tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-218794662024-03-12T21:06:00.405-04:00DumneazuEthnomusicological Eating East of Everywhere.dumneazuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03595663581295671582noreply@blogger.comBlogger432125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21879466.post-59525527721299764582023-11-14T11:06:00.006-05:002023-11-14T11:23:59.066-05:00Vienna: The Klezmer Project at the Viennale Film Festival!<p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Mz7-duYITzNWPdziCstYMewA7qT-5Kd54BQ_5G4P_qWpnFl5SCpVTcJsxjfLK1oYhqEXUIe7-hzvcC9iqq70hqhYYhP7MeRyiQ7A0mCQjsI_X6CF1cxcKPY4dg0SGsncGPPVml3XA-E6SqUxwgG2z3QnsLHutS3BvGQyLm5gNSO3mq4vqYo/s951/20231021_170627.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="714" data-original-width="951" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Mz7-duYITzNWPdziCstYMewA7qT-5Kd54BQ_5G4P_qWpnFl5SCpVTcJsxjfLK1oYhqEXUIe7-hzvcC9iqq70hqhYYhP7MeRyiQ7A0mCQjsI_X6CF1cxcKPY4dg0SGsncGPPVml3XA-E6SqUxwgG2z3QnsLHutS3BvGQyLm5gNSO3mq4vqYo/w400-h300/20231021_170627.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fumie, Leandro, and Paloma </td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>Some years ago I was approached by a young couple from Argentina at the Krakow Klezmer festival. Paloma Schachtmann and Leandro Koch were making a documentary about Klezmer music and they wanted to accompany me and Jake Shulman-Ment on one of our summer trips around Maramures to record fiddlers who retained a knowledge of Jewish repetoire. I don't always like traveling with a cohort of folks I do not already know, but they turned out to be fine traveling companions. I didn't hear about the project for a couple of years and then in 2020 they contacted me again. They had recieved funding to finish the film with a group of Austrian film makers and could we go on the road with a full film crew again? Covid intervened, but the next year we went to Tranylvania with them. They turned out to be some of the nicest film folks I ever met. (Note: <i>I rarely say anything nice about film makers once they finish paying me.</i>) The result was "The Klezmer Project" or "Adentro mio estoy Bailando" which premiered at the 2023 Berlin Fim Festival, winning the Best First Feature award. The Austrian premier happened a few weeks ago at the Viennale Film Festival in Vienna, and we were invited to attend. </p><p><iframe frameborder="0" height="270" src="https://youtube.com/embed/xGTU938mTWI?si=aVeUP4FXzlME1n1L" width="480"></iframe></p><p>The film is like nothing I had expected - not a simple documentary about collecting folk music, but an experimental fim that works on many levels - a romance, a road film, a I.B. Singer Yiddish allegory, and of course, a documentary. The narration in Yiddish tells a tale that transcends the scenes of film financing, backstage at gigs, and weddings in Maramures, Moldavia, and Argentina. The end result is something I am really proud to have been a part of, and when this film finally gets to widespread distribution I hope it gets seen at festivals of Yiddish culture: it is probably the most contemporary Yiddish film of this generation. In any case... the Viennale was a great excuse to visit Vienna. We got to stay in the Hotel Intercontinental downtown next to the Stadtspark. Not shabby at all! </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu_RrN8cgI68fr7e5I7ayRFJKY2-yVlD2eqKedhnrCA_QJpIzPsscmlioe0m9_ocgI_aJMxd0i-QGNlojgywiShgWbo_Sr3rE-ZiP5U2XV6vCisbQ-rmytBDeZF-g2uMR5QT4Uo7QCEI9AV5XPHrQ7tY3mQF8FS3GHRmZG_SGR_jcguAZfohY/s714/20231022_132906.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="714" data-original-width="535" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu_RrN8cgI68fr7e5I7ayRFJKY2-yVlD2eqKedhnrCA_QJpIzPsscmlioe0m9_ocgI_aJMxd0i-QGNlojgywiShgWbo_Sr3rE-ZiP5U2XV6vCisbQ-rmytBDeZF-g2uMR5QT4Uo7QCEI9AV5XPHrQ7tY3mQF8FS3GHRmZG_SGR_jcguAZfohY/w300-h400/20231022_132906.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p>Plus, the Viennale staff handled everybody with VIP courtesy, no eay task when the VIPs are hundreds of quirky avant-garde types whose stories always begin with "When I was kicked out of film school...". We checked in with the office and were given swag bags with info and gifties and shown a refrigerator full of refreshments to which we could help ourselves while in the hotel.<i> I like swag bags! I like free beer!</i> Plus: the Viennale hosted a dinner each evening at classic Viennese restaurants of the sort that I would probably never visit on my own dime (I'm more of a felaful and chinese noodle kind of guy on the road.) Of course, if traveling in Vienna, there are certain prosaic pleasures that are not to be missed: such is the <i>Wurtelstand</i>.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitus1nNITjtVpIawyjqQ0KzOu7Ry0lXHXrswD2Lf1lMC5XxxaJyrgF0qn46-1-wMW7W_Nfg1neBFI39bb_OT74-2Hqa6tJQGSe73KnIaKYzBZKP3XQaVUuKvwc0et-64gObQAKpzQZbG00yqhd7MyWRbFN-tSEhK-6Wly8AgxSqmkdvOYXelI/s714/20231022_162513.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="714" data-original-width="535" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitus1nNITjtVpIawyjqQ0KzOu7Ry0lXHXrswD2Lf1lMC5XxxaJyrgF0qn46-1-wMW7W_Nfg1neBFI39bb_OT74-2Hqa6tJQGSe73KnIaKYzBZKP3XQaVUuKvwc0et-64gObQAKpzQZbG00yqhd7MyWRbFN-tSEhK-6Wly8AgxSqmkdvOYXelI/w300-h400/20231022_162513.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p><i>Wurstelstands </i>are located all over Vienna and offer the street level diner a quick and cheap Teuronic standard, the <i>wurst</i>. For about three Euros you get a choice of bratwurst, boerwurst, frankfurter, or the odd construct that is a <i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bosna_(sausage)">bosna</a></i>. Everybody says to go for the <i>käsekrainer</i>, a kolbasz laced with cheese that is the darling of the Austrian Wurstiverse but just seems like a Polish kielbasa that is trying too hard. There are also <i>Leberkäse </i>sandwiches, a thick steamed slice of square veal baloney on a kaiser roll that fills you up as you hop on the tram.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-cVX3lGvn_Z5ebZ8FuWp5ZnCxJG9eTzz0O_4_Kw7HXLG3ADBigyAz-ljKixAZCXcV4_IU547MAwn4xeiQMi8hlcKKpqG8QcKP8rElzkYELCadgvjVVroVTD0n1AFJLDE8oogvBGunc2TeuETHZYyfPbHko6av6hLkWMijHLwir34BTd0v9dw/s714/20231022_171008.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="714" data-original-width="535" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-cVX3lGvn_Z5ebZ8FuWp5ZnCxJG9eTzz0O_4_Kw7HXLG3ADBigyAz-ljKixAZCXcV4_IU547MAwn4xeiQMi8hlcKKpqG8QcKP8rElzkYELCadgvjVVroVTD0n1AFJLDE8oogvBGunc2TeuETHZYyfPbHko6av6hLkWMijHLwir34BTd0v9dw/w300-h400/20231022_171008.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Bratwurst </i>and <i style="text-align: left;">käsekrainer in the park.</i></td></tr></tbody></table>I do love sausage, but I still had to go farther afield to Ottakinger Strasse west of the Vienna city center. There, along what is called "The Balkan Mile" is the Brunnergasse market. This neighborhood started out as mainly Serbian and Turkish, but has grown into one of the centers for the recently arrived Syrian refugee community, the one that Hungary's Viktor Orban treated so miserably in 2015. They were welcomed in Austria and from the looks of it, have made a pretty decent home here, given that Vienna is rated the most liveable city in the world and Budapest is... <i>not the most livable city in the world.</i><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWsBmoDvPbsiKnls6dMiHeD97pwYSyQlS_o3c3IVWyNP0zeQgL0Hry7lfPUnitJJWZd7zy5fvQr-vqCiX3_h03CuO3tmFK96EQaIDVKomGarCkzDWeIonTsIo6yPQ4vDfxfjYSGWl328n1YJ2CEgUZ0RytQx2eL4Z3I3lons9L1IG-nymWy8g/s2048/370234483_325459223549741_6916210322341221536_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWsBmoDvPbsiKnls6dMiHeD97pwYSyQlS_o3c3IVWyNP0zeQgL0Hry7lfPUnitJJWZd7zy5fvQr-vqCiX3_h03CuO3tmFK96EQaIDVKomGarCkzDWeIonTsIo6yPQ4vDfxfjYSGWl328n1YJ2CEgUZ0RytQx2eL4Z3I3lons9L1IG-nymWy8g/w400-h300/370234483_325459223549741_6916210322341221536_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brunnergasse Market</td></tr></tbody></table><div>You might think that Budapest and Vienna, given their historical connections and their geographical proximity, would have close relations and cultural exchanges. You might also be wrong. Vienna and Budapest are like neighbors that never speak to each other except when one puts hits garbage bins in the other's parking space. It is as if the two cities pretended that the other does not exist. At present, Budapest doesn't even have a direct railway connection to Vienna - you have to switch from buses to trains several times. This has to do with the state of the Hungarian railways, which are no longer allowed to make international connections any farther west than Vienna since the Hungarian trains simply can not run on schedule. In the end, this produces a bit of an inferiority complex which the<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0wEiXUanPfg"> Hungarian government deals with by producing short films for its government controlled media</a> in which Vienna is portrayed as a shabby and dangerous place inhabited by shady Middle Easterners slinking about the streets in burnooses and caftans. Like much of the propoganda coming out of the Hungarian government, it comes off as a bit <i>racist and laughably inaccurate all at the same time.</i> I considered this as we sat down for a snack of fresh Syrian <i>mankaneesh </i>- a freshly baked flatbread topped with olive oil and <i>za'atar </i>spice - and tea. Three Euros for all of it. Why couldn't we have this at the corner market in my neighborhood?</div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgneiZl7iJOhTpjOrMHXApe0VNelVD4g26EL7A5w5H9KYHQbMk_2S2yBLNv7QOb6BdfVoXnZa9ICHH2DeFFiYcmbYFPFgLvrgBbI9lKL4EQZW1aH2bxw7dowK4ez83avbRqPYdtO5Q-Gy-59w16j83gagK5pwHqrOUVywPnm-GjaDh6VQn6kA/s951/20231023_132245.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="714" data-original-width="951" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgneiZl7iJOhTpjOrMHXApe0VNelVD4g26EL7A5w5H9KYHQbMk_2S2yBLNv7QOb6BdfVoXnZa9ICHH2DeFFiYcmbYFPFgLvrgBbI9lKL4EQZW1aH2bxw7dowK4ez83avbRqPYdtO5Q-Gy-59w16j83gagK5pwHqrOUVywPnm-GjaDh6VQn6kA/w400-h300/20231023_132245.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Syrian breakfast</i></td></tr></tbody></table><div>Given that the news in the Middle East at the time of our vist was rather catasrophic, we found everybody in the market to be chatty and friendly as they went about their business of selling fresh vegetables and halal meats and Syrian street food at prices even I can afford. We had two of the most impressive lamb kebab sandwiches of my life at one stand. it was hard to choose - there are stands offering kebabs, felafuls, lahmacun, every kind of Middle Eastern delicacy in its raw, local authentic version. We simply got lucky.