Hungary pangs

By Neeti Mehra

from a shady corner of a surprisingly orderly sty, a guttural grunt rumbles through the crisp autumn air, followed by a clamour of high-pitched squeals. a curly-haired black Mangalitsa sow snoozes in the sun. her piglets clamber over her before scrambling off in playful banter. prized by chefs across the world for their luscious fat, Mangalitsas, succulent hungarian pigs adorned with tousled ringlets, have been saved from extinction barely by the lard of their necks. leaving the piglets busy frolicking in mud, i move on to inspect the other hirsute farm animals in the tiny show menagerie: the longwooled racka sheep, the long-horned cattle, and the shaggy puli, a corded coated hungarian sheepdog.

the lazar equestrian park, located at the outskirts of Budapest, started by brothers Vilmos and Zoltán, both award-winning horsemen, isnt home only to this bestial repository. its also where prized horses perform traditional feats. i settle down to watch a quirky equestrian display: horse cart races, show performances and pirouetting ponies. after a stellar show, hunger pangs and the wail of the violin wheedle me into a wooden panelled dining room for a feast.

I start with a steaming, heavenly cauldron of goulash, or Gulyás, a traditional meat and vegetable soup cooked over fire. one of hungarys national dishes, its warm, with chunky, salty and tender meat pieces, floating in a broth lush red with paprika. accompanied by roast meat, bacon, jacket potatoes, rice and a decanter of red hungarian wine, i rip through a lángo, deepfried flat bread made of yeast and flour, not unlike our pillowy naans. the sinful supper gets a worthy finish with a swig of pálinka, a fiery brandy. as the dining companions gulp down the tongue twisting t?rk?lypálinka, a pálinka made from pomace, a hush settles over the table. only the rustle of linen and the clink of silverware are audible over satiated sighs.

hungary, lying smack in the heart of central europe, had been occupied over the centuries by a variety of palates: those of nomadic tribes, celts, romans, the Magyar who migrated from the ural Mountains, and the habsburgs. naturally, the hungarian larder is a cellar of plentiful figuratively, and literally—think lard, sour cream, pork, onions and garlic. culinary skills too were honed from the neighbours—from the turkish and the Bulgarians.

Budapest, sliced into Buda and pest by the danube, is the subject of my culinary exploration, and all roads lead me straight to the old Market hall thats bursting with produce from local farmers and butchers, plus tonnes of the vaunted hungarian paprika—doyen of the scullery. colours overwhelm under harsh yellow lights dangling above and scents waft through the corridors of a cavernous hall built in the 18th century, at the pest end of the city. a cast iron structure encloses a warren of passageways. i pass trails of sausages, freezers full of meat and cheese, and vibrant crates stacked with a rainbow collection of vegetables and fruits. i find an entire industry around red hot peppers: tiny porcelain jars with sweet and hot paprika; chilli shaped receptacles; wooden paprika scoops; florid metal containers; and transparent bottles of chilli oil, with peppers suspended in their bellies. a welcome spice attack in a continent of subtle flavours.

richard, whos been showing me around Budapest, speaks of the blossoming of hungarian cuisine, reaching its gastronomical peak in the beginning of the 20th century, until the communists drained it of flavour. But since the fall of the iron curtain, the kitchens ingested a whiff of freshness in its rustic culinary complexion.

i visit onyx, a Michelin star dig, helmed by the petite chef szabina szulló. the palpably poncy restaurant specialises in an evolution menu—using cutting edge culinary techniques and local ingredients, served with local hungarian wine. Wedged in one corner of the stylish V?r?smarty square, onyx caters to Budapests nouveau royalty. the food, prepared by the auteur swivels out in stylish succession: a savoury carpaccio of salmon with a hint of vanilla avocado and olive cream; followed by a creamy orangepumpkin cream soup with baby carrots floating on its amber belly. the menus tantalising on the tongue, even dishes such as aubergine stuffed ravioli with a lashing of parmesan foam. as i spoon the last of the esterhazy, a hungarian dessert of mousse, nuts and wafers off the plate, believing my culinary amble through Budapest has been gobbled to its end, i am proved wrong.

at twilight i join a few friends to visit one of the ruinpubs—saloons that have transformed the citys impoverished, bombed-out district Vii, lying quite derelict post World War ii. We follow a group of students into a pulsating ruinous den, szimpla kert, or the simple Garden, the oldest ruinpub in Budapest. its an ingénues interpretation of alices derelict Wonderland, with kitschy interiors, an open air garden, a silent movie amphitheatre and free-flowing beer. in this mismatched melange of furniture and props fitted in a densely designed bar, i shimmy through a hall with a rainforest created on a mesh above, past a trabant car, a communist era relic converted into a seating area, more useful in post retirement bliss than it ever was on the road. reaching the other end of the gangling ruin pub, i settle on a bar stool thats seen better days, watching a silent blackand-white film flicker on a scratchy wall. sipping a glass of fresh white beer, the credits begin to roll, signalling a palatable end of the gastronomical journey.