The Secret Hungarian Restaurant

Map of Hungary

Map of Hungary

“We could always try the secret Hungarian restaurant.”

Wait, what?

Lamenting the disappearance of eateries serving central European soul food with my cousin Pete – our beloved Mocca, the last one standing, closed over a decade ago after 47 years in business – his comment while we were having lunch in Midtown a few weeks ago threw me for a loop. As the only member of my generation born in the old country, he had once again proven himself an expert on all things Hungarian-American.

I couldn’t believe that I had never heard of this place. Though not exactly a restaurant, The First Hungarian Literary Society was, according to a few sources on the Internet, a place to experience some real magyar konyha. He hadn’t been either so we agreed to meet outside the East 79th Street club last night.

The establishment doesn’t exactly shout its existence from the rooftops. Aside from the mandatory health department inspection sticker (it got an “A”) that one might assume was for the actual, unrelated restaurant at ground level, you would never know there was an eatery upstairs. The only sign once you enter the vestibule was this:

Club

But then it became clear that this was no ordinary apartment building. There were various plaques and posters of their membership with faded old photos lining the hallway. Those people reading this who have traveled in Hungary or elsewhere in Mitteleuropa will recognize the style of photo from gimnázium and középiskola graduation posters. Here’s one from their 35th anniversary in 1924:

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And here’s Pete standing next to one from their 50th anniversary. The people in the photos look like younger versions of the patrons of Mocca and Tip Top who would pinch our cheeks as we spent hours and hours there during countless Sunday afternoons in the 1970s with our dads and mutual grandpa.

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Here’s me next to a 105th anniversary one with color photos. If you look closely you’ll notice that there are fewer members and that the average age is way up there – a sign that the club’s heyday is long past. There would be more signs when we actually reached the “club.”

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The woman at the reception as we entered appeared to be the only employee. To my immense relief, quoting Attila József or György Faludy wasn’t a requirement for being admitted. A few words in Hungarian got us in the door and quickly seated. For the night we went there at least reservations weren’t necessary as no one else was eating. There were a couple of lively card games going on:

Cards

On to the food. The prix fixe $25 menu, four courses plus coffee, was a bit more than Mocca, even adjusted for inflation. It still won’t break the bank, though. For an appetizer I had körözött (you may know it as liptauer) and Pete had chopped liver. Both were authentic but not amazing. Here’s the körözött:

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Then came a perfectly tasty vegetable soup. For the main course I had borjúpörkölt (veal paprikash) with galuska (egg dumplings) and uborkasaláta (cucumber salad). It was excellent.

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Pete’s stuffed cabbage was good too.

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For dessert, we both had palacsinta (crepes) – mine with walnuts and jam and his with túró (curd or sweetened farmer’s cheese). I think they had to improvise with his filling but it was okay. Mine was yummy.

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Finally came coffee served in a glass and some pleasant, unrushed conversation. Just like in the Old World, it would be rude to bring the check without the customer asking. Grandpa used to occupy a table for hours back in the day on 2nd Avenue, reading Népszabadság and gossiping (granted, he often would have two meals). We finally found the waitress/cook/receptionist, paid, and left with slightly higher serum cholesterol than a couple of hours earlier.

All in all the food was authentic but not amazing. The location that oozed history and kitsch was the main attraction. Oh the agglutinative, multisyllabic stories those walls could tell! You needn’t have grown up speaking Hunglish to relish this little piece of history, but it probably helps. I can’t wait to go back with people who would appreciate this slice of a nearly vanished world. Business isn’t exactly booming and the clientele wasn’t lively. I hope they hang on and perhaps find some fresh blood so that there are many more anniversary posters to come.

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I ♥ Molvania

You know you’re doing something wrong (or very, very right) if the correction to your story gets thousands more page views than your actual article. So, in case you missed it, The New York Times had one for the ages back in January:

An earlier version of this article misstated the name of the country whose army chased Tommy Caldwell’s kidnappers. As other references correctly noted, Caldwell was in Kyrgyzstan, not Kyrzbekistan, which does not exist.

