Being all classy while killing brain cells in Budapest

A colleague threw a pre-party, which got a little carried away, and so the pre-party became the party... but only partly. 

By the time we left for the real party (only a few doors down from the pre-party-cum-party), everyone was cheerfully feeling the effects of the party.

We gather around a latecomer, who brought a bag of gyros as a late-to-the-party present and arrived to the real party. By now, there was no way the rest of the partiers could catch up to us and they looked on as we dug into the gyros. This was a nice bar, but that did not stop the feeding frenzy.

Carlos, Budapest's Brazilian wine sommelier and the bewildered onlooker from the story above, often recommended various reds from Villany. He was never wrong.

We dripped garlic sauce all over the floor, while handing half eaten gyros to each other and barely saying a word between bites. One of our friends, Carlos, was one of those left looking on at the debauchery. As he put it, the whole bar was absolutely disgusted by our orgy of gyro munching.

I’m recounting this tale because it is important to note that this was not brought on by whiskey, tequila or even palinka, but rose wine.

Yes, rose wine.

Hungary is a wine-growing country, which was news to me when I arrived. Little did I know the hills and several provinces' micro-climates combine to create a terroir that produces some damn fine wine.

On a visit to Eger, my friend Pavel and I sipped Bull’s Blood, a delicious, hearty red. Interestingly, and lucky for me, Hungary is known well for their dry reds. But there's some whites too. Tokaji, a delcious sweet wine, was declared 'Wine of Kings, King of Wines' by Louis XIV of France. I might have gotten that quote backwards.

I’ve developed a taste for dry whites and – I’m going to admit this on the internet, which could mean getting my Man Card revoked from some whiskey/beer drinkers back home – there are some dry rose wines that are pretty good too.

One of the reasons the wines of Hungary have been so accessible for me is they are cheap by Canadian standards. You can find a good bottles of wine in a Budapest corner store for as little as five Canadian dollars.

Back home, I used to walk the LCBO’s wine aisles feeling as if I had no knowledge on the subject and as if I had no business there –  like I was shopping for tampons 

In Hungary, I recognize bottles I have enjoyed, I try new wines thanks to the decent prices, and while my pairing knowledge is still limited to “Red with meat, white with fish,” I now strut down the wine aisles with a little more courage – and I promise it's not the liquid courage seen in the tale at the beginning of this post.

Ontario Discovery Walks

The Long Journey Home

Not only was my flight home delayed, but I also had to wait in line to discuss meat importation laws with a customs officer after I declared the Hungarian salami I brought in my carry-on. He waved me through, but told that meat, no matter how delicious it might be, cannot be brought into Canada in such ways.

Family Time

When the prodigal son returned in Jesus’ famous parable (that's a Catholic education for ya), the family welcomed him and slaughtered the fatted calf. When I returned to Little London, the family was gathered and, in lieu of a fatted calf, devoured six pounds of pulled pork. This does not count the smuggled salami, the cheese (hey, we’re Dutch, after all) and the bevy of desserts. My family: We all love each other, and we all love to eat well.

Witnessing the explosion of Rob Ford

If you could lock Joseph Heller and Franz Kafka in a room with a pen and a notebook and they could not have conceived of the surreal political spectacle that erupted when I arrived. It’s like the political version of those photos of the tree barks skin disease – it’s as frighteningly disgusting as it is fascinating – and it's still going on.

One of the better ways to watch the press conference of a lying, drunken mayor?
With a whiskey in a fine pub.

Celebrating the end of Daylight Savings Time with an extra hour of debauchery

We got an extra hour, and then we killed as many brain cells as we could in that hour by while introducing my friends to the perils of Palinka.

Hangover

The Koreans have an amazing hangover cure, it’s Porkbone Soup. It provides much-needed fluids for the over-partied body and brain. Also, for uncultured Westerners like me, there is no easy way to eat it, so poke away at slowly, looking awkwardly at the Koreans at other tables expertly eating theirs. This also means you don’t eat too fast, which is important if you’re like me and have a tender tummy after boozing.

A marshall artist's interpretartion of breakfast/dinner.
(Not to scale)

What I like most in Toronto is that you can get Porkbone Soup one day, then gorge upon great burritos the next. Toronto has no single personality, it’s a schizophrenic mix of ethnicities, neighbourhoods, and personalities. It’s what makes it great.

Final Days of London

My time in Toronto was making the rounds (and often having rounds). So, my time in little London was the real rest. I spent quality time with my parents and siblings. Meet the odd friend for coffee or drinks. Rest up. Recover from Toronto, and prepare for what’s going to come.

The Wedding

Way back when, before I left Canada for the Hungary, I promised two friends that I would make it back for their wedding in a year. So, here is the main reason for my visit (also, trans-Atlantic flights during Christmas are a messy business I want no part of). In addition to being a great party, it was also great to see two friends married in such a lovely ceremony.

The fist kiss

Epic party time (that's why I forgot to take photos)

The Long Trip Home

The next morning I awoke hungover, or possibly still drunk. It was a rough. The hotel everyone was staying at had a Golden Griddle, where everyone gathered to nurse their hangovers over coffee and bacon.

I was a little slow to rise and required a stern phone call from front desk to get me moving. I know I mentioned earlier that Porkbone Soup is a great hangover cure, but friends and a breakfast buffet are great cures too.

After breakfast, I got a ride to the airport and continued what felt like the longest day ever: Flying forward across six time zones into the next day, where I had a four-hour wait in Frankfurt for my flight to Budapest - all with a fuzzy booze-addled brain.

I love Budapest, yet I still hesitate to call it home, but collapsing into bed at the end of that day felt pretty good.

Oh, hi, Budapest