2010 has been a stellar year for flying, even by my standards. Technically speaking, Chile was 2009 with only spillover in 2010, so I shan't take into account the, what was it? 2 doz take off and landings we participated in?
This year has seen multiple trips to Amsterdam and Geneva, unnecessary ones to Sharm and Cairo, inevitable ones to Bombay (and some better left undone!), Zurich/Interlaken, Vegas (via Philly and Atlanta!), Budapest, Copenhagen, Nordborg, Nairobi (and Laikipia/Masai Mara), Rotterdam and then Fort Myers via Miami. Heathrow feels like home.
Given how much I hate flying and I won't even get into packing/unpacking, I clearly need to work on a better strategy for my life and travels. Still, the early arrival to Budapest with the Capt's announcement, "I'm pleased to say we are a full 10 min. ahead of schedule. Make sure you use it well" to another flight (coincidentally to Budapest again), which saw the brunt of some nasty weather and an excessively witty Capt, who's last rejoinder was a splendid, "It's going to be a bumpier ride than usual and if any of you has a problem with that, come see me after the flight", to the CityAir propeller engined aircraft that was the worst take off in my history of flying - thought we were going to be rattled into the sea before our wheels could remove themselves from the tarmac, where flawless service offered us not just drinks but full on snacks and sandwiches for a 40 minute flight, and even had a safety card featuring my phone, the classic Nokia 6310 (quite the conversation starter incidentally wherever I go to top up on prepaid options!)
While I don't believe in the superstition that you will spend the rest of the year doing whatever you were on New Year's, this year, I plan to be at home... well, till the 1st of Jan 2011!
Immigration Interrogation
Rotterdam airport is quaint. Immigration lies at the foot of the gates and I wave JP ahead, well aware that my passport will bear greater than EU scrutiny.
Where are you going?
London.
Where do you live?
London.
Why were you in Rotterdam?
For lunch.
Now I not only have the young, dashingly uniformed immigration officer holding my passport's attention, I have the one next door's as well and I am cross examined with far greater interest that is usually warranted on such an occasion.
For lunch?
Yes.
For business?
Well, sort of.
Just for lunch?
Yes.
They are far too refined for a nudge nudge wink wink....
In a restaurant? (This from officer not holding my passport).
Yesss.
Where?
Uhmmmm... how do you say it?! Ricewig?
Ah, in Rijswijk
That's the place.
What is it called?
Creme Crue.
With the big boss? (my chappie with understanding nod)
Sure (why the hell not?).
Miraculously, my smirk is really tiny.
Big celebration?
Clearly.
You travel a lot. (He who holds passport and flicks through the pages with far greater focus).
Yes.
Was it a good lunch?
It was excellent.
Now you go home?
Yes.
The boys have now run out of questions, and reluctantly, he stamps it and they both graciously bid me a good journey.
Where are you going?
London.
Where do you live?
London.
Why were you in Rotterdam?
For lunch.
Now I not only have the young, dashingly uniformed immigration officer holding my passport's attention, I have the one next door's as well and I am cross examined with far greater interest that is usually warranted on such an occasion.
For lunch?
Yes.
For business?
Well, sort of.
Just for lunch?
Yes.
They are far too refined for a nudge nudge wink wink....
In a restaurant? (This from officer not holding my passport).
Yesss.
Where?
Uhmmmm... how do you say it?! Ricewig?
Ah, in Rijswijk
That's the place.
What is it called?
Creme Crue.
With the big boss? (my chappie with understanding nod)
Sure (why the hell not?).
Miraculously, my smirk is really tiny.
Big celebration?
Clearly.
You travel a lot. (He who holds passport and flicks through the pages with far greater focus).
Yes.
Was it a good lunch?
It was excellent.
Now you go home?
Yes.
The boys have now run out of questions, and reluctantly, he stamps it and they both graciously bid me a good journey.
If it's Thursday, it must be Rotterdam...
My farewell tour of Europe (as someone rudely referred to it) continues with a relatively spontaneous lunch at Crème Crue in Rijswijk, a quaint little suburb of Rotterdam. New to the block, it lacks a menu. Instead, it offers a choice of 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 and even I believe 7 courses for dinner. Lunch is a more sedate affair with the choice of 2 or 3 courses. Naturally, it is the chef who will decide what you will eat. As a firm believer in supporting professionals at what they do best, I wait for the food to make an appearance.