But cut the writer John Branch some slack. For one the guy is a sports reporter and keeping track of Central Asian “stans” isn’t easy. Also, it’s a really nice piece and he’s done some other amazing stories, including one that won a Pulitzer. Plus he was a good sport about it.

Branch

Heck, even our Secretary of State gets confused. John Kerry insulted not one but two countries by inventing the country of Kyrzakhstan. I mean it’s not like Kazakhstan is of vital geopolitical importance or is seven times the size of Germany or something. Oh, wait, it is? Confusion about the region is becoming de rigeur when running for president. Remember Herman Cain, the pizza guy who ran for the Republican nomination in 2012?

Brody: Are you ready for the gotcha questions that are coming from the media and others? Like who’s the president of Uzbekistan? It’s coming. All of this stuff and how are you dealing with that?

 

Cain: I’m ready for the ‘gotcha’ questions and they’re already starting to come. And when they ask me who is the president of Ubeki-beki-beki-beki-stan-stan I’m going to say, ‘You know, I don’t know. Do you know?’ And then I’m going to say, ‘how’s that going to create one job?’

 

Obviously – duh. Intentionally fictional fake countries from the region are almost as fun as ones made up by accident. Just to name a few, there’s: Adjikistan, Zekistan (both from video games), Berzerkistan (Doonesbury), Richistan (a very good book by my former colleague Robert Frank), Howduyudustan (Uncle Scrooge), Pokolistan (DC Comics), and, last but not least, Trashcanistan.

My very favorite fictional country is Syldavia, the setting for several of Tintin adventures. Readers of the series will have figured out that it, along with its neighbor and sworn enemy Borduria, are somewhere in the Balkans. What only obsessive fans might know is that the Syldavian language is based largely on a Germanic dialect spoken in part of Hergé’s native Brussels called Marols with some Slavic and Hungarian words mixed in and Cyrillic script.

Hergé also made up the South American banana republic of San Theodoros ruled alternately by Generals Tapioca and Alcazar (the former renamed the capital Tapiacopolis) and the Persian Gulf monarchy Khemed (fought over by Mohammed Ben Kalish and Sheikh Bab El Ehr).

And then there are those made up for purely comic effect. The great series of travel guides from Jetlag Travel that included “Molvania: A Land Untouched by Modern Dentistry” and Phaic Tăn: Sunstroke on a Shoestring” are worth reading if you can find a copy.

Molvania

Happy travels!

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Balaton Memories

Amphicarbalaton

Growing up in the U.S., your idea of a beach vacation may have been sunny Florida or something more modest like The Jersey Shore. In communist Hungary, the only place to go was “Balaton.” It’s a lake, but no ordinary one as far as Hungarians, or the hundreds of thousands of East Germans who also vacationed there, were concerned. (it’s called “Plattensee” in German). Nearly 50 miles wide and eight or nine across, it was the equivalent of an ocean for a landlocked country where foreign travel rarely was possible.

I’ve been there a few times, but my most memorable visit by far was in August 1979, the summer between fourth and fifth grade. It was my first trip and I had been regaled with tales of how wonderful it was by my mom, who spent summers camping there as a “Young Pioneer.” By “memorable” I don’t mean pleasant, by the way, though that’s not her fault. The three of us (me, my mom, and my sister) went there with my mom’s best friend from medical school and her daughter, who is my age. The whole trip was weird to an American kid – you went there on a slow, packed, stuffy train filled with people smoking harsh cigarettes. Passengers brought lots of food with them – bread, salami, cheese and juicy Hungarian peppers and tomatoes – no McDonald’s. Never ones for modesty, most Hungarians on the train already were half naked and ready to jump in the water. By the time they got to the actual beach, most of the women were truly naked from the waist up – an eye-opener for an American kid (I didn’t mind that part).

