Dine and Die on the Danube Express (22 page)

“The Soviets loved statues,” commented Reingold, who said he had not been there in many years. “They must have put up a lot of them. Aren’t any left?”

“Just one in the entire city,” Renata said. “A column in Liberty Square.”

After crossing the bridge, we were now in Buda. That and Pest combine to comprise the modern city of Budapest. We climbed up Varhegy, Castle Hill, where the biggest concentration of major sights can be found. It is a long, narrow plateau of cobblestone streets packed with remarkably well preserved Renaissance, Gothic, and Baroque houses. On top of the hill is the Royal Palace. The entire area has a fairy-tale appearance, spoiled only by the presence of cars that are banned but manage to be there anyway.

“One building that you might expect to be obtrusive here,” said Renata, “is the Hilton Hotel. It is coming up now on our left—” There were a few gasps of surprise as we identified it, and Renata went on, “As you can see, it has been very cleverly incorporated into the oldest church here on Castle Hill—the church built by Dominican friars in the thirteenth century.”

“Not like any Hilton I ever saw,” said one of the Australians.

We drove up the Bem Rokport, the boulevard that runs along the west bank of the Danube, going north past a string of other imposing buildings, although all were dwarfed by the magnificence of the view across the river.

The Parliament buildings in Budapest, spectacularly arranged along the opposite bank, are, by universal agreement, the most beautiful in the world. They are similar in general appearance to the Parliament buildings in London but stretch over a much more extensive length at the historic location where three towns, Buda, Pest and Obuda, have been joined to make the city’s capital.

“Twenty-four towers adorn the building,” Renata said, and we eyed them appreciatively, each one graceful and slender. We drove on up the riverbank, where fishermen, idlers, lovers, schoolchildren, nurses, and policemen strolled as they do by all of the world’s great rivers as they run through capital cities.

“One thousand workers spent seventeen years building this bridge,” said Renata, as our limousines crossed the Margit Hid, the bridge named after Margaret, the daughter of King Bela IV, 1235–1270. She entered the Dominican convent there, Renata told us, so as to fulfill the vow made by her father to have her brought up as a nun if the invading Tartars could be forced out of Hungary.

Our limos deposited us at the main entrance of the Parliament buildings, where banners waved and flags fluttered as a contingent of Hungarian guards in resplendent uniforms split into two columns. We walked between them and into the main building.

“There are seven hundred rooms and eighteen courtyards in this building,” said the indefatigable Renata. We all looked around in astonishment. It is an amazing mixture of styles and designs that ought not to blend, but do so very well. Renovation was going on everywhere, and Renata explained that the surfaces were made of a local limestone that is unfortunately porous, so that the renovation work may have to be continued perpetually.

Inside, the walls were lavishly covered with paintings, frescoes, murals, and tapestries. Alert-looking guards stood around, their extravagant uniforms in amusing contrast to the Kalashnikov automatic rifles, cradled under their arms.

“Most of the works of art show scenes from Hungarian history,” said Renata. We walked into a great room, with massive timbered ceilings and a fireplace on one wall through which the Danube Express could have easily driven.

It was a dazzling sight, but our immediate attention was captured by the contents of a large glass case. Renata stopped in front of it. “You are very fortunate,” she said. “This is a special exhibit, being shown here before it goes overseas.”

No one spoke. Jewels glittered like a miniature bright-colored night sky—ruby red, emerald green, diamond white. Their setting of soft gold was almost of secondary note.

“The Crown of St. Stephen,” said Renata in a reverent tone.

In the case, sitting on purple velvet, was a two-part crown. On top was a cross, which looked to be crooked. Pendants hung down either side, and enameled plaques were richly decorated with gems, too.

“According to legend, Asztrick, the first abbot of the Benedictine monastery at Pannonhalma in Transylvania presented it to King Stephen as a gift from Pope Sylvester II,” said Renata.

“When was that?” someone asked.

“About the year
A.D.
1000,” said Renata.

“Nice gift,” murmured a voice.

“It legitimized the new king’s rule and also assured his loyalty to Rome rather than Constantinople,” Renata explained.

“Isn’t that cross bent?”