</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq0V6UBy0E5Q0rNYHkaIH9yqMqeSlSKVx8WPSGt9k8dVTZTJV2ZDLj8b05M0ZikZnk9M1u7-nesmr4rylJWva104JYcF_t1k3iUnkwmeZdxFJRdN5J9UyOnT9uhLZ5vWcANLi4A5wGT76JHo5BBhrvkaSDh_2wnjy6TErGTVNVdRO6_sAHlG8/s2048/385551768_915074426614996_2971992072549219728_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq0V6UBy0E5Q0rNYHkaIH9yqMqeSlSKVx8WPSGt9k8dVTZTJV2ZDLj8b05M0ZikZnk9M1u7-nesmr4rylJWva104JYcF_t1k3iUnkwmeZdxFJRdN5J9UyOnT9uhLZ5vWcANLi4A5wGT76JHo5BBhrvkaSDh_2wnjy6TErGTVNVdRO6_sAHlG8/w400-h300/385551768_915074426614996_2971992072549219728_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>You choose your meat skewer, and they rack it on an upright grill to roast for about five minutes and roll it with parsley, onions, and sauce on a fresh flatbread. Two full kebab sandwiches and two <i>ayran</i> yogurt drinks came to nine Euros. And I will add on more thing: the Wiener schnitzel we had at the Viennale dinner that evening was transcendant as well. And then, on our way home, we stopped at the huge superkarket located in the Main Train station and did a weeks worth of shopping to bring home to Budapest. Yes, shopping for groceries is now cheaper for many things in Vienna - due to the 125% food inflation that Hungary has accomplished in the last year. We picked up smoked fish, wurst, cheese... at about half the price I pay at my local supermarket. As soon as they get the direct trains running again, I will be back!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi416I4Ev0ZlVLikYXZX_Imw355XmHp3PcRi9Qn3VJmMeDN5A5oBzMINozVjdXDpu_cfR7zckwDpt1Ci6j8MIq09lCQ3-KMhv_tti6QX_sECF6ZVCwJOn2d-22NNvGkX6njd8MZFnODIxITkP-qr0WpXcjGcgHGtN5c9uUIYkxsCjdp5AujKac/s2048/370217082_1063311511343620_974266556465333415_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi416I4Ev0ZlVLikYXZX_Imw355XmHp3PcRi9Qn3VJmMeDN5A5oBzMINozVjdXDpu_cfR7zckwDpt1Ci6j8MIq09lCQ3-KMhv_tti6QX_sECF6ZVCwJOn2d-22NNvGkX6njd8MZFnODIxITkP-qr0WpXcjGcgHGtN5c9uUIYkxsCjdp5AujKac/w400-h300/370217082_1063311511343620_974266556465333415_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>dumneazuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03595663581295671582noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21879466.post-55761834819740748002023-10-16T08:41:00.007-04:002023-10-16T12:40:39.316-04:00Old Timers on Fiddle: Maramureș<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinsRQ3IuXnL25rgqutGioba4BlvX4A5ovFX5w9l8G9xW3inLJ6TeV04w4oU2fChP0BWl-RwdlwiNq82q4XjObrHKUc7eDmQ9u3v7YwgSHCNWK3qH32iX4zxxpcubIumyedxMj1gE0vaGWmtdgSpRFr0EPc8CbDX6nC9xl15x8eelp4T-zNMpc/s951/20230817_145940.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="714" data-original-width="951" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinsRQ3IuXnL25rgqutGioba4BlvX4A5ovFX5w9l8G9xW3inLJ6TeV04w4oU2fChP0BWl-RwdlwiNq82q4XjObrHKUc7eDmQ9u3v7YwgSHCNWK3qH32iX4zxxpcubIumyedxMj1gE0vaGWmtdgSpRFr0EPc8CbDX6nC9xl15x8eelp4T-zNMpc/w400-h300/20230817_145940.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Goreu Canaloș on fiddle, Tărșolț, Oaș, Romania.</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>When I began playing fiddle (as in <i>not classical </i>violin) Richard Nixon was the President of the USA. America was going through one of its periodic "folk revivals." There had been several by then: the Great 1950s Beatnik Folk Scare, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_folk_music_revival" target="_blank">then a period in the 1960s </a>where cleancut trios and quartets with three guitars and a banjo sang arranged "folksongs" in harmony, then came the Dylan-does-Woody-Guthrie Protest Song era. In the 1970s Bluegrass music broke into AM radio with "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=myhnAZFR1po" target="_blank">Dueling Banjos</a>" - the theme song to the film "<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Deliverance" target="_blank">Deliverance</a>". I had an old Harmony acoustic guitar that my parents got for me when I was recovering from an illnesss. Of course, I wanted an electric guitar, but my parents were smarter than that. As a result I wound up playing a lot of old time blues, Appalachian and southern string band music, most learned from reissues of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WXZjJu4SsVk" target="_blank">old 78 RPM recordings made in the 1920s,</a> and friends of mine who drove down to West Virginia and North Carolina to tape record and learn from people like <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Avo0M1JG6bg" target="_blank">Tommy Jarrell </a>and <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=je2o0p0DRqA" target="_blank">Melvin Wine.</a> I never made the trip down south (although I did drive to Canada recording fiddler <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L4GRV8Q3fP0">Cameron Chisholm </a>in Cape Breton in 1975) and by the time I could, a lot of the old timers had passed away. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGQAQBbw8wwkCSeUWb3v9paxRC0eNAmg1iyOo2AA8w1aY6nbYzldO0mPbvZEBZR6t-6q-Yr3j53tDRwEtImHKRp46g_P_6w5skaktjS5bvvTwQo1fLPcouZxK9PzX8GT-iGGF_whX6SjIdDARSQ5GS1QJiQ4Q8eLYrlhgqX41THJVIiN0rVCw/s514/156344_465487146914_7762821_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="514" data-original-width="365" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGQAQBbw8wwkCSeUWb3v9paxRC0eNAmg1iyOo2AA8w1aY6nbYzldO0mPbvZEBZR6t-6q-Yr3j53tDRwEtImHKRp46g_P_6w5skaktjS5bvvTwQo1fLPcouZxK9PzX8GT-iGGF_whX6SjIdDARSQ5GS1QJiQ4Q8eLYrlhgqX41THJVIiN0rVCw/w284-h400/156344_465487146914_7762821_n.jpg" width="284" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Chris March, Chops McCoy, and me on fiddle, 1975.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>To us New York kids, North Carolina and West Virginia were the last pockets where the old "archaic" fiddle traditions still hung on. (I was <i>entirely wrong about that.</i> Time and age have granted me a lot of enlightenment as to what I am entirely wrong about.) I felt like I had missed out on some golden age of folk music because I had never made it down to the Appalachians a half century before I was born. When I moved to Hungary in the 1980s, I had the same sense: I wanted to get into the boondocks before their fiddle traditions evaporated into a dust of decaying folklorists' tapes. I finally got to roam around Transylvania in 1988. Since then I have made an astounding realization: this music is not disappearing. It isn't always apparent, but it hasn't disappeared.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiavOJYxw1DIAG1PPC31VWPJxVSmnc3lK7k2iFw5-sN5KWOUoxAZisDShJPBXmBTCt_NiSUCkx_1eS4Nyke7FtMlGSEbQ3nmHNmS4vhVCdufaapTV80SpviPI8tboZmoo6CPXBQEusTJqoZS7lPOhtbIqHRWzPKRjdf0Y1s8KAvN1AHp-JpHPs/s714/IMG_20230816_172611222_HDR.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="714" data-original-width="535" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiavOJYxw1DIAG1PPC31VWPJxVSmnc3lK7k2iFw5-sN5KWOUoxAZisDShJPBXmBTCt_NiSUCkx_1eS4Nyke7FtMlGSEbQ3nmHNmS4vhVCdufaapTV80SpviPI8tboZmoo6CPXBQEusTJqoZS7lPOhtbIqHRWzPKRjdf0Y1s8KAvN1AHp-JpHPs/w300-h400/IMG_20230816_172611222_HDR.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Ceterașul Dumitru Covaci</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>This should explain why I am hooked on the Maramureș region of Romania. I know of almost no other region in the world where folk fiddling is as essential to the local cultural identity as in Northern Romania. Transylvanian music is still a proud badge of local identity, whether providing the background music to a wedding or thrilling the crowds in a bar before a football (i.e.: soccer) game. Tradition is strong in Transylvania.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkHcLymZdtSVEaE0_LW-Tos6wc2_S9ai-BPgCE2Cadbkbzc619Ld9hNrPU6BfMwIbtk9r0Mvc8iQkEZFxXDyU2icCQA1lshkZbYds3CHhkMnjMwtxE3mj6hfFGaFOX95yJhsf_mnACas1una9EGZ6cKPxBCOxELzg37N4VntspkWIH4j8hD8M/s951/20230815_112513.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="714" data-original-width="951" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkHcLymZdtSVEaE0_LW-Tos6wc2_S9ai-BPgCE2Cadbkbzc619Ld9hNrPU6BfMwIbtk9r0Mvc8iQkEZFxXDyU2icCQA1lshkZbYds3CHhkMnjMwtxE3mj6hfFGaFOX95yJhsf_mnACas1una9EGZ6cKPxBCOxELzg37N4VntspkWIH4j8hD8M/w400-h300/20230815_112513.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i> Ieud, August 15th, Virgin Mary Day.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p><i>Spoiler alert:</i> If you didn't already know, I play Jewish music. Traditional, kind of like the stuff you probably call "klezmer." And due to the fates of history, there aren't a lot of people alive today who can play this sort of music. Maramures was once home to a large, rural Jewish population. Unlike Jews who lived in the "Pale of Settlement" in Russia and Poland, the Jews of Maramureș - like the Romanian, Zipser German, and Rusyn peasants who flocked to these mountains in the 1700s - had rights granted to them directly by the Hapsburg Treasury, and were able to own and farm their own land, an anomaly among Jewish settlements in Europe. As such they created a Yiddish world much closer to the culture of their neighbors, which lasted in some pockets even after the Holocaust. Today, however, most of the Jews of Maramureș are gone. A large part of their surviving descendants form the bulk of what we know as the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Satmar" target="_blank">Satmar Hasidim </a>in Williamsburg, Brooklyn and Antwerp Belgium. The community in the town of Sighet is now down to 22 members.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij8eRYevTZXUlNMhPhwUdnfDwIrctZ7V5V84T8k12NNhyphenhyphenQI_a2zq4X_X7qo2Gyw2XW1SBe6-ZZlhPSU52sdhndotBRaGL8H7lpGMRDd0QzZkkn4-ZDnBcuH5WTlgRcjyLL8FzSdu7JWx8brbkpLmAJJqV9hZTx1OwIlUoFfp6wfYDCplIwH4Q/s400/bogdan%20band.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="269" data-original-width="400" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij8eRYevTZXUlNMhPhwUdnfDwIrctZ7V5V84T8k12NNhyphenhyphenQI_a2zq4X_X7qo2Gyw2XW1SBe6-ZZlhPSU52sdhndotBRaGL8H7lpGMRDd0QzZkkn4-ZDnBcuH5WTlgRcjyLL8FzSdu7JWx8brbkpLmAJJqV9hZTx1OwIlUoFfp6wfYDCplIwH4Q/w400-h269/bogdan%20band.