Instead of a hotel, most people, including us, rented a room or an entire house in a village near the shore. The one we rented seemed incredibly rustic to me – we had to feed the owners’ chickens – but it made for pretty luxurious digs by local standards. Anyway, the trip started out fine. We were on the southern, shallow side of the lake and I went swimming on the first afternoon. I remember having a nasty fall on the rocks and being carried out, sobbing, by a very kind East German teenager. It turned out to be my last excursion into the lake as I started feeling ill the following morning. We found out later that lots of people developed similar symptoms. In a communist country, this sort of information trickles out slowly, if at all.

I got worse and worse and I developed a high fever. I should note here that, back in Budapest before our trip, I had watched a popular Hungarian children’s film based on a famous play called A Pál Utcai Fiúk (The Paul Street Boys) by Ferenc Molnár. In the end, the hero dies of a fever – typical, cheery Hungarian youth programming! Being nine years old and already a budding hypochondriac, I had visions of succumbing to my illness like the hero in the movie. At first my mom wanted to try a home remedy – chicken soup – but we couldn’t eat the live ones in the yard. She bought a duck instead and made some very greasy soup. It didn’t work and finally she found the lone local doctor.

Being the eastern bloc, this took a while and he had no medicine anyway. After scouring the area, my mom finally found some Bulgarian penicillin. I don’t want to sound bratty, but it was absolutely the most disgusting thing I’ve ever had to ingest – a bottle of poop-brown liquid with an aroma to match. I kept vomiting it up and, after a while, developed a Pavlovian reaction to the bottle, barfing as soon as she unscrewed the cap.

It was also very hot in the peasant house and I just lay in bed most of the day drenched in sweat. There was no ice or, of course, air conditioning. The main diversion was playing with the stray cats who wandered into the house and lay down in my bed. One day I picked up what looked like a glass of water on the table. It was actually vodka that my mom’s friend, who was a bit of a lush, was drinking straight.

I finally got so sick that my mom had to take me back to Budapest and call in a favor to get me treated in a “special” hospital. What was so special about it? I’m not sure, but I shudder to think of what the run-of-the-mill ones were like. A nurse took me into a room and pulled out the most gigantic needle I’ve ever seen – 1940s medical technology – to draw blood. She stuck it in my arm, but blood started spurting out all over me because she had neglected to place a glass tube on the other end. After yelling at me for not being “a man,” she found the missing piece and I was free to go. They didn’t seem to have any normal penicillin either because I had to go back every day after that on a train, trolley, and bus while feeling awful to get a shot in my leg with a slightly smaller needle. After the shots my legs would stiffen and I had to limp back to the bus. They alternated sides each day. I was sick for the rest of our trip but a bit better than at the lake. When we got home, I went to a local clinic in Queens, got some medicine, and it took me about a day to improve. I nearly had a fit when they asked to draw blood but was relieved when it was just a virtually painless finger prick. They told me I had a bacterial infection.

They say that young children can’t appreciate being taken abroad. I’m not sure that’s quite true, though it may seem like that at the time. My sister and I didn’t really understand how different life was behind the Iron Curtain, even in Hungary, the “happiest barracks in the camp.” I thought lots of kids went on trips like that. I remember bringing back a “Pioneer” belt buckle with the inscription “Előre” (forward!) that I wore to school. They didn’t know what to make of it at P.S. 174.

Elore

On the other hand, this all made a strong impression on me and left some vivid memories – few more than getting so sick and thinking, with my childish logic, that I might die of a fever. For lots of poor people in the world, that’s a distinct possibility.

I don’t want to scare anyone away from Balaton, by the way. It’s actually very nice and, from what I hear, the water is perfectly clean now. It also has plenty of beautiful villas and some nicer hotels than back then, plus vineyards and spas. I went there twice when I lived in Hungary – once on a boozy weekend with some friends when we rented a cheap “Zimmer Frei,” Hungarian style, and once on a more high-end trip involving a sailboat with work colleagues. I had a pretty good time but, unlike probably 99.9% of people who went there as kids, my initial association with Balaton was unpleasant – feeling sick, scared, and uncomfortable. First impressions matter a lot.