The amuse bouche involves smoked eel, a frozen cube of bitter lemon and duindoorn berries arrayed rather fetchingly in a martini glass. A wispy sigh of pleasure escapes me. This can only get better, and I am not wrong in my assessment. Our starter arrives. Goose liver with red beetroot (some cunningly smoked while others more innocuously roasted) drizzled with pure chocolate. I'm not a huge beet fan, but let me tell you, smoked beetroots... they're just boss!
The main course is poached halibut with slivers of scallops (a much reviled fish in ordinary kitchens that submits well to a masterly chef) with curried cauliflower puree, trompette mushrooms, and the oddly pretty looking green cacti flower that tastes of cauliflower, gently napped by an apple cider sauce. Divine and I restrain the urge to lick my plate.
The palate cleanser (or pre-dessert as it's referred to) makes me clap with glee... the glass is angled precariously, filled to the tilt by three distinct shades of green, the middle bit sparkling like jewels. A piece I would be happy to display in any suitable nook. Ice cold soup of pineapple with a lukewarm sabayon of tarragon. Reluctantly, I tip the glass towards my lips and smother the giggle that threatens to escape at the startling combination of textures and temperatures that invade my mouth. It's on the cutting edge of avant garde and I debate it's merit as a sculpture over those of a pre-dessert.
Now, the time for debate. Dessert is an eclectically named elastic of chocolate, and I ask if I can have something savory instead. Cheese is offered and rebutted instantly given the look of disappointment on my face. Is there anything particular I had in mind? Just starter like in temperament... I'm happy with any leftovers from the kitchen the chef is willing to put together. The legal dessert arrives and is exquisite. The strip of chocolate is touchingly elastic, and I almost wish I'd asked for it.... apparently the coconut and Mandarin blobs do it grave justice. JP kindly leaves a bit for me to savour at the end.
The chef sends out his rendition of a savory something to end the meal..... sweetbreads with truffle, pear, hazelnuts and celery. I smile winningly, suppressing my inward shudder at the imagery the word celery conjures up, and inhale the rich aroma. Mhmmmm. My palate is shocked with what seems to be celery heart. Not only does it not have its customary icky smell, the texture is firm and reminds me of palm hearts and pairs astonishingly beautifully with the veal innards. Bliss.
I end my repast with the last bite of elastic chocolate before giving in to a cup of orange pekoe and chocolate covered apple petit fours. Crème Crue might have an unexpected 'e', but the chef and his entourage know how to entertain with panache. My request to get the menu written down results in a crisp letter head being produced at the end of the meal (once everyone knew what I would be getting in lieu of dessert) and I quote:
The amuse bouche involves smoked eel, a frozen cube of bitter lemon and duindoorn berries arrayed rather fetchingly in a martini glass. A wispy sigh of pleasure escapes me. This can only get better, and I am not wrong in my assessment. Our starter arrives. Goose liver with red beetroot (some cunningly smoked while others more innocuously roasted) drizzled with pure chocolate. I'm not a huge beet fan, but let me tell you, smoked beetroots... they're just boss!
The main course is poached halibut with slivers of scallops (a much reviled fish in ordinary kitchens that submits well to a masterly chef) with curried cauliflower puree, trompette mushrooms, and the oddly pretty looking green cacti flower that tastes of cauliflower, gently napped by an apple cider sauce. Divine and I restrain the urge to lick my plate.
The palate cleanser (or pre-dessert as it's referred to) makes me clap with glee... the glass is angled precariously, filled to the tilt by three distinct shades of green, the middle bit sparkling like jewels. A piece I would be happy to display in any suitable nook. Ice cold soup of pineapple with a lukewarm sabayon of tarragon. Reluctantly, I tip the glass towards my lips and smother the giggle that threatens to escape at the startling combination of textures and temperatures that invade my mouth. It's on the cutting edge of avant garde and I debate it's merit as a sculpture over those of a pre-dessert.