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Jewish and Rusyn musicans, Bogdan, Maramureș 1909 </i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>Like their neigbors, Maramureș Jews were avid fiddlers - the <i>ceteraș </i>is an essential figure in the life of Maramures, and even after the Jews had been eradicated during the Holocaust their presence and musical traditions continued to have an echo effect on their neighbors. (The villagers, mind you, did not take part in the eradicating. That was the work of the Hungarian Army.) When I began recording music in the 1990s, older fiddlers - particularly in the Iza Valley - still played a repetoire of Jewish fiddle tunes. They did not necessarily remember the details or context in which the tunes were played - most had heard them as teenagers while playing as pickup musicians for Jewish fiddlers playing outside their home communities. (Gheorghe Covaci "Cioata" from Vadu Izei remembered playing with the Shloimovich family band from Rozavlea "They used to pay us with cake!") These were tunes that were remembered mainly because they were interesting musically, since most Maramures tunes are connected to either a ritual function or to an aspect of social dance. For the aging fiddlers I met these Jewish tunes were simply "cool tunes my father played for listening." </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVJJ8kmKwpFsbS4KTOfPB_l7STVAOuw-IftynF7gK1r1ST-JZoXL3b7XPpgKPv1w0ZYuctbm_KRW0-zzBvNU5EX_gx2VzAEuYfcvxpGZaeTq_xOtn691adichxWLHj-3yRicIviPfrNvfOT7ozJncLWVmmiGCj2yBdDG54LzDeSZBULdvwWxs/s800/12472491_10153835043916915_4440281335275287888_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVJJ8kmKwpFsbS4KTOfPB_l7STVAOuw-IftynF7gK1r1ST-JZoXL3b7XPpgKPv1w0ZYuctbm_KRW0-zzBvNU5EX_gx2VzAEuYfcvxpGZaeTq_xOtn691adichxWLHj-3yRicIviPfrNvfOT7ozJncLWVmmiGCj2yBdDG54LzDeSZBULdvwWxs/w400-h300/12472491_10153835043916915_4440281335275287888_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The late Brothers Nicolae and Viktor Covaci from Dragomirești in 2015.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>If you have heard recordings of dance music from Maramureș, it is easily identifiable: the fiddle is backed by a four string guitar tuned to an open A chord and a small bass drum. The guitar - called <i>zongora</i> - which, oddly, means "piano" in Hungarian - has been around since at least the 1920s, when Bela Bartok made recordings in the Iza valley. There used to be an older style, however, that used a three string viola <i>kontra </i>fiddle like the one used in central Transylvania, and a bass. Around 1964 the Petreus Brothers, a fiddle and guitar dueo, recorded an album for Electrecord, the Romanian State label. The State culture authorities declared that from then on all Maramures music had to be played on fiddle and guitar to be broadcast on TV or radio, effectively killing the older style of music and the repetiore that went with it, including the Jewish tunes. During the Ceaucescu era only a few ethnomusicologists had access to tape recorders and little of this style of music survives, although a recording made by Ghizella Sulițeanu and Anca Ghircescu in 1971 featured the fiddler of Borșa, Gheorghe "Stingaci" Covaci and his band playing several sets of the Jewish repetoire in the older style.</p><p><iframe frameborder="0" height="360" src="https://youtube.com/embed/E1BUxu4R9mY?si=WiNgXVd5p3GVvuZX" style="background-image: url(https://i.ytimg.com/vi/E1BUxu4R9mY/hqdefault.jpg);" width="480"></iframe></p><p>Ion Pop is one of the hardest working musicians in Maramureș. He is the leader of the Iza folk music ensemble, and as he says "I'm a peasant from Monday to Friday, and a musician on weekends." Ion, in fact plays a large role in the continuation of Maramureș traditions. He consciously strives to make the old village aesthetic marketable, playing for village weddings as well as appearing on television and at festivals. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmEs26UCi7uWM1z_HkOmOPkheDhFIhdvh-IKGiH9geMzWHO0lMPBjRoBSkNz6GVyaixW_LtVctZZ9Iwe-zdMlzh2t5i0d3TF7UWWqgKgRuYh33FKLgKW19FJrugYtsAizX1DsbXQsn7TbWQ8wuXAM-YF65y_B3NZ_3MjNyYg-NmkqFDqITPVM/s714/20230817_174438.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="714" data-original-width="535" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmEs26UCi7uWM1z_HkOmOPkheDhFIhdvh-IKGiH9geMzWHO0lMPBjRoBSkNz6GVyaixW_LtVctZZ9Iwe-zdMlzh2t5i0d3TF7UWWqgKgRuYh33FKLgKW19FJrugYtsAizX1DsbXQsn7TbWQ8wuXAM-YF65y_B3NZ_3MjNyYg-NmkqFDqITPVM/w300-h400/20230817_174438.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Ion Pop with Fumie, just off to work!</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>Romania loves its folk music, but just like the United States has Contemporary Country and Western, Romania has <i>Musică Populară</i> - at any time there are about seven round the clock TV video channels playing professionally produced "folk" music videos featuring idealized peasants and trained dancers and musicians lip synching while choreographed stepping around the haystacks. Ion doesn't do <i>musică populară</i>. Among his talents, he single handedly revived the use of the three string <i>kontra </i>viola in Maramureș music. Once, when I asked him who was left in Maramureș who still played music in the old style, Ion answered "You and me, Bob. We are all that's left." </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Ocp0IHATL0QcnjtAnr-ggtgHMhqRoT1MpMXLSdRWiVlIHl_48EMfKQgp3TGfr33tQgou-uBuyhV2SqAvqYtjkQlugF9ZEArD8j8IAIF4e10AcG5_P0LqeQAuDi48AR87PXgaHXc8RBP1SYuZGg288tojwz4We5kZsLoyNjRKhAKxLkfeJyw/s714/20230818_221434.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="714" data-original-width="535" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Ocp0IHATL0QcnjtAnr-ggtgHMhqRoT1MpMXLSdRWiVlIHl_48EMfKQgp3TGfr33tQgou-uBuyhV2SqAvqYtjkQlugF9ZEArD8j8IAIF4e10AcG5_P0LqeQAuDi48AR87PXgaHXc8RBP1SYuZGg288tojwz4We5kZsLoyNjRKhAKxLkfeJyw/w300-h400/20230818_221434.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Jake on stage with Ion Pop in Breb, summer 2023</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>Luckily, we aren't all that's left. <a href="https://www.zoeaqua.com/">Zoe Aqua </a>from Denver, Colorado has been living in Transylvania for thae last few years actively learning from the surviving village musicians, and has even synthesized what she has been learning into her own compositions in traditional style on her CD <a href="https://borschtbeat.bandcamp.com/album/in-vald-arayn" target="_blank">"In Vald Arayn" (dowload it from bandcamp!)</a> <a href="https://www.jakeshulmanment.com/" target="_blank">Jake Shulman-Ment</a> has been a fixture of the New York klezmer scene since he was a wee child. He has traveled around Maramures with me as well as spending a year living in Bukovina while working with the Lautar orchestra of the city of Botoșani. His CD<a href="https://www.oriente.de/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=186&Itemid=279&lang=en" target="_blank"> A Redele</a> on Oriente Records in Berlin is one of my favorites. He is also one of the reknowned <a href="https://folkways.si.edu/news-and-press/klezmer-supergroup-the-brothers-nazaroff-revive-yiddish-pendant-to-the-anthology-of-american-folk-music">Brothers Nazaroff. </a> <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=67ViunrGugs">Vasile Rus, from Vadu Izei</a>, also consciously preserves a repetoire of Jewish melodies, and was instrumental in teaching the style to Zoe Aqua, who subsequently, taught some of this music at a workshop last summer at KlezKanada.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8kdPTw6Hn5_rraoPjUIUdcbV-dU9yUEkOuyOYdB_HfRjE6qquBCHejp6I0BXxJWlZsnfD_fsS21eYaWSzUNA6qG4lqJXKBf7qTKo5oyuoTbWGR30PGJrdhQQrYf68Bfn8zC-6hfeUSJvI5dFkGD8Ee5xAo3r8SEomNkobetEacRd_PGOn5l0/s799/13654333_10153835072836915_1029484117897218577_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="599" data-original-width="799" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8kdPTw6Hn5_rraoPjUIUdcbV-dU9yUEkOuyOYdB_HfRjE6qquBCHejp6I0BXxJWlZsnfD_fsS21eYaWSzUNA6qG4lqJXKBf7qTKo5oyuoTbWGR30PGJrdhQQrYf68Bfn8zC-6hfeUSJvI5dFkGD8Ee5xAo3r8SEomNkobetEacRd_PGOn5l0/w400-h300/13654333_10153835072836915_1029484117897218577_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Nicolae and Viktor</i></td></tr></tbody></table><div>We were lucky to meet these musicians when we did. Sadly, most of them are no longer alive. Jake and I leanred a lot from Nicolae Covaci in Dragomirești, who passed away around 2019. His brother Viktor could play the Jewish repetoire when playing duet with his older brother, but unless I prompted him he couldn't remember more than two or three of the melodies, since he had been born after the era when Jewish musicians were in the area. This summer I dropped in on Viktor only to find his wife dressed in black - he had passed away in late July, two weeks before my visit. I miss him. Viktor was one of the last old style fiddlers in the region. He was a great guy to hang with, gentle and always the little brother, even into his 70s. Two years ago we filmed him while working with Argentinian film makers <a href="https://cineuropa.org/en/interview/439248/" target="_blank">Paloma Schachmann</a> and <a href="https://www.viennale.at/en/guest/leandro-koch" target="_blank">Leandro Koch</a> on their indie documentary The Klezmer Project <a href="https://www.viennale.at/en/film/adentro-mio-estoy-bailando"><b>"Adentro Mio Estoy Bailando"</b></a> This weekend Fumie and I are going to Vienna to meet them at the <a href="https://www.viennale.at/en/film/adentro-mio-estoy-bailando" target="_blank">Viennale film festival</a> for the Austrian premier of the film. I wish Viktor could be with us. </div><div><iframe frameborder="0" height="270" src="https://youtube.com/embed/vSQ7h8g3ORI?si=yAGvCFRLvsqq4snn" style="background-image: url(https://i.ytimg.com/vi/vSQ7h8g3ORI/hqdefault.jpg);" width="480"></iframe></div><div><i>Bonus</i>: At 1:10 into the trailer, Fumie is dancing with Maria, the wife of fiddler Dumitru Covaci.</div>dumneazuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03595663581295671582noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21879466.post-25932606830034186262023-09-14T06:15:00.004-04:002023-09-15T04:21:51.574-04:00Romania Part 1: Trumpet Fiddles and Goulash<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSaoDRPnTLtfgs7oxJP_GPwaeSWdQaW4rBBihwLFN_HqOPmGnPJWJI6p_7ygl5EOCNcHgaD7ZAApXBZE6POflq4iz_G5kptjlSrsO42_3_63HGTp7nanFu22oJyHIFIzk_J7MCzFVmPQNe7ppxtZ9kLyeNGfkzJqlakUmS_3BOWCuKyL545Hg/s951/20230811_201008.