Elek Magyar
A Calendar of Treats
Easter on a White Table

[...]

Ham baked in bread held a special fascination for me even as a child. I will never forget the excitement I felt every time I caught a glimpse of it in the display window of a well-known Budapest grocer, Ede Szenes in the Wurm Yard in Dorottya Street (he later moved to the nearby King of Hungary Hotel), Lajos Takáts on the corner of Hatvani (now Lajos Kossuth) and Magyar Street, in the house in which Sándor Petoýfi wrote his epic poem, János vitéz (John the Valiant), and also Gyula Pintér’s shop in Kecskeméti Street. On the other hand, I never once saw ham baked in bread at Kálmán Brázay’s place in the "Spirits of Salt House" on Múzeum Boulevard, where the poet Gergely Czuczor once lived. The old man had the best of everything on his shelves but ^__ more’s the pity ^__ he didn’t feel any inclination to provide his customers bread with their ham. This pained me immeasurably, for my mother did her shopping at Brázay’s, and so there was precious little hope of me tasting this unfamiliar delicacy, which always stood out in the shop windows just before the Easter holidays.

I was even late getting to school now and then, for I would lose track of time as I stood in front of the shops. On the other hand, even if only by sight, this turned me into quite an expert on ham baked in bread shaped in the round, whose yellowish-brown crust had a huge golden "scar" running across it, allowing a glimpse of the pink meat underneath.

It was many years, as a grown man, before I could actually taste the ham that had fascinated me as a child. This was thanks to that upright soul János Bauer, proprietor of the old Kranzli restaurant on Dísz Square in the Castle District.

Once he invited a small company to his cellar cut into the rocks of Calvary Hill in Budaörs, just outside the city, to try the new wine. Luckily, I was one of the company, and I must say that the wines of Buda and Budaörs, whether white or red, were excellent back then, but so was the amuse-guêule that came with it, nothing less than that ham baked in bread. There was no bone in the ham, of course, but it had been removed only prior to baking, for this was no run-of-the-mill "trussed" ham, which is just plain shoulder of pork, and which is marinated and smoked deboned, thus depriving it of much of its essence. Old man Bauer’s ham retained its flavour and aroma to the full; the taste of the ham was not absorbed by the cooking liquid, nor did it disappear with the steam from the bubbling cauldron. The delicious white wheat bread kept it intact, soaking it up, especially the taste of the thin layer of bacon left on the skin that had first been removed, then used to cover the ham before it was baked. Nothing in the procedure deprived the ham of its delightful taste.

Ham baked in bread is the best sandwich any man could hope to eat, especially when accompanied by the wines of Sasad and Budaörs Calvary Hill, which we were treated to back then. Anyone who has only experienced boiled ham has no idea what a royal treat ham baked in bread can be!

[...]

St Anne’s Day’s Kermesse

West of the Danube, many parish churches bear the name of St Anne, so it will come as no surprise that for many years, the first Sunday after St Anne’s Day, which falls on July 26th, gingerbread vendors set up their booths all over the countryside. The locals of Somogy and Zala called them "puppet men", since their offerings included gingerbread hussars. But they also specialized in hazel-nut macaroons, or puszelli, and gingerbread cakes in a variety of shapes, colours and sizes flavoured with jam, chocolate and almonds, as well as fruit cake and other delicacies. They also made a unique drink perfect for children and young men alike, who came to the fair in the company of village maidens. Called márc, this drink, which was always served ice-cold, was a godsend on a hot afternoon. It was a kind of unfermented bragget that the gingerbread makers prepared from honey diluted with water, and judiciously seasoned with a bit of nutmeg and coriander.

A long, long time ago ^__ it must have been fifty-five or fifty-six years ago ^__ when such things were rare in the countryside, the famous gingerbread man Ámon even made ice cream for the fairs, red from berries, white from lemon, yellow from apricots and, first and foremost, all sorts of cream-coloured ices from vanilla and egg yolk. I say first and foremost, because at that time the country ladies looked upon vanilla ice cream as the most distinguished of the lot, their opinion having been influenced in no small measure by the novels of Her Excellency Mrs Beniczky, née Lenke Bajza, in whose pages the women of the aristocracy ate vanilla ice cream to alleviate their soul’s torment.

Thanks to his ice cream, gingerman Ámon was a welcome guest at Lengyeltóti, the charming county seat of Somogy County, where old Count János Zichy, may he rest with the Lord, the father of the eminent sportsman Count Béla, also deceased, had such a beautiful slender-steepled church built that alone made visiting the fair worthwhile, just to see it.