Now, the time for debate. Dessert is an eclectically named elastic of chocolate, and I ask if I can have something savory instead. Cheese is offered and rebutted instantly given the look of disappointment on my face. Is there anything particular I had in mind? Just starter like in temperament... I'm happy with any leftovers from the kitchen the chef is willing to put together. The legal dessert arrives and is exquisite. The strip of chocolate is touchingly elastic, and I almost wish I'd asked for it.... apparently the coconut and Mandarin blobs do it grave justice. JP kindly leaves a bit for me to savour at the end.
The chef sends out his rendition of a savory something to end the meal..... sweetbreads with truffle, pear, hazelnuts and celery. I smile winningly, suppressing my inward shudder at the imagery the word celery conjures up, and inhale the rich aroma. Mhmmmm. My palate is shocked with what seems to be celery heart. Not only does it not have its customary icky smell, the texture is firm and reminds me of palm hearts and pairs astonishingly beautifully with the veal innards. Bliss.
I end my repast with the last bite of elastic chocolate before giving in to a cup of orange pekoe and chocolate covered apple petit fours. Crème Crue might have an unexpected 'e', but the chef and his entourage know how to entertain with panache. My request to get the menu written down results in a crisp letter head being produced at the end of the meal (once everyone knew what I would be getting in lieu of dessert) and I quote:
Soepje van duindoornbesen, waterijs van bitterlemon schuim gerookte paling
*******
Terrine van ganzenlever met rode biet en pure chocolade
*******
Heilbotfilet en coquille met bloemkool en een saus van appelcider
*******
Predessert, ijskoud soepje van ananas met lauwwarme sabayon van dragon
*******
Elastiek van chocolade met kokos en drie bereindingen van mandarijn
*******
Gelakte kalfszwezerik met truffel, peer, hazelnoot en knolselderij
*******
Crème Crue, Haagweg 114, 2282 AG Rijswijk
T: 070 365 1080; www.cremecrue.nl
Chef: Patrick Kelder
Panorama
Rotterdam is freezing, windy and wet, and while I like surprises, I'm dearly hoping the pre-lunch one will be indoors and warm. The Dutchman's odd explanation of travelling exhibition at my curiosity doesn't really get the juices flowing, but I accuse him of being totally Indian when he agrees to my suggestion of leaving the car with the valet at the Hilton as we pretend to partake of something necessary in their haloed premises while sneaking out the back door, after two failed attempts to snare parking. The valet smilingly takes the car and we pretend business before edging out the side door for a quick dash in the rain. JP has to drag me back as I hurl past the door and I'm confused as we enter into a small building called Panorama. We seem to be in a gallery. Ok, Dutch painters, I can do this. I'm reminded of the sunset in Budapest a few days ago and the magic yellow blue combination of the sky, which then, had made me think of the light and colours in so many Dutch canvasses. You have to be able to see a sky that colour to paint it.
It's the aptly entitled Panorama that's the surprise, and without much ado, we head straight for the piece de resistance. I walk into the room and am gobsmacked. I mean, quite literally, my gob is well and truly smacked and falls open in awe and wonderment. I'm standing on a shaded deck atop a sand dune. A sand dune littered with anchors, fishing nets, lost boot as dunes are wont to be. A 360 degree turn absorbs the city behind us and the open sea in front of us. Scheveningen in 1881. I continue to gape as I rotate again. Then once more for good measure, this time more slowly, taking in the details of the church spire in the distance, the woman hanging up her washing outside her home, the beached fishing boats, the rolling waves, the horizon receding into the distance. I swear, I can smell the sea, hear it. The shrieking gulls give way to commentary in Dutch. Unsurprisingly, my body is drawn seaward, and I leave the town behind me as I savour the open breeze and endless horizon. The experience is surreal. The painting magnificent. The hidden glass dome that sits astride the roof allows in natural light, which brings this behemoth to life. Everyday, it's a different day at the beach, given the season and the weather. It's uncanny, but this 14 m tall, 120 m canvass wrapped around you at a distance of 14 m away, makes you feel like you're standing outside, surveying life in the 1880's.