These days even middle class Hungarians are as likely to jet off to places like Corfu on cheap package tours as to spend time on Balaton. The analogy I would draw is New Yorkers who used to flock to the Catskills in the 1950s but now travel to Florida with the advent of air conditioning and affordable airfares. It’s not a perfect comparison. Balaton is special and accessible in a way that no similar place is for all Americans. It’s culturally significant enough to show up in many brands.

balatonchocoloatebalatonpapir Going to Balaton may not quite rise to the level of a formative memory, but it’s a powerful one. I was inspired to write all this down after reading Gary Shteyngart’s wonderful memoir, Little Failure.  He grew up near my neighborhood in Queens around the same time as me after emigrating from the Soviet Union, but the portion that got me reminiscing about my trip to Balaton was his description of summer beach vacations in Crimea. He also detailed some pretty medieval medical treatment he got for his asthma because Soviet doctors didn’t have modern inhalers.

I got off very lightly by comparison. Now all I have to do is become a bestselling author! Oh, one more thing. Sharp-eyed readers will notice that the postcard at the top of this entry shows not only Balaton but, for some strange reason, an Amphicar in the lake (I wrote about those a while back).

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Meeting “Leon”

Leon2

Have you ever had the chance to meet someone in person whom you’ve watched dozens of times on the screen? Earlier this year I had the pleasure of doing just that – a benefit of being a journalist that sort of makes up for the poor pay and job security. The guy I met, Alan R. Solomon, isn’t exactly a household name but, in my house at least, he’s an icon. My kids and I refer to him by his character’s name in the 1980 Disney film Midnight Madness – Leon, the Game Master.

Haven’t seen it? That’s not surprising, but not because it’s bad. Starring Stephen Furst (of Animal House fame), David Naughton (American Werewolf in London, Dr. Pepper guy), Eddie Deezen (various nerdy characters, including Eugene in Grease) and featuring  a very young Michael J. Fox and Paul Reubens (Pee Wee Herman), it’s actually pretty good and very funny. A crazy ensemble movie in the mold of It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World starring Spencer Tracy and Milton Berle, it was based on a real-life all-night puzzle hunt going on in L.A. at the time.

Great concept, superb cast, and a nice debut editorial performance by Michael Nankin and David Wechter. So what happened? It was only Disney’s second PG film and the sophomoric, slightly risqué humor (very mild by today’s standards) caused the studio to get cold feet. It was hardly promoted and released at an inauspicious time. But then it had a revival on HBO and seemed to be on constantly in the early 1980s. For me and many others, that’s when it became a cult classic. The twist is that people all over the country emulate the puzzle hunts by staging their own all-nighters – life imitating art imitating life, so to speak.

By last summer, my kids and I had watched the DVD 30 or 35 times. Seeing the movie for the third time in a week while on vacation in Cape Cod, they asked me what I thought “Leon” was doing now. I decided to humor them by looking it up and, after some research, found out that he went on to become a professional game show designer. In the movie he’s a nerdy genius obsessed with games who plans the all-night puzzle hunt pitting five teams (nice kids, mean kids, jocks, nerds, sorority girls) against one another. Life imitating art again.

I decided to pitch it as a front-page story in The Wall Street Journal. The editors took a bit of convincing, but it worked out well. It was almost surreal speaking with Alan over the phone because, despite being 63 now, he sounds just like young Leon. Not a professional actor, he was picked out of the crowd for his looks and mannerisms. Here he is with his lovely assistants, Candy and Sunshine:

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We were sporting “FAGABEEFE” t-shirts we made  for the occasion (it’s a classic line from the movie):

How did we meet him? After the article appeared, the organizers of an elaborate Midnight Madness game in New York City that I wrote about in the article invited Alan and his wife to attend, flying them from his home in California. We were invited to the start of the contest in lower Manhattan by the chief organizer Elisha Wiesel (who, believe it or not, is the son of the Nobel Peace Prize winner Elie Wiesel). Clearly the apple didn’t fall far from the tree – Elisha has raised huge sums for charity Good Shepherd Services through the game.