“The crown disappeared several times over the next few centuries,” continued Renata, evidently accustomed to that question and probably many others. “But it kept reappearing. During the Mongol invasions in the thirteenth century, an attack on the city was expected and in the haste to transport the crown to a safe hiding place, it was dropped.” She met the gaze of the questioner. “That is how the cross became bent.”

She went on, her small audience raptly attentive. “At the end of World War II, fascist troops fleeing the Soviets took it to Austria. Shortly afterward, it fell into the hands of the U.S. Army occupation forces and was placed in Fort Knox, Kentucky. In 1978, a great ceremony was held here when the crown was returned. It has always been considered a living symbol of Hungary, and all legal judgments are still handed down with the statement ‘in the name of St. Stephen’s Crown.’”

“Is it kept here now?” came the question.

“No. Currently, it is kept in the Sandor Palace in the Castle District. With the crown here, you see the ceremonial sword, the orb, and the tenth-century scepter.”

We stared at them in wonder. The crown itself had been so imposing that we had hardly noticed the other objects.

“Is that crystal?” asked one of the Australians. She was referring to the scepter, which had a scintillating head.

“It is, pure crystal. It is the oldest item in the regalia.”

We stood, still admiring the sparkling, shimmering collection, until Renata reminded us that we were due in the banquet room. We moved reluctantly. The thoughts buzzing through my head were of the extraordinary array of treasures I was being exposed to on the trip. I had expected a pleasant journey through Middle Europe and the opportunity to enjoy various different cuisines along the Danube.

First, had been the vines going to Romania—far from priceless but certainly valuable. Then had come the Mozart manuscript, its worth incalculable. Both of these had intangible value, they were worth whatever someone coveting them might be willing to pay. The jewel collection starring the Crown of St. Stephen also had intangible value, but, in addition, it had very tangible worth. The items could be broken down and sold for their gem and gold content, should anyone be barbaric enough to do that. Still, I reflected, not much doubt about that. Plenty of people around would be willing to do so.

We walked between two more hard-eyed guards, each with a Kalashnikov held in a grip that showed a familiarity and a willingness to use it without compunction.

T
HE BANQUET ROOM WAS
as spectacular as the other rooms in the Parliament building complex. Over the centuries, the rooms had clearly fulfilled a variety of functions. Some of them had probably been witness to scenes too terrible to record. A flamboyant but very appropriate touch came from banners hung around the walls proclaiming the famous restaurants of Budapest—the
Alabardos
, its name recalling the halberd, an ancient edged weapon; the
Lou Lou
, one of the most popular eating places for some years; the
Muveszinas
, medieval and romantic; the
Vadrosza
which means the “Wild Rose”; the
Feszek,
home of the Artist’s Club; and the
Udvarhaz
, the restaurant with the unrivaled hilltop view.

They were resplendent with images of fruit, shanks of veal, vegetables, and wine bottles, and Renata reminded us that all those restaurants had combined to put on the banquet.

“Isn’t that unusual?” asked Franz Reingold and Renata smiled.

“Yes,” she agreed, “Hungarian restaurateurs are extremely competitive and rarely cooperate. Such an occasion as this was needed to persuade them to do so—as you can see.” She motioned to a huge multicolored banner that portrayed the Danube Express in all its power and majesty roaring out of a tunnel and into the Danube Valley with picturesque blue water and a white steamer. The latter, however, were small and the train enormous.

My banquet attendance in Vienna had been brief and interrupted. I hoped this would be different. At the table with me were Herman Lydecker, Elisha Tabor, Dr. Stolz and Eva Zilinsky. A Hungarian guide—Renata in our case—was at each table to provide interpretation and information. So, with me, there were six at the table, and all the other tables had the same number.

Drinks were served at the table. “You must all try the Hungarian aperitif,
Palinka
,” said Renata. “The most popular one is
Barackpalinka
—it is apricot schnapps.”

“Evian water for me,” Elisha Tabor ordered. “I don’t take alcoholic drinks before dinner.”

Lydecker and the doctor gave their assent to the apricot schnapps, and I joined them. “Scotch on the rocks,” said Eva Zilinsky peremptorily, “Famous Grouse.” Renata hesitated, then ordered the apricot schnapps, too. Perhaps the guides were expected to remain teetotal, and Renata was hoping she was not under observation.