Hendrik Willem Mesdag painted it with assistance from his wife Sientje Mesdag-van Houten and 4 other painters in 4 months. How, I do not know. It's alive and makes you want to sit down by the seaside, have a drink and get philosophical about life as one does when faced with nature in her purest form. The crying gulls meld into the sound of the waves as the English commentary tells me that the panorama was sketched on a glass cylinder that was then lit from within and this is what was used to trace the massive pieces of canvas surrounding us. Ingenious, but just imagining them actually executing the piece leaves me breathless. I wish I could have been a fly on the wall, to watch them at work, the sketch thrown all around, bits of paint filled in, perspectives checked and double checked. It's a masterpiece. I have seen photographic panoramas before and been somewhat impressed, but this just takes your breath away. It has the depth and dimension you can only get from paint and canvass and the texture makes it more gritty, more real. You forget it's bitterly cold and wet outside and wallow in the bracing air of the sea instead, the pace slower, more relaxed as you unwind and let nature soothe you. Your thoughts wafting around your head as you contemplate the horizon in the far distance.
It's startling when one of the guides steps over the rail to walk the 14 m to the canvas, destroying the illusion... it makes you cross to have the magic vanish, but oddly enough, a few minutes later as your gazing out, the artists mastery over depth and perspective sweeps over you and the beach stretches for miles ahead, the waves rolling into the far distance. It's truly uncanny how they manage to create such a strong sense of the real in such a confined area, munificent size of the painting notwithstanding. True to the art form, the top and bottom of the paintings are hidden to perpetuate the illusion of not having any boundaries
I've never really thought of Rotterdam as place to have on my list to visit... but I stand corrected. Eventually, I let JP tear me away so we can go for lunch (the original plan!), and make a mental note to visit in the summer to do a repeat... different light, different ingredients (lunch...!) and a quick abseil down the tower. This city rocks! Our sneaky side door entrance goes unnoticed and we claim our car with panache, sans payment. Such lovely people, these Dutch....
It's the aptly entitled Panorama that's the surprise, and without much ado, we head straight for the piece de resistance. I walk into the room and am gobsmacked. I mean, quite literally, my gob is well and truly smacked and falls open in awe and wonderment. I'm standing on a shaded deck atop a sand dune. A sand dune littered with anchors, fishing nets, lost boot as dunes are wont to be. A 360 degree turn absorbs the city behind us and the open sea in front of us. Scheveningen in 1881. I continue to gape as I rotate again. Then once more for good measure, this time more slowly, taking in the details of the church spire in the distance, the woman hanging up her washing outside her home, the beached fishing boats, the rolling waves, the horizon receding into the distance. I swear, I can smell the sea, hear it. The shrieking gulls give way to commentary in Dutch. Unsurprisingly, my body is drawn seaward, and I leave the town behind me as I savour the open breeze and endless horizon. The experience is surreal. The painting magnificent. The hidden glass dome that sits astride the roof allows in natural light, which brings this behemoth to life. Everyday, it's a different day at the beach, given the season and the weather. It's uncanny, but this 14 m tall, 120 m canvass wrapped around you at a distance of 14 m away, makes you feel like you're standing outside, surveying life in the 1880's.
Hendrik Willem Mesdag painted it with assistance from his wife Sientje Mesdag-van Houten and 4 other painters in 4 months. How, I do not know. It's alive and makes you want to sit down by the seaside, have a drink and get philosophical about life as one does when faced with nature in her purest form. The crying gulls meld into the sound of the waves as the English commentary tells me that the panorama was sketched on a glass cylinder that was then lit from within and this is what was used to trace the massive pieces of canvas surrounding us. Ingenious, but just imagining them actually executing the piece leaves me breathless. I wish I could have been a fly on the wall, to watch them at work, the sketch thrown all around, bits of paint filled in, perspectives checked and double checked. It's a masterpiece. I have seen photographic panoramas before and been somewhat impressed, but this just takes your breath away. It has the depth and dimension you can only get from paint and canvass and the texture makes it more gritty, more real. You forget it's bitterly cold and wet outside and wallow in the bracing air of the sea instead, the pace slower, more relaxed as you unwind and let nature soothe you. Your thoughts wafting around your head as you contemplate the horizon in the far distance.