Alan acted as a sort of surprise grand poobah of the event, staying up for 36 hours straight and losing his voice, but he took time to speak with me and my sons. He and his wife Sharon were really warm and friendly. He even gave us an autographed copy of an item from the movie – the handout from the cult members in the airport scene (a treasured keepsake along with an original movie poster that David Wechter sent me). He may not be a bona fide celebrity, but he is to my boys. They thought he was great and said meeting him was better than some other pretty cool stuff they did with me as part of my reporting – even riding in floating cars. That’s really saying something.

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The life aquatic

They say that sailing is 99% boredom and 1% sheer terror. Perhaps that’s true – I haven’t spent enough time on the water to get tired of it or, thankfully, to experience anything that scared me out of my wits. Based on my limited experience, I’d say it’s more like 30% relaxation, 30% inspiration, and 50% inebriation. Yes, I know, that adds up to 110%, but cut me some slack – my brain is still recovering from the sun and alcohol of a wonderful sailing trip last week in the British Virgin Islands week with my good friend István.

You may have guessed from the funny accent on the second vowel that he’s not from these parts. I met and befriended István when I moved to Hungary in 1993. Despite having been ruled for quite a while by an admiral, Hungary – a landlocked country – doesn’t have much of a nautical tradition. He learned the ropes in England after receiving sailing lessons for his 30th birthday, which was 16 years ago. Now he’s a day skipper and a darn good one too. I survived last week’s trip and another one a decade ago in Croatia. All I had to do was obey whatever nautical commands he shouted at me in a combination of Hungarian and English. “Bend the jib! Húzd meg jól! Hoist the mainsail! Man the poopdeck,” and so forth. Actually, he kept it much less technical since the extent of my seafaring knowledge is knowing fore, aft, port, starboard, and that water is wet.

Let me preface the description of our sailing trip by saying that our wives, Éva and Nicole, deserve to be joint spouses of the year for letting us go. Thank you! Even if the elements don’t cooperate, sailing is a great way to relax and to spend time with friends. For both our trips,  the weather was beautiful and the setting even more so. The only thing that would have made it better is bringing our families along and we’re working on that.

The natural beauty, good infrastructure, and warmth of the locals make the BVI a sailors’ paradise. I flew to St. Thomas, one of the U.S. islands, and took a short ferry ride over to Road Town in Tortola, the main town of the BVI. We set sail the next day and hit Norman Island, Cooper Island, Virgin Gorda, and Marina Cay in that order over the next five days, mooring each time.

I can describe the beautiful, clear water, inviting islands and tropical breezes to you ad nauseam, but words really don’t do them justice. The rest of this blog post will try to give you a sense through pictures:

This was our boat, a 41 foot Jeanneau named ADA:

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Our boat, the 41 foot ADA

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A rainbow over the water

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The Bitter End on Virgin Gorda

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Virgin Gorda

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The valiant captain

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Boats moored on Norman Island, the inspiration for Treasure Island

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A landlubber gets his sea legs

 

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I ♥ Street Meat

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Maybe you’re the type of person who turns his nose up at the carts found on nearly every street corner in Manhattan. I bet if they called it viande hachée de la rue, quadrupled the price and served it on a white tablecloth though you’d be fine with it. In any case, I’ve had it thousands of times with no ill effect (clutches chest).

I don’t know what it is about street meat that keeps me coming back. The fact that it’s the cheapest thing for lunch in Midtown Manhattan? The instant gratification of a meal cooked in front of your eyes on demand. The exotic and occasionally overpowering flavors served up by the Indian/Afghan/Arab proprietors? The danger that an unscrupulous operator is feeding you chopped up sewer rat or homeless guy?