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="714" data-original-width="951" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSaoDRPnTLtfgs7oxJP_GPwaeSWdQaW4rBBihwLFN_HqOPmGnPJWJI6p_7ygl5EOCNcHgaD7ZAApXBZE6POflq4iz_G5kptjlSrsO42_3_63HGTp7nanFu22oJyHIFIzk_J7MCzFVmPQNe7ppxtZ9kLyeNGfkzJqlakUmS_3BOWCuKyL545Hg/w400-h300/20230811_201008.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Pictured above is a plate of<i> iahnie de fasole cu ciolan afumat. </i>Stewed white beans with smoked pork hock. It is one of the most radically non-kosher foods existing in the universe. It is also one of the most delicious. Similar dishes may exist elsewhere in the world, but <i>iahnie de fasole</i> with smoked pork is decidedly Romanian. You can't get this in Hungary, or in Serbia, or even in pig loving Austria or the Czech republic, which boasts the highest per capita consumption of pork in the world. <i>Only in Romania.</i> And in Romania, you can get it in nearly every restaurant, where it is usually the most expensive dish on offer, and still clocks in at under USD $10. It had been too long since I had been to Romania to enjoy its swiney delights... so this summer we made plans to meet up with Zoe Aqua and Jake Shulman-Ment, two of my close associates in the world of old style Jewish fiddling, to drive around the porkier parts of Romania visiting some of the older fiddlers. As fate would have it, our small party expanded into a small safari as six other friends joined the caravan, but somehow we managed. <p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjbGfcv5M4Bg7BpBZz8nZ2GVdo0yrPYXRFy2uYpTcELyUpHxz-qBj4ByyiVZeBedt9kEOouK8zBs134pdml-aT90vPv5EoAKfbFCyh-EkBMnPWZeJ98LTyZRdo6IatUBzTQDNe-okdoF4LFg74nYVqYA8RpIUAOVx6fLLbMTu7F5kv6xJcmjA/s951/20230809_124733.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="714" data-original-width="951" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjbGfcv5M4Bg7BpBZz8nZ2GVdo0yrPYXRFy2uYpTcELyUpHxz-qBj4ByyiVZeBedt9kEOouK8zBs134pdml-aT90vPv5EoAKfbFCyh-EkBMnPWZeJ98LTyZRdo6IatUBzTQDNe-okdoF4LFg74nYVqYA8RpIUAOVx6fLLbMTu7F5kv6xJcmjA/w400-h300/20230809_124733.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Neolog Synagogue, Oradea, Romania</td></tr></tbody></table><p>We started out just across the border from Hungary in the city of Oradea, (known as Nagyvarád in Hungarian.) Once a grey and dusty border outpost, Oradea has spent the last few years using its European Union funding to spruce up and attract foreign investment. I was literally shocked at how magnificent the city had become, with several pedestrian streets lined with carefully restored old buildings filled with outdoor cafes and shops. But we were in Oradea to hop out to its suburban villages. In nearby Cihei lives Marius Mihuț, a maker of the vioara cu goarne, a resonator fiddle unique to the Bihor region of northern Transylvania.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKFmjR2UDGuim8UWEdm_AmpNG9Y3ZodgCpbr4JfULQ2sEY-knjNqML5Y7QeuepQWXN3rV2kEzorZiE6Jyio5lNf7mNVMvBpQZ3UI2TtWp1VRtn5zgT7CbjeyXMGVEjeSoVM2VvBQzAlUb4QkTpkG5dlywQuG711uRApo__lGlLnFveVBpFqH8/s951/20230809_181349.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="714" data-original-width="951" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKFmjR2UDGuim8UWEdm_AmpNG9Y3ZodgCpbr4JfULQ2sEY-knjNqML5Y7QeuepQWXN3rV2kEzorZiE6Jyio5lNf7mNVMvBpQZ3UI2TtWp1VRtn5zgT7CbjeyXMGVEjeSoVM2VvBQzAlUb4QkTpkG5dlywQuG711uRApo__lGlLnFveVBpFqH8/w400-h300/20230809_181349.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Zoe was there to purchase a vioara from Marius, and every time we visit him he and his sister like to make a party of it. First, there was wild boar goulash made over an open fire in the backyard, followed by home made salami and home brewed <i>palinka de prune,</i> plum brandy. This is the reality of doing ethnomusicological "field collecting." You end up with wonderful, insanely generous new friends in places you would never expect. Also, amazingly great fiddle music.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0sNTGR--hvpdfDhLLW619ind0boxlwd2T9hp0xM8_HoohIg2v12buMcErND54ZBQLPE3poRBhUHe9PGCSTqcVH1MhTo_xGGNLsweiO3YWJCZxwirQ9-37PPGocjsjtxajLOtSo4H0MlXyagIf5vymGdYM_lAWgwa-4xFq3jJnxb4kqmDzLpY/s951/20230809_172642.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="714" data-original-width="951" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0sNTGR--hvpdfDhLLW619ind0boxlwd2T9hp0xM8_HoohIg2v12buMcErND54ZBQLPE3poRBhUHe9PGCSTqcVH1MhTo_xGGNLsweiO3YWJCZxwirQ9-37PPGocjsjtxajLOtSo4H0MlXyagIf5vymGdYM_lAWgwa-4xFq3jJnxb4kqmDzLpY/w400-h300/20230809_172642.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><i>Vioara cu goarne </i>remain a popular instrument for weddings and celebrations around Bihor county, because it is loud enough to be heard over crowds at events such as football matches, where the local identity of the instrument dovetails perfectly with the local Oradea football team (by which I mean <i>soccer </i>for all you Americans...) </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrLzsLEa232tbmw_uPsXzrc75o35rGp22y-g3co7IjRSqd955REuUhmh3SNNZgB7ytw1zTKbwmoKgVO2o4YWcEFQhCxN9Sg2YbQT2fnX85LTd6irgUv3jRqP7rOzhSidaWqieKdjEasRyLafWF2ARk9qCFY_5opbDX5TKCCrfFOlhTK-vUMrY/s714/20230809_171952.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="714" data-original-width="535" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrLzsLEa232tbmw_uPsXzrc75o35rGp22y-g3co7IjRSqd955REuUhmh3SNNZgB7ytw1zTKbwmoKgVO2o4YWcEFQhCxN9Sg2YbQT2fnX85LTd6irgUv3jRqP7rOzhSidaWqieKdjEasRyLafWF2ARk9qCFY_5opbDX5TKCCrfFOlhTK-vUMrY/w300-h400/20230809_171952.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p>The demand is such that Marius keeps quite busy churning out these hand made fiddles. The horn is attached to the body through a small reonator device set beneath the bridge and strings, rather like the metal resonator on a National Steel or dobro guitar, but in miniature. A more developed tone can be made by using the resonating device cannibalised from old phonograph players, particularly the Czech <i>Suprahon </i>brand, which Marius collects by being in touch with antique phonegraph collectors on ebay.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_JlN82Uu271Rw_qIzZcRIbGU1svZ84wjUVVcmOztSinUGzoaYQ3TBKVGMyBDFhH8_gGVudJ1hi_QJgeY3X-ANXgOrhkS6KC1tjC9hEqL-9xLYvLO59v_KHGj1xYRl93zjI4YHGVXoTN7rwWnzKuSR2BcKXXDDMXIJd7QwznuKlQlAWKLyyIA/s951/20230809_172557.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="714" data-original-width="951" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_JlN82Uu271Rw_qIzZcRIbGU1svZ84wjUVVcmOztSinUGzoaYQ3TBKVGMyBDFhH8_gGVudJ1hi_QJgeY3X-ANXgOrhkS6KC1tjC9hEqL-9xLYvLO59v_KHGj1xYRl93zjI4YHGVXoTN7rwWnzKuSR2BcKXXDDMXIJd7QwznuKlQlAWKLyyIA/w400-h300/20230809_172557.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>"Bobby" the deer with Fumie and Zoe</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>Did I metion that Marius keeps a pair of tame deer as house pets? Yes he does. <i>Bobby and Bambina.</i> He's raised them since they were orphans found by some local hunters. They walk around the farm in back and seem to think they are just another one of the goats. He also has a couple of baby wild boar. I'm pretty sure those will not end up as house pets, though. The goulash is just too tempting.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxIydhO2A8Cb5QGQt6cEtuEo1P32T_0bUeIeYFTQ70UV9-TT24ZZkRO5eVwcrm1EN5DsW1M4Yvovdc1UwlgoWqv0R9nMO-kkdyH6xihwSb4EEVXqeBCaE7v9COU6quGFpnrwyxGTx7cw75irAMtFIo97q0KMAZXrgemXZzVtzxg15Y2hsPnQI/s951/20230811_174836.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="714" data-original-width="951" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxIydhO2A8Cb5QGQt6cEtuEo1P32T_0bUeIeYFTQ70UV9-TT24ZZkRO5eVwcrm1EN5DsW1M4Yvovdc1UwlgoWqv0R9nMO-kkdyH6xihwSb4EEVXqeBCaE7v9COU6quGFpnrwyxGTx7cw75irAMtFIo97q0KMAZXrgemXZzVtzxg15Y2hsPnQI/w400-h300/20230811_174836.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Status Quo Ante Synagogue in Marosvásárhely</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>With a few days to spend before we traveled to Maramures, Fumie and I decided to see Tărgu Mureș, (Marosvásárhely in Hungarian.) For some reason, I have never actually stayed in this traditionally Hungarian speaking city, (today about about 50% use Hungarian and the language has official status) although a lot of my acquaintances in Budapest hail from here. I, personally, base myself in Cluj (Kolozsvár) when I am in Transylvania, and for some reason I haven't ever had a big reason to spend any time in Marosvásárhely. It is, however, off the tourist circuit and that meant hotel prices were cheap, and so was the food pictured above,<i> the iahnie de fasole cu ciolan afumat </i>from the<a href="https://www.tempo.ro/restaurant-laci-csarda"> Laci Csarda</a> around the corner from our pensiune.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigwBEtK_Ntq8xgVjw3jE6_0NRdpYFxnKCDKZYbdxMi-Mv1-I3hp100x2vHmnZqtgTymbYxHrMmXlf74FAirommxtW7pxhUwCiys8PUzYvNyLbFI3dAex6Q85BXI54VLlZRwyXtq8P3twOoQXrlKRmSRYRiweLea7l9lf-QkvUhIGJvfO43u2k/s951/20230812_113202.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="714" data-original-width="951" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigwBEtK_Ntq8xgVjw3jE6_0NRdpYFxnKCDKZYbdxMi-Mv1-I3hp100x2vHmnZqtgTymbYxHrMmXlf74FAirommxtW7pxhUwCiys8PUzYvNyLbFI3dAex6Q85BXI54VLlZRwyXtq8P3twOoQXrlKRmSRYRiweLea7l9lf-QkvUhIGJvfO43u2k/w400-h300/20230812_113202.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Herbal teas, fresh berries, and jams</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>The thing to do in any town in Romania is to visit the local open market. We were there in time for summer produce to be piled up in small mountains. People will preserve fruit and make huge amounts of <i> vineta </i>and <i>zakuska </i>eggplant spread for use later in the year.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxocbI3BEEZ2M7f6GEg47Uo9aM-WMlzr5uO2kGMyCJMvvizL99LNrvW77cGwkjBr5FykmeymIATa3rKf4HG1DhaboKcguCCqDWDiqXg8KnlIOBWc0t60YI9_wnDLYsTswctD0fVorCsn4RgUC-zmcnQUzJ_i3G66Via2GOaMd3qc6vLUTleeY/s714/20230812_113946.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="714" data-original-width="535" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxocbI3BEEZ2M7f6GEg47Uo9aM-WMlzr5uO2kGMyCJMvvizL99LNrvW77cGwkjBr5FykmeymIATa3rKf4HG1DhaboKcguCCqDWDiqXg8KnlIOBWc0t60YI9_wnDLYsTswctD0fVorCsn4RgUC-zmcnQUzJ_i3G66Via2GOaMd3qc6vLUTleeY/w300-h400/20230812_113946.