It's startling when one of the guides steps over the rail to walk the 14 m to the canvas, destroying the illusion... it makes you cross to have the magic vanish, but oddly enough, a few minutes later as your gazing out, the artists mastery over depth and perspective sweeps over you and the beach stretches for miles ahead, the waves rolling into the far distance. It's truly uncanny how they manage to create such a strong sense of the real in such a confined area, munificent size of the painting notwithstanding. True to the art form, the top and bottom of the paintings are hidden to perpetuate the illusion of not having any boundaries
I've never really thought of Rotterdam as place to have on my list to visit... but I stand corrected. Eventually, I let JP tear me away so we can go for lunch (the original plan!), and make a mental note to visit in the summer to do a repeat... different light, different ingredients (lunch...!) and a quick abseil down the tower. This city rocks! Our sneaky side door entrance goes unnoticed and we claim our car with panache, sans payment. Such lovely people, these Dutch....
Ladies who lunch
The ladies who lunch do their last farewell lunch together in style at the Gokart Gallery on Andrassy Ut. It's sentimental, but fitting as we are ushered to our table overlooked by the piano and framed canvases on the walls. An elegant lunch later, we can but only pander ourselves with a sampling of delicious pastries. Yet, another thing that I will miss... Hungarians do make the best pastries... notwithstanding the French or Viennese (the Swiss still have my vote on the bread, but that's just nostalgia talking). Much deliberation and consultation leads us to a tonka bean tart and a chocolate mousse pastry to be indulged in mutually. What arrives are two superb little creations, delicately pastry sized, light as air, dark as sin and as shuddering as an orgasm. Each bite drawn out to savour the experience to the fullest, all senses engaged as we diligently demolish the pastries between soft little moans. The tonka bean tart has a fragrance that is so familiar but eludes me just the same, like a teasing scent left behind by a lover. I have a lingering memory of the same scent in a Viennese concoction involving chocolate at a coffee house... . My Hungarian won't touch the berry topping the tart because it's hairy - luckily, I have no qualms about gnawing on things hairy, and it's the perfect counterpoint to the delicate flavour of the tart. We demand to know what a tonka bean is, and the maitre d' tries his best to explain that it's South American in origin, a cross between caffeine and chocolate. Clearly, our dubious glances affront his professional demeanour and he returns with a small plate of samples. They look like large sunflower seeds with a wrinkly skin, almond shaped and black. Snapping one open yields a lighter shade of mocha and that waft... of vanilla. Apparently, this innocuous little bean is used in making perfumes but it's greater claim to fame seems to be that it is banned by the erstwhile FDA as consumption in large doses destroys ones liver, and Americans are urged not to buy Vanilla extracts from Mexico as they have the rather rude habit of using tonka beans instead of vanilla to sell the same effect.
Tch tch. What could they have been thinking?! Death by chocolate?
Tch tch. What could they have been thinking?! Death by chocolate?
To the Monster Ball
She might written off as a bright yellow haired, bare assed, weird plastic outfit wearing freak, but to me, she is one talented musician, with an amazing voice and incredible energy and charisma that sweeps across the venue who makes freaky music videos. The woman rocks. I'm taken aback by the number of young girls with no more than single digits to their credit. My mother never took to me to see a cutting edge concert....au contraire,I got taken to the ENT the day before to check if the blaring sounds of the band would cause any further harm to my struggling ears and was advised by the doddering old codger in the white coat to carry cotton wool in the pockets of my "frock" to stick in my ears if the cacophony got too much!!
She's been pulverized by the press for her disturbing images of bondage, blood and gore, but I have to admit, one's feral side is strongly aroused by the gleaming wetness of blood. Not sure what the 7-12 year olds sharing the space with yours truly will grow up into, but its not the devil of rock and roll, but the sight of sight of wetly gleaming blood that spikes my libido.... Cause for concern? Or should I be more worried that it's the sight of human blood that's making me feral?! The crowd swoons over the opening bars of Angelo (her most pathetic offereing and reminds me of a similar reaction brought on by Elton's pathetic Sacarifiiiice.. - honestly, what is wrong with people?!?!), and I wonder how the sound of ripping throats might enliven the performance. I'm charmed by her funky double bass and Jerry Lee Lewis eat your heart our performance on the flaming piano. Blondies got cojones and is totally weird with the blood smeared on her throat and chest, but the encore completes the night with a heart thumping Bad Romance.