Sorry. Anyway, I had a fantastic experience last month when I applied and was accepted as a judge in Street Meat Palooza 6, run by Zach Brooks’s Midtown Lunch website. I nominated my favorite guys at the Kabab stand at 55th and 6th by the Love sign. When I worked at the FT, I frequently bypassed the Famous Halal Guys at 53rd and 6th (who really are sort of famous)  and went there instead. They did pretty well too, placing 8th. The contest involved doing a blind taste test on 16 different dishes.

The winner this year? Drum roll please …. the Trini Paki Boys Halal Food cart. I remember it and rated it highly. I will say, in my guys’ defense, that it’s a tad pricey at $6 to $8 a plate compared to $5 for the basic chicken or lamb over rice up on 55th. But, in Zach’s wise words:

Street Meat Palooza isn’t really about winning or losing. It’s about discovering that even after 6 years of some hardcore street meat eating, we still discover new things year after year. Here’s to unlocking fresh surprises next year!

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Getting your kids to eat fish

Believe me, I’ve heard every excuse, including the frustratingly irrefutable “it’s fishy.” No kidding guys, it’s fish – what did you expect it to taste like? But I’m here to tell you how to get your kids to eat and even enjoy the bounty of our seas, rivers and lakes. And, no,  I’m not talking about rectangular breaded strips from the Gorton’s Fisherman either (though I should note that the inventor of the fish stick died this year at the ripe old age of 96, no doubt fortified by Omega 3 and panko breadcrumbs). I mean fish from an identifiable species with some real flavor.

Step one is to make it fun, and what’s more fun than catching your own dinner? Our friend Dan, an experienced fisherman, accompanied us along with one of his boys on a four hour bottom-fishing expedition last week on Cape Cod. My three guys ranged from enthusiastic to skeptical. The most blasé of them stayed that way for all of 15 seconds after we dropped anchor. I baited his hook, let out the line, and wham! A big one had taken the bait and, less than a minute later, a monster black bass was on the deck. Check it out:

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Call me Ahab

That’s pretty much the way it went for the next couple of hours. It was like, well, like shooting fish in a barrel. Except we were dangling bits of chopped up, dead squid on metal hooks and getting them to bite it. Even with one kid taking a break for seasickness, I think we caught about 35 and we kept 24 fish, mostly porgies. On to the next step which is paying a deckhand a dollar a fish to gut and fillet them for you.

What’s that you say? Afraid to get our hands dirty? Aside from the fact that I already was covered in a fair amount of fish blood and slime, thank you very much, sharp objects and rocking boats are not a good combination for me. It isn’t much safer on dry land. Plus, let’s face it,  cleaning fish is gross. So the six tired landlubbers rested and took home the fillets in nice little baggies.

Step three is to cook it in the way most likely to appeal to the taste buds of a child. That probably doesn’t involve lemon, capers or garlic – not that we had any of those ingredients. Good old breading and frying with egg batter worked fine.

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Any Omega 3 left after this?

And the final step – eating a glorious meal that was swimming around a few hours earlier. Of my three taste testers, even the harshest critic and quasi-vegetarian approved:

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No, this is not photoshopped

And my best customer was positively gushing:

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In fact, following his five star review and owing to the fact that we had a crapload of fish left, we saved the rest for fried fish sandwiches. I figure we saved the cost of the fishing trip in meals not eaten out. Despite having fish for breakfast(!), lunch and dinner the next day, popular demand dictated that we have fish sandwiches the next day too!

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MUCH better than a Filet-o-Fish

I can’t guarantee the same results but, in our case, a half day at sea may turn into a lifetime of trips down the supermarket seafood aisle.

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How to cook like my Nagymama

My grandmother, like a lot of people’s grandmothers I suppose, didn’t use recipes. But she was a great cook. She lived with us on-and-off when I was a kid and the simple Hungarian meals she made were absolutely the best.

Even after living in Hungary and traveling there for over 40 years now, the way a dish tasted when she made it has been the benchmark against which I’ve measured all other versions of the same thing. Everyone, up to and including trained chefs, fell short. For example, I once had paprikáscsirke (chicken paprikash) at Gundel, the iconic Budapest restaurant then owned by the restaurateur George Láng and the wealthy art collector and cosmetics heir Ronald Lauder. As a nod to traditional peasant food, they had it on the menu. It was good, but it wasn’t Nagymama’s.