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mountains of egplant</td></tr></tbody></table><div>Usually there are people setting up to sell locally made products like carved spoons, basketwork, and custom farm tools. Fumie found a 90 year old woman selling thick woolen socks she herself knitted, perfect for Fumie's mom and sis back in Tokyo, so she began to ask about them and the woman was utterly charmed by the existance of a Japanese woman who can chat in basic Romanian with a markedly Maramures accent.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1AVSkzOeA5PaL6ILSi0pktlneUnwjLulNaDC1o1_P2pA3jBTaStukFaLDIusNs0K9c7FJyzWZ2vxVbj-DRpP2rWiOW_e6kQ9Df06Tu6tX_dL30lflJeezgEqamvmK39yFkkS7GnPOHY-r0cRjruh8X3DgaQFCmUyF7CW6oPcnGKz2UMzT9yg/s4032/20230821_124815.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1AVSkzOeA5PaL6ILSi0pktlneUnwjLulNaDC1o1_P2pA3jBTaStukFaLDIusNs0K9c7FJyzWZ2vxVbj-DRpP2rWiOW_e6kQ9Df06Tu6tX_dL30lflJeezgEqamvmK39yFkkS7GnPOHY-r0cRjruh8X3DgaQFCmUyF7CW6oPcnGKz2UMzT9yg/w400-h300/20230821_124815.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>Also, it has been a good year from wild mushrooms. These are fresh chanterelles going for about USD $6.50 a kilogram. Not a pound. A kilo. I don't really want to slag on any of the places I have visited in Romania, but honestly? These mushrooms were the most exciting thing I saw during my time in Marosvásárhely. It is a pretty town, in a stunning location. <i>Don't miss the mushrooms!</i></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf1KSxLZpr1eJSo3bfvOG_hVvJYmw7Wx7IvBUwIOm2JuGvHRTKJ-FYJQMrM5EPPZygr3Gsq8p6m7fYuuecdV4H4L4LNXY9LZ7JWiMyNpcxKYqPLdkIMAs83Au86srcxEbW_QDicgHgB2dFTToA76At6BVIbF2XK0Y5ncmlaRF3m6JQGu4CLxI/s951/20230812_113217.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="714" data-original-width="951" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf1KSxLZpr1eJSo3bfvOG_hVvJYmw7Wx7IvBUwIOm2JuGvHRTKJ-FYJQMrM5EPPZygr3Gsq8p6m7fYuuecdV4H4L4LNXY9LZ7JWiMyNpcxKYqPLdkIMAs83Au86srcxEbW_QDicgHgB2dFTToA76At6BVIbF2XK0Y5ncmlaRF3m6JQGu4CLxI/s320/20230812_113217.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div>After a day in Székélyland, we were off to visit fiddlers in Maramureș, a few hours drive to the north. I will post more on that later. Pictured below is what greeted us when we arrived. Home made sausage with stewed sour cabbage. No.<i> It was not kosher.</i> It was, however, wonderful. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwDtIC0TUCj72yMm0m9T8xsefo1VssEYyNNlxY2ZtO3Mw6pNIlNM0qnUiZwoT6O7h6cnjladljR-7oKCTe-6iBQAxXdKk2umKPSe8EBYk0Weq6VFnVYK4buY_Gy3VLYEKngg_2Z0mjBN1AVF18w10Ke29H8uGcBubtVRND3xb00ySGKW1DaF0/s714/20230817_180840.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="714" data-original-width="535" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwDtIC0TUCj72yMm0m9T8xsefo1VssEYyNNlxY2ZtO3Mw6pNIlNM0qnUiZwoT6O7h6cnjladljR-7oKCTe-6iBQAxXdKk2umKPSe8EBYk0Weq6VFnVYK4buY_Gy3VLYEKngg_2Z0mjBN1AVF18w10Ke29H8uGcBubtVRND3xb00ySGKW1DaF0/w300-h400/20230817_180840.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div>You may well ask about my obsession with pork. Well... for most of my young life <i>I did not eat pork.</i> Although my family did, I avoided pork for a variety of reasons from the time I hit my teens until after I moved to Hungary. That all changed for me in Hungary and the Balkans. You have to be pretty <i>effing </i>hardcore to avoid pork in Hungary, or anywhere else in Central Europe for that matter. Pork is simply what is for dinner, lunch, breakfast, snacks, and in the intravenous feeding tube that hangs over you as you take your last breath. The amount and variety of pork available here was so overwhelming that I used to write a regular column for the English language newspaper in Budapest - <b>Budapest Week</b> - bylined by "the Prince of Pork." Its easier now - there are halal butchers and kosher markets, and vegetarians are no longer slaughtered as mass entertainment in the town squares, but after that first bite of <i>kolbasz </i>so many years ago, there was no going back for me.)</div><br /><div><br /></div></div>dumneazuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03595663581295671582noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21879466.post-23142679278552145422023-06-15T05:09:00.000-04:002023-06-15T05:09:39.643-04:00We Become Peasants<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9oahgay-_VpX5-wqaJR3rYGcfBY8HMyjFiwl7aajzFoAXOK6icVL4oWW62L_cfWciPmuD6IQdazLMoW4O04eD7nmAmsj_fELUqyLLT4OW5q63mNOIV4L1996PZWQqrQd9u5r4Nq2VUJy_adxQm5uvgAjTxI3yo5nHjuwvxWfpWcw1JVgu/s1200/81499.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="897" data-original-width="1200" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9oahgay-_VpX5-wqaJR3rYGcfBY8HMyjFiwl7aajzFoAXOK6icVL4oWW62L_cfWciPmuD6IQdazLMoW4O04eD7nmAmsj_fELUqyLLT4OW5q63mNOIV4L1996PZWQqrQd9u5r4Nq2VUJy_adxQm5uvgAjTxI3yo5nHjuwvxWfpWcw1JVgu/w400-h299/81499.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>After going dormant for the longest spell in its long history, the blog is back. I'm sorry about the delay. thanks to the readers who took the effort to reach out to me and inquire whether I was still alive or had been incarcerated or just gone off my meds and become a Republican. <i>I'm fine.</i> Life has been a bit less adventurous in the last year... we spent a lot of it (well, too much of it) in the USA getting surgical things stuck into various bits and parts and getting squeezed through MRI tubes and other such nonsense (playing Klezmer music around NY, eating Turkish food in Paterson and Yemeni food in the Bronx with the near-legendary Bob Godfried...) but finally we are back in our Budapest home and happily finding our true selves. We have become peasants. We are now <i>people of the soil</i>, as they say in nationalist circles. </div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvPa2V_5pFfE_Fbe22B3tk2vGkPCXahRghUZu7WaKCD7VkdZW0NbwJDeD26SdyC70xRRLMfXFK6GPyIv8xaoAGXrNttFc9eIokJOiFkRmByLC44YE0VIWQ99N2WiqZ75SbW6wT1NnFpoySjO_1GUVTYKbjeIAC21FiIh9U611fImpr1WEt/s4032/20230613_110436.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvPa2V_5pFfE_Fbe22B3tk2vGkPCXahRghUZu7WaKCD7VkdZW0NbwJDeD26SdyC70xRRLMfXFK6GPyIv8xaoAGXrNttFc9eIokJOiFkRmByLC44YE0VIWQ99N2WiqZ75SbW6wT1NnFpoySjO_1GUVTYKbjeIAC21FiIh9U611fImpr1WEt/w400-h300/20230613_110436.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Our little plot of Heaven</i></td></tr></tbody></table><div>Usually I write posts about our visits to various peasants around East Europe, but we finally decided to take the leap and become peasants ourselves! For years we have been using our huge living room window to grow basil, peppers, and other kitchen herbs, while Fumie has turned our inner courtyard walkway into a minor botanical garden of flowers. I used to have a garden when I lived in a rundown slum tenement in Allston, Massachusetts in the 1980s - growing in soil I composted from horse manure I trucked in from the Boston Police stables on the back of my bicycle.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXIHgCr4USvTI5X_PIQEYYyyXqqcgqa0BJ9JC4O05Lu6izjUy01Re7AFntE8ZgDSq0qgy_0N5H9spFDbLggpV3Ea8GkguT5h8QWAcflwsUfuog84fJykKC24JNongajsEXYGIrcb9SOh9ECMD_cYOBY8avYuB-k5l9_Yo_38PL4PUZEBwC/s1024/Pickel%20Bob%201984.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="971" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXIHgCr4USvTI5X_PIQEYYyyXqqcgqa0BJ9JC4O05Lu6izjUy01Re7AFntE8ZgDSq0qgy_0N5H9spFDbLggpV3Ea8GkguT5h8QWAcflwsUfuog84fJykKC24JNongajsEXYGIrcb9SOh9ECMD_cYOBY8avYuB-k5l9_Yo_38PL4PUZEBwC/w379-h400/Pickel%20Bob%201984.jpg" width="379" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Allston, Mass. 1982, with zuchinni</i></td></tr></tbody></table><div>When we lived in Zuglo we had a balcony on which we grew a huge amount of herbs and peppers, and when we moved downtown that was supplanted by a huge living room window. Fumie set up a small mega-industrial scale window garden and soon our living room was being taken over by errant avocado plants, smelly muskatlis, and potted mints and basil. We needed more room. And luckily, the Kisdiofa Community Garden appeared on our horizon and we applied for a plot. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcti1YTMHokHPjIG6ZP5oXr4Q028Jwur-FSlfzclWoOwAOdiJunSa_WCCHTLC6iKgkW0zmrnlSlPNEQxWNF1Wsd2Fg71V7KttqCUWas5soC_qi6hY22TieYz5iOQqHCkEOXzpcK2HnrDcSKfmA3dW2gQEyYfQBLyVAuGPwKetgFFHW1HbU/s4032/20230522_122832.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcti1YTMHokHPjIG6ZP5oXr4Q028Jwur-FSlfzclWoOwAOdiJunSa_WCCHTLC6iKgkW0zmrnlSlPNEQxWNF1Wsd2Fg71V7KttqCUWas5soC_qi6hY22TieYz5iOQqHCkEOXzpcK2HnrDcSKfmA3dW2gQEyYfQBLyVAuGPwKetgFFHW1HbU/w300-h400/20230522_122832.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>our living room window nursery with community garden below.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><div>The community garden is conveniently across the street from our building. When we first moved in it was a vacant lot with rubble from a demolished building, but a community organization (KEK) set about cleaning it up and trucking in organic soil to set up an urban garden in our densely developed old downtown Pest neighborhood, the seventh district Jewish Ghetto. The garden is strictly organic, and an entire compost system was built this year, so we can bring our kitchen scraps downstairs and recycle them into dinner for next year.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX_AO-3ghgke-JOsC9AyyytuEq28UZTiQxsJgA7jlfBO_9Q_7qTp-ZhplDixujCuJ9j81MPcxi41aPBKMoEjV0DWt6_dq--xEwL6eXR_L8N1Y_QVbELtd-q2KyOJ6UsTq1qDXDR7LRuDOXD2Ha18FvLXzONSKxwevEzWqgaQQwZwTOrVqc/s4032/20230607_152217.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX_AO-3ghgke-JOsC9AyyytuEq28UZTiQxsJgA7jlfBO_9Q_7qTp-ZhplDixujCuJ9j81MPcxi41aPBKMoEjV0DWt6_dq--xEwL6eXR_L8N1Y_QVbELtd-q2KyOJ6UsTq1qDXDR7LRuDOXD2Ha18FvLXzONSKxwevEzWqgaQQwZwTOrVqc/w300-h400/20230607_152217.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Cherry tomatoes and Japanese cucumbers</i></td></tr></tbody></table><div>We got back to Budapest in March, so we were a bit late in getting started, but the folks running the garden were there with advice and guidance and soon we had turned over an abandoned plot, worked in organic compost and petrified alga-limestone, and we put in our early spring vegetables. One part of the plots is for flowers, including something Fumie found at Stop and Shop in Teaneck labeled "Grandma Flower Mix" that she swears by and we have no idea what is in it. Spring in Budapest this year was cold and wet and long, and the results were that our chinese yu-tsai greens didn't make it, our snow peas failed, and our radishes emerged as a lesson to other radishes to<i> just say no to the Man pushing crack</i>. On the other hand, once it warmed up we had a bumper crop of lettuce and we had an amazing crop of arugula, which we are still eating.