I'm pretty sure that its the combination of wetly glistening blood and thumpa thumpa music (or could it be the evocative imagery?) that leaves me ravenous.... Hmmm. Methinks Dracula was just very misunderstood....
She's been pulverized by the press for her disturbing images of bondage, blood and gore, but I have to admit, one's feral side is strongly aroused by the gleaming wetness of blood. Not sure what the 7-12 year olds sharing the space with yours truly will grow up into, but its not the devil of rock and roll, but the sight of sight of wetly gleaming blood that spikes my libido.... Cause for concern? Or should I be more worried that it's the sight of human blood that's making me feral?! The crowd swoons over the opening bars of Angelo (her most pathetic offereing and reminds me of a similar reaction brought on by Elton's pathetic Sacarifiiiice.. - honestly, what is wrong with people?!?!), and I wonder how the sound of ripping throats might enliven the performance. I'm charmed by her funky double bass and Jerry Lee Lewis eat your heart our performance on the flaming piano. Blondies got cojones and is totally weird with the blood smeared on her throat and chest, but the encore completes the night with a heart thumping Bad Romance.
I'm pretty sure that its the combination of wetly glistening blood and thumpa thumpa music (or could it be the evocative imagery?) that leaves me ravenous.... Hmmm. Methinks Dracula was just very misunderstood....
Village life Magyar style
Finally, the day of my visit to the Hungarian countryside dawns and we set off for Fertoszintmiklos to lunch with Ishtvans parents, his dogs, cats and rabbits. I'm given a quick snapshot of the community: 3,500 residents, 1 church, 1 school, 1 pub and 2 whorehouses. Hmmmm. Interesting?! I arrive to a warm welcome from Maria and Ishtvan senior and am captivated by their Puli (a Hungarian breed, much reminiscent of a Rastafarian rug put in the wash one time too many!), a white one, who has the best dreadlocks I've ever seen and I can't resist rummaging through his coat, tugging wily nily at the matted strands. A walking, unravelled rug! My raucous bonding with the carpet is interrupted as I'm taken around the backyard and introduced to the other cats and then to the rabbits, Susan & George (in Hungarian naturally, but my keyboard won't cooperate). Susan and George look like small dogs and are definitely not the sort of bunnies you'd like to meet after dark. Timid they might be, but their size is so formidable, I'm not even thinking lunch!
There's time for a quick tour of the village before lunch, and I check out the vineyards, the graveyard (a tad disconcerting to come across tombstones with a date of birth and no date of death!! Talk about early reservations..) and awww at the quaint little chapel across the whorehouse. Naturally, I think it's a fitness club, catchily called X-Itness and can't understand Ishtvan's rather rude description of the lady going in as 'whore'! I look at him wonderingly and he explains she's probably from Ukraine. Yeah so? My confusion gets through to him and he informs me that X-itness is the other whorehouse in the village. I gasp like a giddy schoolgirl. No way!! I thought that was a fitness club! Apparently, so did he when he went to get membership the first time...! Once I'm drying my tears at that conversation, I notice a sign on the building next door for 'exercise'. Apparently, that's the legitimate exercise studio, very handily situated right next to the building with 'Wellness' and 'Xitness' painted all over the front. These village Hungarians I tell you! Lots of Austrians moving here and the border being 10 km away doesn't divert suspicion....
We go home so I can gush over and smush Oxford Circus the newest addition to the household who is allowed indoors for the express purpose of our amusement. Lunch is served, and I'm beginning to think they might be Bengali's in disguise. I ask if this is customary or if it's been laid on to impress the Indian... Nope, just Sunday lunch it seems. Right.... the soup starts us off, and then the dishes keep coming. Schnitzel, fried chicken, uborka salad, creamed mushrooms, fried potatoes, chicken baked with bacon, cheese, fennel and carrots and rice. I'm urged to eat everything but leave room for dessert. I can tell this is going to be an exhausting afternoon. The uborka salad is yummy and simple enough for me to make (incidentally, that is one of the politer words I acquired on day 1. Uborka = cucumber) and goes astonishingly well with all the meats. I dutifully sample everything and gorge on the schnitzel, and then we adjourn for dessert. Marie has outdone her self with a humongous dish of tiramisu, homemade ischlers and a hazelnut Swiss roll type thingy. There's enough for twenty, but an hour and several albums of Ishtvan as a strange child with a chicken fetish later, we've managed to empty half the dish.