When I was in grad school in my early 20’s, I had a sudden inspiration to make  paprikáscsirke with galuska (egg dumplings). I bought what I thought were the ingredients and reached her on a very expensive long distance call. To my growing alarm, she couldn’t really tell me amounts – just approximations like “a pinch” or “not too much” of various ingredients. But whatever she said was good enough to make a passable version. It was good enough that my girlfriend didn’t believe at first that I had made it. She even married me four years later – that’s how good Nagymama’s paprikáscsirke is! (Disclaimer: Matrimonial results may vary).

I’ve refined it over the years and, unfortunately, my grandmother isn’t around to ask for advice any more. Mine still isn’t as good as hers, but I think it’s pretty delicious. So here’s the “recipe”:

Step 1: Steal a chicken. (Just kidding – old joke about Hungarians).

Step 2: Skin and remove gristle from a few pounds of dark meat chicken (say five or so legs and same number of thighs).

Step 3: Chop two large or three medium onions. Dice one tomato and an Italian pepper or similar.

Step 4: In a deep saucepan, fry the onions in a bit of oil until glassy but not brown. Remove from heat and add about two tablespoons of Hungarian sweet (édesnemes) paprika. Make sure the pan isn’t too hot as paprika will turn bitter if burnt. And don’t use paprika that’s been sitting around for more than six months – it’s useless. Here is what the real stuff looks like being made:

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Step 5: Add chicken, pepper, tomatoes, a dash of black pepper, a pinch of caraway seed and a tablespoon of salt. (if you can get it, a squirt of gulyáskrém or, better yet piros arany, works wonders). Cover almost to the top with water and put back on low heat, covered. Leave it that way for an hour-and-a-half to two hours, checking occasionally. Add a little water if too much evaporates. For the last 15 minutes, partially uncover and let the sauce thicken. Chicken should be very moist and falling off the bone. If the sauce is not bright red or orange, add more paprika during cooking, but don’t overdo it! This is what the final product looks like:

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Step 6: When chicken starts to cook, peel and cut two cucumbers into extremely thin slices for your uborkasaláta (cucumber salad). Try to remove seeds. Lay out on a plate and sprinkle all over with salt. Then put another plate on top and weigh it down with a bunch of heavy cans or whatever. Press down on it a bit. Leave for an hour and then drain the fluid, rinsing off the salt and patting dry.  Cover in a mix of ¼ cup white vinegar and 1 cup water with a tablespoon of sugar mixed in. Let sit in the fridge. When you’re ready to eat, remove it from the liquid. Put on a side plate and add a small dash of paprika so it looks like this.

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Step 7: Mix 4 eggs, 3 cups flour, 1 cup water, ½ cup melted butter and 3 tablespoons salt. Mix well until a thick dough develops like this:

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Step 8: Cut into inch-long pieces and drop in boiling water. After two or three minutes or when they rise to the top, remove and boil next batch. A little butter or, if you prefer, olive oil, should be slathered into the finished galuska to keep it from sticking. The final product looks like this:

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Step 9: Time to eat! Make sure to pour lots of the extra sauce on top of the galuska. For an optional “trefli” way of preparing it and so not the way my grandma did it, but perfectly good and traditional, put sour cream on top. Here’s one happy customer:

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Who said necessity is the mother of invention?

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I happen to be a great believer in American ingenuity – particularly when it comes to products we don’t really need. The great nation that brought forth the pet rock and pre-made peanut butter jelly sandwiches without the rind has been particularly innovative when it comes to financial sphere – the stupider the better. Leveraged synthetic collateralized debt obligations anyone?

But I just read this from Vanguard Group’s Martha King: “We believe that the great exchange traded fund land rush is over. Virtually every square inch of the market is tracked by an ETF.”