Violinists strolled around the edges of the table area, playing Hungarian folk music. They were audible but stayed far enough away that they did not intrude upon conversation. “Those are the famous Lakatos family,” Renata explained. “They are legendary in Hungary.”

As we sipped the drinks, Eva Zilinsky was eyeing the adjoining table. “Magda Malescu appears to be in good form,” she said. “She’s our principal export after paprika, you know,” she added to me.

We could not hear their conversation, but it was evident from the waving arms, the flashing eyes, and the animated faces, that Magda was entrancing her captive audience. Laughter burst out after one of her stories.

“She must be talking about herself,” Herman Lydecker, and Elisha Tabor added tardy, “Who else?”

“She made a remarkable recovery from her death,” commented Lydecker, and a few chuckles came from around the table. I was watching Magda Malescu at that moment, though, and I thought I detected a slightly hysterical exaggeration in her motions. Perhaps we were doing her an injustice—maybe she felt the death of her understudy more deeply than we realized.

Waiters came, bringing menus. It seemed the meal was to be a compromise between a fixed menu and a wide choice. The participating restaurants were shown as offering three of their finest recommendations for each of the seven courses.

“Seven courses!” commented Dr. Stolz.

“Why not?” asked Eva Zilinsky gaily. “Do you advise dieting to your patients, Doctor?”

“Only when it is strictly necessary,” he replied. “Hungarian meals are known to be—well, let us say, robust.”

“Still,” I was obliged to point out, “these dishes appear to have been chosen very carefully, and I am sure that excessive fat, starch, and carbohydrate contents have been avoided.”

“Oh dear,” said Elisha Tabor. “Have the abstemious ways of “Western dieting finally reached Hungary?”

“I think that the world is now accepting the need for using dietary guidelines,” Dr. Stolz said. “It is possible to enjoy meals and be prudent too.”

“How boring!” Eva Zilinsky sighed.

“Not at all,” said Lydecker, who seemed ready to shift his argument wherever he could find the opportunity to disagree. “It is easy for a good chef to serve food that satisfies the gourmet and yet is healthful.”

I was ready to debate that—not the desirability of the achievement but the description of it as being easy. Chefs trained in the ways of preparing rich, traditional foods have had to work hard to find ways of reducing saturated fats, calories, and cholesterol. Instead of crossing swords with Herman Lydecker, however, I let the moment pass in the interest of harmony at the table.

Eva Zilinsky ordered an apricot schnapps, and Elisha Tabor had another Evian water. The rest of us passed—in my case, the decision was made after looking at the list of wines we were to be offered. Most were Hungarian, and several vineyards were represented whose wares are rarely seen outside that corner of Europe. The banquet would be an unusual opportunity to sample some of them.

Ordering the meal was an interesting study in tastes and attitudes. Soups have declined in popularity in the Western world—perhaps it is a class-conscious reaction, and soup is considered a peasant choice. In countries with Eastern connections, though, soups are still popular, and this is certainly true in Hungary.

Lydecker and I both ordered
Meggyleves
to start. It is a cold soup made with sour cherries, a truly Hungarian specialty. Dr. Stolz ordered a soup, too, a hearty one consisting of beans and cabbage, laced with smoked pork, while Elisha Tabor went for a simple beef consommé. Eva Zilinsky chose the
Oborka Salata
, a salad of sliced and pickled cucumbers, and Renata took the mixed salad.

The cherry soup was excellent, the cherries being sufficiently sour to give the dish a sharp edge that made it a true appetizer. Brandy and cinnamon rounded off the taste and concealed the sweetness of the sugar that must have been added. The doctor praised his soup, too. Elisha Tabor made no comment on her consommé but was the first to finish the course. Eva and Renata nodded approval of their salads.

No attempt was made to offer wine. That was a good decision, for all the first course items would affect its taste—especially the sour cherry soup and the acidic salads.

Next, we listened to the waiter describe the dishes to be offered for the second course. The
Kehli
restaurant in old Buda had contributed one of their famous dishes, he said. It is bone marrow on toast and very highly regarded since the renowned Hungarian novelist, Gyula Krudy, did a moonlighting stint there as a restaurant critic. He then highly praised the dish in his column in the Budapest
Times.
We listened impassively, but no one ordered it.