Uborka Salad
Ingredients
Cucumber (thinly sliced) * water * vinegar * garlic (finely chopped) * salt * sugar
Method
Hungarian kids have the job of making Uborka, so it clearly has no method! Salt the cucumber and keep aside. Start with cold water and add little bits of vinegar to it along with bits of sugar, stirring and tasting till it gets to that point where you go, 'mhmmmmm'. Add the chopped garlic to this. Once the waterworks is done, squeeze the salt out of the cucumber and add. Refrigerate till you're ready to serve.
It's delicious, cool, perfect for the summer and a shockingly good accompaniment to hot meat dishes like the baked chicken, fried chicken and wiener schnitzel. This is what the Hungarians call, vegetable.
There's time for a quick tour of the village before lunch, and I check out the vineyards, the graveyard (a tad disconcerting to come across tombstones with a date of birth and no date of death!! Talk about early reservations..) and awww at the quaint little chapel across the whorehouse. Naturally, I think it's a fitness club, catchily called X-Itness and can't understand Ishtvan's rather rude description of the lady going in as 'whore'! I look at him wonderingly and he explains she's probably from Ukraine. Yeah so? My confusion gets through to him and he informs me that X-itness is the other whorehouse in the village. I gasp like a giddy schoolgirl. No way!! I thought that was a fitness club! Apparently, so did he when he went to get membership the first time...! Once I'm drying my tears at that conversation, I notice a sign on the building next door for 'exercise'. Apparently, that's the legitimate exercise studio, very handily situated right next to the building with 'Wellness' and 'Xitness' painted all over the front. These village Hungarians I tell you! Lots of Austrians moving here and the border being 10 km away doesn't divert suspicion....
We go home so I can gush over and smush Oxford Circus the newest addition to the household who is allowed indoors for the express purpose of our amusement. Lunch is served, and I'm beginning to think they might be Bengali's in disguise. I ask if this is customary or if it's been laid on to impress the Indian... Nope, just Sunday lunch it seems. Right.... the soup starts us off, and then the dishes keep coming. Schnitzel, fried chicken, uborka salad, creamed mushrooms, fried potatoes, chicken baked with bacon, cheese, fennel and carrots and rice. I'm urged to eat everything but leave room for dessert. I can tell this is going to be an exhausting afternoon. The uborka salad is yummy and simple enough for me to make (incidentally, that is one of the politer words I acquired on day 1. Uborka = cucumber) and goes astonishingly well with all the meats. I dutifully sample everything and gorge on the schnitzel, and then we adjourn for dessert. Marie has outdone her self with a humongous dish of tiramisu, homemade ischlers and a hazelnut Swiss roll type thingy. There's enough for twenty, but an hour and several albums of Ishtvan as a strange child with a chicken fetish later, we've managed to empty half the dish.
It's time to go, but not without leftovers! I try to be as ladylike as possible (helped by a 14 week pregnant belly) and confine myself to the baked chicken, uborka salad and a quarter of the tiramisu. We will be eating for days... (and little did I know the tiramisu would only get better day after day... would've taken the other quarter as well!). Since I am well versed with my limitations, I shall only tell you the tiramisu was a drool worthy masterpiece, and shall confine myself to an attempt at re-creating the uborka salad for warm days in Singapore.
Uborka Salad
Ingredients
Cucumber (thinly sliced) * water * vinegar * garlic (finely chopped) * salt * sugar
Method
Hungarian kids have the job of making Uborka, so it clearly has no method! Salt the cucumber and keep aside. Start with cold water and add little bits of vinegar to it along with bits of sugar, stirring and tasting till it gets to that point where you go, 'mhmmmmm'. Add the chopped garlic to this. Once the waterworks is done, squeeze the salt out of the cucumber and add. Refrigerate till you're ready to serve.
It's delicious, cool, perfect for the summer and a shockingly good accompaniment to hot meat dishes like the baked chicken, fried chicken and wiener schnitzel. This is what the Hungarians call, vegetable.
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