I strongly disagree and think it has only just begun. Sure we can bet on the tiny Mongolian stock exchange or buy products that return three times the inverse of the gain of obscure industrial metals, but we’re still just scratching the surface. I humbly submit a couple of ideas, free of charge:

BALD An exchange traded fund that only invests in companies with depilated CEOs. You may scoff, but a widely-read Wall Street Journal article from last October cited a study done by the Wharton School which concluded that baldness can be a business advantage. It said that bald men “are perceived to be more masculine, dominant and, in some cases, to have greater leadership potential than those with longer locks or with thinning hair.” Well known baldies running big companies include Amazon.com’s Jeff Bezos, General Motors’s Dan Akerson and, last but not least, Microsoft’s Steve Ballmer. Then again, there may be a few rotten apples in this bunch: Dennis Kozlowski, convicted of looting Tyco, junk bond king Michael Milken, who also did a stint in the slammer, and, last but not least, Ken Lay of Enron, who dropped dead before a likely fraud conviction. Which brings me to my next idea:

JAIL Now obviously you wouldn’t want to own a company whose CEO merely was suspected of doing something for which he or she later wound up in prison. On the other hand, once the head honcho, or honchess, already is in the slammer, the returns can be eye-wateringly good. Take once high-flying media company Martha Stewart Living Omnimedia  whose namesake was convicted in July 2004 of insider trading. Over the next year, the stock soared by 224%. Why might a company that hasn’t already gone bankrupt at the time the boss is sent to the Big House be a good investment? For one, it’s radioactive, leaving it very cheap. For another, maybe the company was larded with expenses that can now be slashed by the new, honest bosses. And speaking of lard, my last idea:

OINK Bacon and pork in general are hot, hot hot.I quote the great authority, Mr. Baconpants:

… even people who are health nuts get in on the bacon crazy. They may join in on a bacon meme so they can feel like a bad ass without the health effects. I wouldn’t call these people part of the Bacon Nation, but they do add to the popularity of bacon.

So the reason that bacon is so popular is because almost everyone LOVES bacon (even if they don’t eat it themselves). What is also helping to bring bacon popularity to an all-time high is the fact that we are living in a time were healthy eating is almost government mandated. This is causing more people to join the anti-health movement than ever before.

Obvious beneficiaries of the bacon craze are Smithfield Foods, Oscar Mayer (owned by Kraft) and the state of Iowa. Much to my disappointment, I looked up this stock ticker and it’s already been taken by some obscure Chinese food company. Ditto for PIG. But PORK and BACN are still free. Soowee!

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Vox populi

ImageAccording to an opinion poll, 45% of the American public believes the U.S. should help the Syrian rebels if the government uses chemical weapons against them. Should Assad be quaking in his jackboots?

Well, he probably should, but not because the U.S. population is finally fed up with him. Left to their own devices, they might one day be in favor of bombing Damascus back to the Stone Age but would need a little help finding it first. Nearly nine out of ten Americans can’t locate Afghanistan on a map of Asia or major regional countries on a smaller one of the Middle East. Three-quarters did not know that Indonesia is a majority Muslim country. It’s the most populous one. (Oh, and our president, who lived there as a child, is not a Muslim – though 17% of Americans think so).

Heck, even our information outlets get confused, as the above map of Egypt from Fox News shows (Hint: it’s not really between Iran and Jordan). And if our best and brightest are a bit fuzzy about geography, our cutest and sweetest are really in the dark. Take the now infamous audience question for Miss Teen South Carolina 2007:

Question: “Recent polls have shown that a fifth of Americans can’t locate the US on a world map. Why do you think this is?”

Answer: Miss South Carolina Lauren Caitlin Upton
“I personally believe, that U.S. Americans, are unable to do so, because uh, some, people out there, in our nation don’t have maps. and uh… I believe that our education like such as in South Africa, and the Iraq, everywhere like such as … and, I believe they should uh, our education over here, in the U.S. should help the U.S. or should help South Africa, and should help the Iraq and Asian countries so we will be able to build up our future, for us.”

Oy! Bombs away.

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