Another attraction was the traditional midday meal of the dearly departed parish priest. It consisted of a long line of Transdanubian specialities prepared to perfection ^__ meat soup with pasta pockets stuffed with lights, goose-giblets sprinkled with baked blood and decorated with pieces of sliced goose liver and cracklings, chicken paprikás with mushroom rice, and light-as-a-feather festival doughnuts. But if you think the meal was over with the doughnuts, think again, for after a short respite, they served roast goose and duck with braised mar-row, cucumber salad with sour cream, and spiced red cabbage. Once this repast was consumed, the table was then laden with strudel filled with cottage cheese seasoned with dill, or apple or cabbage, not to mention the mixed iced cream beautifully shaped and topped with whipped cream, small tea cakes, imaginatively decorated tortes, and mouth-watering fruit of all kinds. And when everyone had their fill, aromatic black coffee was served to finish off the peer-less meal.

The wine usually came from the other side of Lake Balaton, from the rock-hewn cellars of the Pious Fathers of Dörgicse, who made the popular Badacsonyi kéknyeluý from the grape of the same name, indigenous to the region, though there was also muscatel wine from Somló. The red wine, however, came from the "Small Mountain" of Somogy, namely, from the cellars of the famous lion hunter and independent member of Parliament, the Honourable Imre Szalay, who wore a Francis Joseph beard and who produced wine that was known far and wide in Europe.

Needless to say, the St Anne’s Day dinner, which began at noon, and stretched late into the night, was heightened in popularity by the presence, at the head of the table, of the parish priest’s widowed sister who, out of the generosity of her heart and her self-effacement, tactfully allowed her guests to choose what they wished to eat, and in what quantities, without forcing anyone to eat more than was pleasing to them. As a consequence, her guests always talked of her meals and the fair in the very highest terms, showering them with superlatives, as the above will have made you suspect with good reason.

[...]

Autumn delights

Maróni with tart must, grape juice before it ferments completely, which the French call moût, is nothing to scoff at, especially when they’re not trying to pass off must made with salicyl in the small taverns of the Tabán, but must made from grapes pressed out in the yard, where customers could hold their glass directly under the wine-press. This must was sweet as honey, for it came from the renowned white hónigli, or honey-grapes indigenous to Buda, though after a couple of days it began to take on a tart flavour, and a nose-tickling aroma floated toward you through the open cellar door.

This was the season to buy a large bag of maróni chestnuts from the woman leisurely roasting them at the corner of the square, and head for the round, green tables that stood barren, without tablecloths, at the home of some friendly winemaker. The must, varying in colour from a light grey to a light brown, was waiting for them in half-litre bottles; it had not yet matured into the heuriger, which with its fermented alcohol led to overloud merriment; it was more gentle, and lighter, but with a foretaste of its future strength. Must loosens the tongue, and as the yellowish, baked meat of the chestnuts ^__ stripped of their shells with a cracking sound, which were let fall to the ground ^__ stood revealed in all their mouth-watering glory, the natives of Buda made friends with the newcomers from Pest. The consumption of chestnuts, however, was not limited to the drinking of tart must, which was soon gone from the bottles, but continued with the bitter-tasting ürmös, a kind of vermouth, which was prepared best just across from the Rác (Serb) Bath. It was not just called upon to make you feel thirsty; it got appreciable help from the csája, by which I do not mean the grog-like drink of the cafés, but the lovely, tall, cake-shaped, steaming, meat and pepper filled strudel offered by the slice on a wooden platter by the proprietor, who was himself a Serb.

Back then, ladies of refinement were more squeamish than today, they were afraid of tobacco smoke, and were generally unfamiliar with the pleasure attendant on eating chestnuts in the neighbourhood taverns of the Tabán and Christina Town. They preferred to visit the Russwurm patisserie on the Castle Hill, or sit at one of the tables of the Auguszt patisserie and enjoy a plate of chestnut purée topped with whipped cream, some marron glacé, chestnut cream, or chestnut cake.

The ladies are no longer afraid of tobacco smoke and even visit neighbourhood taverns which have been modernized beyond recognition; they call themselves restaurants, and the cult of the maroni has taken on new shapes. Some of these genteel taverns even have chestnut stew, chestnut salad and chestnut pudding on the menu, not to mention turkey fattened on walnuts and stuffed with chestnuts.

Meanwhile, the inimitable tart must has, alas, also disappeared, and never am I more saddened by this than at the time when the first load of chestnuts arrives from South Tyrol and Istria.

(Translated by Judith Sollosy)