Cruising the Danube–Part 1

Roots II–The Chosen People

“All outbound flights are suspended” blared through a tinny loudspeaker.  The beautiful wife and I were in the British Airways lounge at Heathrow airport, awaiting our connection to Budapest for a cruise of the Danube with our close friends Ben and Rose Lifschitz (we were hoping they would remain our close friends even after the vacation).  Both the Lifschitz’s and my ancestors hailed from Hungary so I was eager to seek out my roots as an Ancestry DNA test showed me to be not 98%, not 99%, but 100% Eastern European Ashkenazi Jew. We scheduled the river cruise just before my tag team entry in the Westminster Dog Show with my purebred Yorkshire Terrier.

Ben is the son of the Bagel King of Toronto.  He and Rose immigrated to America, guided by a coyote across the St. Lawrence River, to seek a better life and to avoid the GST tax.  Their only belongings were two hockey sticks, a pocket full of loonies and toques to protect against the gales screaming down from the subarctic permafrost.  Like Gates and Zuckerberg, they built an empire in the technology business despite the lack of a college degree, further proof of how overrated education can be.

So I was faced with a layover in London.  After a few phone calls, I had the options of a tour of the British museum by the master of Queens College, Cambridge, being the acting charges d’affaires at 10 Downing St. or a private audience with King Charles at Buckingham Palace.  Instead of engaging in such triviality, I did what any self-respecting food critic would do, and made a beeline for Hobson’s Fish and Chips in Soho.  Hobson’s has been serving the most discerning of the gentry of the UK since 1769.  Customers have included countless English notables including Sid Vicious, Jack the Ripper and Ebeneezer Scrooge.  However, when an incognito Meghan and Harry attempted to sneak a table they were told “No fish and chips for you.”

Hobson’s offers a choice between cod, plaice or haddock.  Not having any idea of what is fished out of the Thames these days, I played Eenie, Meenie, Miney, Mo, and chose cod.  The fish was moist and flaky, while the surrounding batter was fried to the perfect golden brown of an autumn leaf, with a crisp snap at first bite.  The chips (what an uninitiated American might call fries) had a touch of beef dripping in the flavor with the tang of malt vinegar (but not too much acetic acid for subtlety) and the savoriness of a touch of salt.  I washed the meal down with a Fentiman’s Rose Lemonade, a carbonated beverage scented with Bulgarian Otto rose oil for added depth of flavor. 

We finally arrived at the Budapest International Airport the following day at 4:00 am. Through the haze of exhaustion I recall our cabbie advising us that the most authentic Hungarian food is found at a restaurant called Gundel. 

Gundel was a 15 minute walk from our hotel, but a 30 minute drive due to Budapest’s system of convoluted one way streets, secret passageways and traffic controls designed by M.C. Escher.  We chose to walk, albeit like particles in Brownian motion.

Hungarian luminaires have dined at Gundel since the days of Archduke Franz-Ferdinand.  We were entertained by a string quartet (including the folk string percussion instrument, the cimbalom, the Hungarian version of the xylophone), but I was somewhat surprised and disappointed when they opened their set with Quando, Quando, Quando, a tune not generally considered of the Hungarian school by most leading musicologists.

I was neither surprised nor disappointed by the bona fide Hungarian cuisine.  I started with the goulash soup:  a hearty mix of beef broth, small chunks of beef, potato, celery, and orzo pasta with a garnish of parsley on top. The broth had the subtle notes of tomato, cumin and paprika.  The varying textures of the tender beef, firm potatoes, softened celery and rice-like bits of pasta beautifully complemented the broad assortment of flavors.

For the main course, I chose chicken paprikash.  The bisected breast and dressed drumstick were served with sides of spätzle and cucumber salad with sour cream.  Gundel prepares the dish by simmering the chicken for hours in a roux of sweet paprika, chicken schmaltz, olive oil and flour. The paprika and a touch of tomato paste added a rosy hue to the dish.  Spätzle is a neutral-flavored dumpling of egg, flour, water and a hint of salt that is eaten in combination with the roux that covers the plate. 

Palacsinta was a must for dessert.  A thin, sweet crêpe is filled with light chocolate mousse with walnuts for crunchiness and dusted with powdered sugar.  The crêpe is covered with more walnuts and chocolate sauce then topped with a gilded chocolate wafer with an imprinted Gundel logo.  As our attorney friends would say (and as I have previously admitted, I do have attorney friends), res ipsa loquitur.

Did I find my roots in Budapest?  Between eating massive meals and recovering from those meals, I didn’t even have the time to look.  Next stop, Vienna.