Jonathan C. Lewis
Author and Artist
Hungry in Hungary
A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.
Dear Travel Journal,
If at all possible, I want to leave Budapest with my sanity, one or two good memories and both of my kids alive and unbandaged. I give it a fifty-fifty chance.
My two children—Benjamin, 10, and Brittany, 7—are snarling. Everything in Budapest, including each other and especially their parents, displeases them.
Benjamin has informed me that Castle Hill is the only thing he wants to see or do. Since his knowledge of Hungarian history is zero, it is the funicular ride to the top that interests him. Once there, he will be furious when he discovers the ‘castle’ houses only the Budapest National Gallery and History Museum.
The City of Baths—Budapest’s nickname—is waterlogged with thermal baths and spas. Art nouveau buildings with swirling blue waters, families bathing and old men soaking are everywhere. Brittany is arguing for, as she calls it, a swimming pool day. I’m too cowardly to remind her that she refused to pack her swimsuit because she no longer likes the color.
Adding to the mental melee, my wife is lost in a history book about Hungarian princes and princesses, warrior-kings and Austrian-Hungarian alliances. Or was it rivalries? By the hour, she peppers me with footnotes.
My growling stomach suggests a palatable destination. With Moses-like determination, I propose Central Market Hall. No one objects because no one has a clue what I’m talking about.
Central Market Hall, Budapest’s largest and oldest indoor bazaar, is a big, busty, boisterous building filled with food stalls catering to local shoppers and, with shameless glitz, tourists. There is fresh produce, specialty meats, glossy pastries, sweet candies, Hungarian gingerbread, the local fry bread called langos, fragrant spices, alcohols and brandies, sausages and salamis, catch-of-the-day fish, pickled cabbage, an avalanche of paprika and the usual tourist crap marketed as authentic folk art.
Inside the hall, the Fakanal—the Wooden Spoon Restaurant—features red and white checked tablecloths, indoor picnic benches and a Gypsy music combo. It belongs to a breed of restaurants which have perfected the performative art of putting on a kitschy show of loving their country’s culinary heritage.
Ramekins arrayed in front of us simmer with veal stew, cheese noodles, cabbage stuffed with rice and meat, egg dumplings, bean soup garnished with a dollop of sour cream. The rich, meaty, onion-laden, paprika-infused aromas are soothing, satisfying.
After lunch when my kids realize that neither a castle nor a swim is on the itinerary, they reenact the 1956 Hungarian Revolution. In rebellion, brother and sister are united. I endure some world-class whining which eventually gives way to hours of sullen, stony silence. Without knowing a thing about prime minister Viktor Orbán’s authoritarian, Soviet-style fascism, an ugly comparison to their father is vaguely insinuated.
Grasping for a teachable moment, I implore my kids to accept the traveler’s dilemma: the impossibility of being in two places at once. Travel means choosing. Or, because I am their Orbán, dad choosing.
Invoking my authority as guide, pilot and luggage sherpa, I announce our evening activity. Next stop, a Chopin candlelight concert atop Buda Hill in Matthias Church overlooking the Danube.
Parental power has its perks.