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGY6bnZslik0qdSffn2tDZ3KHa0OoOpqcFlRF0agihx1HdO_88rEIunT5o8M0BhLxJ1aTnqY_90E6lUq19U9ojGBGhR2X6hs4_NApJQx_cy-RVLzXkccNNAZOygfERrPPRrSmi_rwvZUS3F5ZY5flSvUpCGkMqndLEd7Rzdw-UPPQ_8C0W/s4032/20230528_085041.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGY6bnZslik0qdSffn2tDZ3KHa0OoOpqcFlRF0agihx1HdO_88rEIunT5o8M0BhLxJ1aTnqY_90E6lUq19U9ojGBGhR2X6hs4_NApJQx_cy-RVLzXkccNNAZOygfERrPPRrSmi_rwvZUS3F5ZY5flSvUpCGkMqndLEd7Rzdw-UPPQ_8C0W/s320/20230528_085041.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Since, we have put in tomatoes (cherry, black Krim, and yellow) Japanese cukes, peppers (Jalapeno, Japanese Shishito, and Romanian hot long pepper) two types of eggplant (Japanese and Italian) and okra. Okra is hot weather vegetable not often seen in Hungary. We are almost too far north to grow it, so I am counting on late planting and global warming to see us through. It is also, without argument, my favorite vegetable. When I'm in the US I eat about a kilo of it a week, and with peppers and tomatoes I should be fed well into the fall.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2t9LHhrCCTS3wM8xuvHvK0e76qYo4jfxtl74IThHejY7gKrRyxHOW6LAzRYT1PGritWqbJ1g3vgibYRxkTVvJ9G4A6E_F6D0JDjk9nviUgUK2WnXcJ9uHfQmpiONaJ3NeJUI_VsmuAhqLbww1B7GQDwf4a6Pv6DlN9BF3hbzjpx-gWr75/s4032/20230528_084900.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2t9LHhrCCTS3wM8xuvHvK0e76qYo4jfxtl74IThHejY7gKrRyxHOW6LAzRYT1PGritWqbJ1g3vgibYRxkTVvJ9G4A6E_F6D0JDjk9nviUgUK2WnXcJ9uHfQmpiONaJ3NeJUI_VsmuAhqLbww1B7GQDwf4a6Pv6DlN9BF3hbzjpx-gWr75/w400-h300/20230528_084900.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>OK. There was Yemeni food in the Bronx...</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRXrmDNm6XvdG71oGgal-4tknBDcy3bWHxxdfRJ8IGhK8aiqy4LfNl8HaTIYF6T_A0oX0PVU8S3pbjHy2VfuJaRPNySwSo2Z91MPUOAl7KOu4k2slBMSpPo74NCSv53cbieiyACdasdWrFeqQYv9972na7X8nEE9nIgE2C5w4Iw-Li3GV1/s4160/IMG_20230214_134848771_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRXrmDNm6XvdG71oGgal-4tknBDcy3bWHxxdfRJ8IGhK8aiqy4LfNl8HaTIYF6T_A0oX0PVU8S3pbjHy2VfuJaRPNySwSo2Z91MPUOAl7KOu4k2slBMSpPo74NCSv53cbieiyACdasdWrFeqQYv9972na7X8nEE9nIgE2C5w4Iw-Li3GV1/w400-h300/IMG_20230214_134848771_HDR.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>And Turkish Kunefe hot pastry with home made pistachio ice cream in Paterson...</div><div><div><br /></div></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhznogJxJbrPZwz0mWgOBet2VokHzsBH4ZyctdIEfRHxgNMP7b3Q6BVWeCZzgkY5Ews0YPpqlcFYm365-dxOQ8UrYPlIonmLl7EzXWR5PKp7xJLMN-Y1BQztnf1KHVSw0v8wg4Wp0WA0zAEn00rL1EirLQIG0ZnJwFsogjTpxGWT8TYxCYm/s4160/IMG_20221207_154625324_MP.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhznogJxJbrPZwz0mWgOBet2VokHzsBH4ZyctdIEfRHxgNMP7b3Q6BVWeCZzgkY5Ews0YPpqlcFYm365-dxOQ8UrYPlIonmLl7EzXWR5PKp7xJLMN-Y1BQztnf1KHVSw0v8wg4Wp0WA0zAEn00rL1EirLQIG0ZnJwFsogjTpxGWT8TYxCYm/w400-h300/IMG_20221207_154625324_MP.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>And of course, nobody loves New Jersey diners more than my Dad, who will be 97 on June 20th:</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ8t2W5mdaj4P9-ZP_Mw1QxeSRbTZ7UMEy4gsmm3AMpqtk2xv5mETShzJMipgFqSkoHjbzZJPBG_5fuamwIjkxwBHpal8Xvkby0Rj9iBwKB6oGA61Pu8A1Q1Nss7fU6eiaC8bwNVSlrzzSBH0SoZwqOg_7xoMAMdZ_BO4EWFJq3jR3zLNF/s4160/IMG_20230217_163740996.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ8t2W5mdaj4P9-ZP_Mw1QxeSRbTZ7UMEy4gsmm3AMpqtk2xv5mETShzJMipgFqSkoHjbzZJPBG_5fuamwIjkxwBHpal8Xvkby0Rj9iBwKB6oGA61Pu8A1Q1Nss7fU6eiaC8bwNVSlrzzSBH0SoZwqOg_7xoMAMdZ_BO4EWFJq3jR3zLNF/w400-h300/IMG_20230217_163740996.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>But we are very happy to be home!</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG7dft-M1rqH1_ElPQOU7lLI-NqEWMQzDn-M3CMQEI3FZt1bdZGLbqLXLfkZcpy5ZtratDwlSJHBYiezglbtnMxTEYg-89iXoLuUOfrpgX6zL9ovsHAxmKc65HwHQcJ6_lKxTkCA9qyraxQnRKFd0lBxYZsHGj5riE8cR6ySUjzjc2I6Lc/s4032/20230401_105528.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG7dft-M1rqH1_ElPQOU7lLI-NqEWMQzDn-M3CMQEI3FZt1bdZGLbqLXLfkZcpy5ZtratDwlSJHBYiezglbtnMxTEYg-89iXoLuUOfrpgX6zL9ovsHAxmKc65HwHQcJ6_lKxTkCA9qyraxQnRKFd0lBxYZsHGj5riE8cR6ySUjzjc2I6Lc/w400-h300/20230401_105528.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>dumneazuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03595663581295671582noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21879466.post-17848630531875038542022-11-15T11:01:00.011-05:002022-11-15T12:02:42.459-05:00Maramureș: "A Sausage Every Day!"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx9LEnlgym-GKgmwl4Ht1oZjeLAlYASkLqiSs9OSoQd9SWPk76aA8Zn0aho0kopOY0G73BKhB5QKqCNn-Y1YIna3shes1WtRkcXatI87hm6YcpvHTrZIQwBY8qoeopxK8rlhRO67hHObcKrmB_ip28Uaf35TRKp4ogIyZxK_pNn8-A9ELe/s867/20210923_155753.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="867" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx9LEnlgym-GKgmwl4Ht1oZjeLAlYASkLqiSs9OSoQd9SWPk76aA8Zn0aho0kopOY0G73BKhB5QKqCNn-Y1YIna3shes1WtRkcXatI87hm6YcpvHTrZIQwBY8qoeopxK8rlhRO67hHObcKrmB_ip28Uaf35TRKp4ogIyZxK_pNn8-A9ELe/w400-h300/20210923_155753.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>In July I was up in Maramureș, the northern region of Romania which has become my second home-away-from-home-away-from-home over the last twenty five years or so. When I first began visiting Maramureș, it was one of the least developed regions of Romania. This was partly due to Ceaucescu's suspicion that Romania would have to sacrifice this slice of Transylvania if there was ever a Soviet invasion (Ceaucescu was paranoid, <i>but in hindsight, not that paranoid</i>.) Accordingly, Maramures was left a backwater region during communism, with no industrial developement beyond forestry and mining. As a result the peasant culture of Maramureș was able to maintain a sense of cultural continuity that was beaten out of most of East European peasants in the late twentieth century. </div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOcj5IT30Xqp58Oxosxoip8LuMUdNvkIQwR3jY1h7QfJiuS9zDMH9BlROSu0l-RqdSL_nETfYa16Vf071wPMbv8VoFSEG3UmYednsZkFevgkb2xNeFsq5VjNbGh8HM_V3esm4WnTXICUHG5sp_5aSiqkIdldJaVVduzoYyIYAwS98VE_2S/s867/20180716_093125.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="867" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOcj5IT30Xqp58Oxosxoip8LuMUdNvkIQwR3jY1h7QfJiuS9zDMH9BlROSu0l-RqdSL_nETfYa16Vf071wPMbv8VoFSEG3UmYednsZkFevgkb2xNeFsq5VjNbGh8HM_V3esm4WnTXICUHG5sp_5aSiqkIdldJaVVduzoYyIYAwS98VE_2S/w400-h300/20180716_093125.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><div>The Moroșeni, as people of Maramureș are known, are famous for hard work. The mountain land is unforgiving, and it takes twice as much work to produce a crop of potatoes than it does in the lowlands. Traditionally Moroșan men would travel to do farmwork or construction in order to send money home. Today that tradition continues with adults leaving to work in Italy, France, or England and returning in August for a family reunion. And they return with their earnings - western earnings - which they invest in weddings, home contruction, fine new embroidered folk costumes to wear to weddings and dances, and a growing investment in village status. It also means that during the year the children stay at home to be raised by their grandparents, which means that the traditional skills and values of the village are passed on and continued. </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP-VX5Jcqv5cDe-vQhQt_OutTcsOvhrn6WTZZhh4DzVBNZllOtOE3av0TRZqlowulVtxQa1-zdR09pUX-JAfb6kyTWc2e7wR79O7uB-jfyBdxKzIwN6uvgqXBp_7ir3aG3uGHh4GFm1uxmhHm3sW4yoaeTLi62qU1YI5ibDkBasRpfCyQy/s867/20210831_170650.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="867" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP-VX5Jcqv5cDe-vQhQt_OutTcsOvhrn6WTZZhh4DzVBNZllOtOE3av0TRZqlowulVtxQa1-zdR09pUX-JAfb6kyTWc2e7wR79O7uB-jfyBdxKzIwN6uvgqXBp_7ir3aG3uGHh4GFm1uxmhHm3sW4yoaeTLi62qU1YI5ibDkBasRpfCyQy/w400-h300/20210831_170650.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dancing in front of the church... these guys all work construction in Manchester...</td></tr></tbody></table><div>In August there are often four or five weddings going on in any village on any weekend day, complete with processions marching through the streets and house receptions where guests are greeted with music, food, and a glass of plum brandy horinca at the gateway. We usually stay in Ieud, a large village in the eastern Iza valley that was described by anthropologist <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Wedding-Dead-Poetics-Popular-Transylvania/dp/0520069641">Gail Kligman in her monograph The Wedding of the Dead.</a> (google books <a href="https://books.google.com/books?id=l_HsDwAAQBAJ&printsec=frontcover&source=gbs_ge_summary_r&cad=0#v=onepage&q&f=false">link here</a>.) </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Td4-S_lPHdvqsNhlUDKPBivvLPzhiVlYrfif50FKtBA10LLxyoLFaEQHMrfixrth22D7xJFesag3fM1ilZ0D6PD75IyarPyxayOD4KVX3QZ67ZPBMnANyrtygC1cOla6DOtF25su3MnbycSN-BgAl_YJBO4x3QLn3xE_YYItwVFBskak/s867/20210922_101441.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="867" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Td4-S_lPHdvqsNhlUDKPBivvLPzhiVlYrfif50FKtBA10LLxyoLFaEQHMrfixrth22D7xJFesag3fM1ilZ0D6PD75IyarPyxayOD4KVX3QZ67ZPBMnANyrtygC1cOla6DOtF25su3MnbycSN-BgAl_YJBO4x3QLn3xE_YYItwVFBskak/w400-h300/20210922_101441.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ion de la Cruce,</td></tr></tbody></table><div>When we are there in August, we often get impromptu invites to weddding receptions, which means fiddle music, stuffed cabbage, and serial shots of plum brandy at 11 in the morning. The ceremonies involved receptions at the homes of various inlaws (cake, brandy shots, fiddle music) marching aroiund in the streets to and from churches and inlaws (cakes, brandy shots, fiddle music) and finally, at night, buses to transport the whole party to one of the new Wedding Halls - huge, kitsch modern catering halls with garish lights, pink tablecloths, and monstrous sound systems blaring... fiddle music.