In Austria, this is a normal portion." Looking across the table at Neil, I realize that, first, despite the fact that he looks like he's going to pass out on his plate, he seems weirdly happy—and, second, we couldn't have made a better decision than to come to Vienna this year.