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL9e_p2_Epp0iEwzL58WtlUqDEx5WRu7B0K2sH4JQ56cgRZNZJxuI8aKSOYV_Qbvu6iDU-F7R-aG1QzrB39CNUfB4sGzDbwAYlZKEiHOKsr3hATPY744HOJY1s6v5O9EQ06Wo5SpmWWfHBy82zIf79wluKDyGlnoXnzIkFdwqbYgVt4Cgw/s1800/315521768_1164090777648203_225387213308340666_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1201" data-original-width="1800" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL9e_p2_Epp0iEwzL58WtlUqDEx5WRu7B0K2sH4JQ56cgRZNZJxuI8aKSOYV_Qbvu6iDU-F7R-aG1QzrB39CNUfB4sGzDbwAYlZKEiHOKsr3hATPY744HOJY1s6v5O9EQ06Wo5SpmWWfHBy82zIf79wluKDyGlnoXnzIkFdwqbYgVt4Cgw/w400-h268/315521768_1164090777648203_225387213308340666_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>We met Nița Dancuș, our host and good friend, back in 2001 when we went to Ieud to sepnd a few months immersing ourselves in the local dialect of Romanian language while I spent time with the late Gheorghe Ioannei Covaci, the eldest of a dynasty of fiddlers who, at the time, had a large repertoire of Jewish melodies learned in the 1940s from playing with members of the Shloimovici family of Klezmer musicians from thre neighboring village of Rozavlea. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm1CVZZ3atKjfqUR87HONbYaUDvyvvs6yi-6rzMi4g6uHI3aOOOwXL5ZaZW9vdJou-40BFTRtwofLImuZAUyzLHRRSjKqp6DhNyCoM4xT2AlU0b0j5i3zZZTcxK1koARK_ZiTsl4k6elLa9D9P3qvew1A1QMZH8C9NsP7FXXmH8_6OuufB/s867/20210905_115954.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="867" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm1CVZZ3atKjfqUR87HONbYaUDvyvvs6yi-6rzMi4g6uHI3aOOOwXL5ZaZW9vdJou-40BFTRtwofLImuZAUyzLHRRSjKqp6DhNyCoM4xT2AlU0b0j5i3zZZTcxK1koARK_ZiTsl4k6elLa9D9P3qvew1A1QMZH8C9NsP7FXXmH8_6OuufB/w400-h300/20210905_115954.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>Nița is an encyclopdia of Iza Valley folklore, history, recipes and jokes. She is from one of the most high status families - the Iza valley had a strata of "noble" peasants during Austro-Hungarian rule - and was an activist on behalf of her beleagered Greco Catholic Orthodox Church during the Ceaucescu years. She is also a great cook, and her <i>sarmale </i>(stuffed cabbage) may well be the world's best. Her goat soup isn't bad either, and I particularly like her stuffed peppers.</div></div></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8wGYYU884Z3YzsPKX5rGkrcj0LaEVP1-4n4UWh7H0FgVEQ8uHHWwQp2c56KaB6HGcaCU0y4i-zaubnnsdGWY68tDxXiEfA5acAfSP208lgUItsnxs5VKfE1qRK7MJDn1XoPnUscLPv5wR8CTBEr73DfWu44Pp0Ahb8O0iF6w9AjE-ZEUU/s867/20210901_130739.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="867" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8wGYYU884Z3YzsPKX5rGkrcj0LaEVP1-4n4UWh7H0FgVEQ8uHHWwQp2c56KaB6HGcaCU0y4i-zaubnnsdGWY68tDxXiEfA5acAfSP208lgUItsnxs5VKfE1qRK7MJDn1XoPnUscLPv5wR8CTBEr73DfWu44Pp0Ahb8O0iF6w9AjE-ZEUU/w400-h300/20210901_130739.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The stuffed pepper that defines stuffed pepper.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Back in 2001, I wanted to record Gheorghe Ioannei and his family for a Cd to release to my friend's label in Germany, a mix of their local and Jewish repertoire. I backpacked into Ieud in the winter - transportation was bit more difficult back then, involving a freight train from Cluj to a lumber station on a mountain above a village and then hitchhiking and walking to get to Ieud, hauling a huge Marantz professional recorder and microphones stufffed into my backpack. My spine has never forgiven me. Ghorghe lived in a one room log house on the "gypsy" street along the river in Ieud, and he continued working as farm labor into his late 80s. He once told me about his time as a Hungarian Army POW in an American Prisoner camp in Germany after WWII. "It was wonderful... We ate so well! They gave us a sausage every day! Imagine that! <i>A sausage every day</i>!" The imagined title of the CD I had hoped to produce was, of course "A Sausage Every Day!"</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW7kVR2_ZcVjqMsr7nUu1C60zMH1z2o7utj7Q1sknxLwrm7-v7xlPy11swfNR7oVdW33jZkpwN07sD67LB8iaAj4NGTIgi9Rv1__Gyk-3TD66aiqJhH5t8mBUytUaasCdYpw6iOZEjexjFCP6zxmDy3z_-znoTbyGX1TcZJtvCpKryIPbR/s640/muzica_0023.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="640" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW7kVR2_ZcVjqMsr7nUu1C60zMH1z2o7utj7Q1sknxLwrm7-v7xlPy11swfNR7oVdW33jZkpwN07sD67LB8iaAj4NGTIgi9Rv1__Gyk-3TD66aiqJhH5t8mBUytUaasCdYpw6iOZEjexjFCP6zxmDy3z_-znoTbyGX1TcZJtvCpKryIPbR/w400-h268/muzica_0023.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gheorghe Ionnei Covaci and wife.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>I arrrived just in time to find Gheorghe's son and designated accordion player Ion, sick with an abscess that looked an eggplant growing out the side of his cheek. I paid for the transport and doctor bills and we sent Ion off to the hostpital in Sighet, followed in true Romani style by his entire family - the family band I had hoped to record. I was left alone with the old man. Hoping to salvage the recording, I still went ot visit him every day, but he insisted his wife accompany him on guitar. Mrs. Covaci <i>was not a great guitarist.</i>.. A lot of older Maramureș fiddlers heard on field recordings are accompanied on guitar by a single chord rythymically droning on behind them without any chord changes... this is a clue that the guitarist is, in fact, the wife of the fiddler. Instead of hiring a guitar player (usually a brother or neighbor) the fiddler saves money... and so... we never released a CD of one of the most amazing fiddlers ever to pick up a bow in Romania.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiopgdHKKlW1i9_tRqDckc2jMBBz70-ONhVhFA4uNgYOTCqrzP__QrQHp6-3xfynb-qlLdH8Hq-OzocBP6q0DzJ0f-X0SHZGkWOD_5VBatci4tzmmJR4zVNkfWT6rfnja9VYIgzQvDGjtSblsUAGrS3ZYjMBsGqQxkn6BJzkTMoLg0KVqoc/s540/0016.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="359" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiopgdHKKlW1i9_tRqDckc2jMBBz70-ONhVhFA4uNgYOTCqrzP__QrQHp6-3xfynb-qlLdH8Hq-OzocBP6q0DzJ0f-X0SHZGkWOD_5VBatci4tzmmJR4zVNkfWT6rfnja9VYIgzQvDGjtSblsUAGrS3ZYjMBsGqQxkn6BJzkTMoLg0KVqoc/w266-h400/0016.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nicolae Covaci from Dragomiresti, MM.</td></tr></tbody></table><div>Gheorghe Ionnei Covaci passed away at the age of 88 almost two decades ago, but since then I have been tracking down his brothers, all of whom are fiddlers, to record more of this older repertoire of Maramureș fiddle music., along with other older generation fiddlers, most of whom had never been recorded for commercial or even folkloric purposes before. Gheorghe's brother Nicolae and Viktor lived in the neighboring village of Dragomirești, and for the next few years I visited them regularly until Nicolare passed on some years ago... Nicolae was as poor as a proverbial churchmouse, but he lived next door to his daughter and her husband who worked as a miner. We always make sure to pay village fiddlers for sessions - they are professional musicians, after all - and we always bring a shopping bag for the fiddler's wife: coffee, chocolates, salami, cooking oil, juice, cigarettes, and violin strings. (Cash gifts you pay directly to the <i>primás </i>lead fiddler.) Seeing the treasures we gave the old couple, Nicolae's neighbor was convinced we were making millions of dollars from our recordings of the old man. There is nothing quite like a drunken Romanian miner screaming at you while you adjust your microphones to start a day of field recording.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dy_yTcKQqfS0FqL0cmOzt8Tb-mW9qxro5CKbxaTz2oj_8_CI_cdEzPUHdGrPoQRMtDenwl7RhPTiCY' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><div>Most people identify Maramureș with the fiddle, guitar and drum sound that was made popular on Electrecord records by the Frații Petruș (Petruș brothers) in the 1960s. The success of those recordings caused Romanian State Radio to declare that all music from Mramureș would thenceforth be broadcast or recorded only as a fiddle and guitar style. This ignored and pushed out an older style of music that was predomonant in the Iza valley, music played with fiddle, three stringed kontra viola, and bass, the classic Transylvanian string trio ensemble. This was the style of orchestra heard up into the 1970s, and was the preferred style for playing Jewish music. This is a recording made by Romanian ethnomusicologists Ghisela Sulițeanu and Anca Ghircescu around 1970 of the left handed fiddler from Borșa, Gheorghe Covaci known as Stingaci ("Lefty") playing a set of Jewish wedding dances. (Yes... everybody is named Gheorghe Covaci... you get used to it.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/-f6MUrBILeU" width="320" youtube-src-id="-f6MUrBILeU"></iframe></div><br /><div> This older style of Maramureș fiddle music has become increasingly rare as the older generation of fiddlers passes away and the slow, odd metered Transylvanian and Jewish repertoire was replaced by more popular local neo-folkloric music spread through popular recordings and video channels. At this point, there may be only one older fildder who remembers having played with Jewish musicians in Maramureș and maybe four who still keep up any of this repertoire. I once asked Ion Pop, the acknowledged curator of Maramures musical tradition, who was left playing the old style music if Maramureș. "You and me... maybe only you and me." that is not entirely true, but that's a blog post for another time.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLRfQS48_3vAd45D3-WdDgX9sV4glY6hZPyJ_CgNNc-bkaog3YWPdc3kbTbATKSEYmG-FDFNqVjCxFldqh7RdKOQJ2aFAP7zikAtPOwHDLEqK5hR33hKaGtSUb3OkeXac5QVBPs2RbieuAd2vFLXEbaE3dsZzB3isqhWu-k1mPSfwYlvoQ/s2035/2004-MM-ioan.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1368" data-original-width="2035" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLRfQS48_3vAd45D3-WdDgX9sV4glY6hZPyJ_CgNNc-bkaog3YWPdc3kbTbATKSEYmG-FDFNqVjCxFldqh7RdKOQJ2aFAP7zikAtPOwHDLEqK5hR33hKaGtSUb3OkeXac5QVBPs2RbieuAd2vFLXEbaE3dsZzB3isqhWu-k1mPSfwYlvoQ/w400-h269/2004-MM-ioan.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The late Gheorghe Ioannu Covaci from Saliște, known as "Paganini"</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div>dumneazuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03595663581295671582noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21879466.post-20566395014916082042022-08-21T04:55:00.203-04:002022-08-21T17:04:05.962-04:00Transylvania: Mera World Music Festival<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7r7erxgnMsuA_5AKwmU9PsWhNkRzrz6qk6T5z2F-i57NklMh4W_rXPFla1gjH1-nlCNRwP-ciH2KQSUy-4grGdzeoXWj2chGwCHwL81Y45dP7lCG5r7_1tXTBiVS08rWLYdYVW6Vicn7hadPMyJ_tGvlYODzwr96LlIdq_UIt_58qcRtE/s2048/300566491_467312201639635_8522229783488829847_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7r7erxgnMsuA_5AKwmU9PsWhNkRzrz6qk6T5z2F-i57NklMh4W_rXPFla1gjH1-nlCNRwP-ciH2KQSUy-4grGdzeoXWj2chGwCHwL81Y45dP7lCG5r7_1tXTBiVS08rWLYdYVW6Vicn7hadPMyJ_tGvlYODzwr96LlIdq_UIt_58qcRtE/w400-h300/300566491_467312201639635_8522229783488829847_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p>Mera is a village about 15 km west of Cluj (Kolozsvár in Hungarian) in the Kalotaszeg region of Transylvania. Mera - whose population is almost entirely Hungarian speaking - is famous in folk music circles due to the role it played in the revival of Transylvanian Hungarian folk music and dance in the 1970s Hungarian Dance House music movement <span style="font-family: inherit;">(t</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #5f6368; font-family: inherit;"><i>áncházmozgalom</i></span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #4d5156;"><b style="font-family: inherit;">) </b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Yo</span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #4d5156; font-family: inherit;">ung Hungarians from Budapest seeking to learn Transylvanian traditional fiddle style and dance gravitated to Mera, which famous for its Gypsy musicians, the Berki family, also known as the "Árus" family. "Old Árus" died in 1975 and his son, Ferenc, moved from playing bass in the family band to playing lead fiddle as "primás" He was also considered the best dancer in the region and during the early years of the dance house revival dancers flocked to him to pick up tips on his amazing rendition of the verbunk, the men's virtuoso dance of the Kalotaszeg.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/wHm9FV0bFxA" width="320" youtube-src-id="wHm9FV0bFxA"></iframe></div><span style="background-color: white; color: #4d5156; font-family: inherit;">In 1970 National Geographic published a photo book called "</span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Gypsies-Wanderers-National-Geographic-Publications/dp/0870440888" style="font-family: inherit;">Gypsies: Wanderers of the World"</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #4d5156; font-family: inherit;"> by </span><a href="https://brucedale.com/" style="font-family: inherit;">photographer Bruce Dale</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #4d5156; font-family: inherit;">. Dale accompanied British Romany Clifford Lee on a journey from England to India, producing some of the most striking photos of Roma people I have ever seen. I was around 14 years old when I stumbled across it in the school library and was entranced by one photo of a couple dancing to an older fiddler on a hillside in a village named "Mera." </span><p></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRjlZoC6RYO2Cud2ShXGinRP7nRthZY1_BH-UJqwTNgnHTa6_BMyihoyykUloE-aDF5Aw7LZNpR84H_HHJ9ltswM0e_tSi0apkWxKm4a46gn7tWQZnFdt-qzUcR9oUxJ-5k7Vy-S2XgVWUfp0hNC5_3gGdd8xkhyyHFDUDc3dPEqurJ0be/s2048/299562253_879602593429481_6043527612714182045_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRjlZoC6RYO2Cud2ShXGinRP7nRthZY1_BH-UJqwTNgnHTa6_BMyihoyykUloE-aDF5Aw7LZNpR84H_HHJ9ltswM0e_tSi0apkWxKm4a46gn7tWQZnFdt-qzUcR9oUxJ-5k7Vy-S2XgVWUfp0hNC5_3gGdd8xkhyyHFDUDc3dPEqurJ0be/w300-h400/299562253_879602593429481_6043527612714182045_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clifford Lee dancing with Rozineni and Feribacsi in Mera, 1969.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="background-color: white;"></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #4d5156; font-family: inherit;">That photo told me that someplace out there in the world (i.e., not in Teaneck, New Jersey) there were communities of people for whom traditional music and dance were a vital part of life, a life I needed to know more about. Around that time I first began to play the fiddle. In Budapest in1973 my Uncle Jozsi bought me a Czech violin for the equivalent of $14 and a </span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Hungarian-Instrumental-Music-Balint-Sarosi/dp/B00LDOWV6S" style="background-color: transparent; color: #4d5156; font-family: inherit;">boxed set of Hungarian folk music</a><span style="color: #4d5156;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> from field recordings. I spent the next fifteen years becoming a fiddler of sorts: I mostly played </span>Appalachian<span style="font-family: inherit;"> and old-time American fiddle, but driving me all the while was a passion for the thick, </span></span><span style="color: #4d5156;">ancient</span><span style="color: #4d5156;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> sounds of the Transylvanian fiddle music I had heard from that boxed set. In the pre-internet world Transylvanian music was not easy to come by in the USA. I found mine from LPs in Hungarian language bookstores and in the archives of the NY Public library research division. It was this music that drew me when I moved to Budapest in 1988, and it was in October of that year that I first got to travel to Mera, After Ceaucescu fell in 1989 the musicians from Mera were allowed to travel to Budapest, and I began a deep friendship with<a href="https://horinca.blogspot.com/2009/08/arus-feri-playing-my-violin.html"> Berki 'Árus' Ferenc - Árus Feri -</a> that lasted until his passing in 1996, which<a href="https://horinca.blogspot.com/2009/08/arus-feri-playing-my-violin.html"> I have written about here. </a></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #4d5156;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr45v53TiCLsvk1V7BQ4dyiGHOZtQPc5VyYpVwuSvyUQGIX3j8kfPfUZ_PyuA9On_rEJUf7Ol92evBeSyJiGjGzQEOuJ65cRUq5QF1OtuCU8-jUEwIaCKoNVTmbxD8HJnsHjaH0szHkTk3H_iANAd4_d5RVsOvRizmFg1QkKdRXhSgtP5y/s400/arusek%20spinder.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="282" data-original-width="400" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr45v53TiCLsvk1V7BQ4dyiGHOZtQPc5VyYpVwuSvyUQGIX3j8kfPfUZ_PyuA9On_rEJUf7Ol92evBeSyJiGjGzQEOuJ65cRUq5QF1OtuCU8-jUEwIaCKoNVTmbxD8HJnsHjaH0szHkTk3H_iANAd4_d5RVsOvRizmFg1QkKdRXhSgtP5y/w400-h283/arusek%20spinder.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Berki "Árus" brothers: Feri on violin, Béla on accordion. Mera 1994<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span><span style="color: #4d5156; font-family: inherit;">In Mera I basically apprenticed with Feri, who was 30 years my senior, but I never mastered the full </span><span style="color: #4d5156;">virtuosic</span><span style="color: #4d5156; font-family: inherit;"> Kalotaszeg style. When I began looking for specifically </span></span><span style="color: #4d5156;">Jewish</span><span style="color: #4d5156; font-family: inherit;"> music </span><span style="color: #4d5156;">repertoire</span><span><span style="color: #4d5156; font-family: inherit;">, Feri accompanied me to visit all the older fiddlers around Cluj who had played weddings with his father - "Old Árus" - before World War II. Mostly I hung with the family and learned to speak their local dialect of Romany. And it dawned on me for the first time: <i>Feri and his wife, Rozinéni were the couple dancing with Clifford Lee in that 1969 photograph taken by Bruce Dale</i>. </span></span><p></p><p><span></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXfkYSuMMNSs7sokRtndpFcfCcOOHPrATq8oR9CXvri4mryWiGN62P0xJJjhjb_coDvpBaXGLATMgTuKe5IahETkkzZe7tkYR5urtOZVoE7lUyFxjNZQ4gxwcJ-DBrlsfHZjmGRQfARpfxojoQnNGo1UVu939edZ3tSTCb2SHOBtr7XnUt/s867/20220804_224209.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="867" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXfkYSuMMNSs7sokRtndpFcfCcOOHPrATq8oR9CXvri4mryWiGN62P0xJJjhjb_coDvpBaXGLATMgTuKe5IahETkkzZe7tkYR5urtOZVoE7lUyFxjNZQ4gxwcJ-DBrlsfHZjmGRQfARpfxojoQnNGo1UVu939edZ3tSTCb2SHOBtr7XnUt/w400-h300/20220804_224209.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With Bruce Dale, Mera, 2022<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span><span style="color: #4d5156; font-family: inherit;">That made this summer's <a href="https://www.meraworldmusic.com/">Mera World Music Festival </a>even more interesting: Bruce Dale was invited to exhibit his photos in the village during the festival. (Dale has been revisiting communities that he had photographed in 1969 and connecting with some of the people he met fifty years ago.) I was there to play Jewish music with Craig Judelman's Klezmer Kapelye, the band I had played with in Germany in June. Its an interesting concept: Craig sings a lot of Hasidic material and rare Litvak Yiddish songs, but the band uses a classic old <i>lautar </i></span><span style="color: #4d5156;">rhythm</span><span style="color: #4d5156; font-family: inherit;"> section, with the cobza (me) standing in for the bass alongside cimbalom, played by Shaun Williams - the American ethnomusicologist widely known in Bucharest music circles as the <i>lautar </i>accordionist </span><i style="color: #4d5156; font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://mostmusic.eu/artists/corina-sirghi-si-taraful-jean-americanu/">Jean Americanu</a></i><span style="color: #4d5156; font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://mostmusic.eu/artists/corina-sirghi-si-taraful-jean-americanu/">.</a> </span></span><p></p><p><span></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxx9J9bmgawLbLWcbi_2ybTucLp2aN7H_TcbELVrBX6rd5QaVRKk1uXrA8EFdcvnJM7DUi0mnOEtpLDRjaKmBz6F0tGcZ8McmMbbwjlEbQijx-WtiH06Awfd28aP2qynCi1oMC_VkOiFZrQObDKIm6oLZyxYmwcrvwrW7N5m2OI5SkNK-2/s993/20220804-Mera-37.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="663" data-original-width="993" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxx9J9bmgawLbLWcbi_2ybTucLp2aN7H_TcbELVrBX6rd5QaVRKk1uXrA8EFdcvnJM7DUi0mnOEtpLDRjaKmBz6F0tGcZ8McmMbbwjlEbQijx-WtiH06Awfd28aP2qynCi1oMC_VkOiFZrQObDKIm6oLZyxYmwcrvwrW7N5m2OI5SkNK-2/w400-h268/20220804-Mera-37.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoe, me, and Shaun onstage with Judelman's Klezmer Kapelye</td></tr></tbody></table><p><span><span style="color: #4d5156; font-family: inherit;">Craig shared fiddle duties with <a href="https://www.zoeaqua.com/">Zoe Aqua</a>, who by now counts as a local Transylvanian musician. Zoe has been doing a Fullbright research fellowship in Cluj studying the ways in which Transylvanian music is passed onto younger generations, and she has been learning from some of the old and not so old masters like Ioan "Nuku" Harlet and Florin Kodoban. </span></span></p><p><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhezdv7z4lLHmMtFPX9Ep_EsCiKmRhibeVvNSpNB-q38jPSjo6dhrMl2Ap_kdCE2xqD6-6nVLql0xzyINefYOZUQz-c2F3yWj7BR8W_Smcs17q6oE7KEmV4s69n0Hjs-eSpLC5WV3fVIrSY-oc9EZk9VfZCN_Zo-MLdPbAmN_QQEl5gzckL/s1500/1+Zoe_CD_cover_bandcamp600dpi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhezdv7z4lLHmMtFPX9Ep_EsCiKmRhibeVvNSpNB-q38jPSjo6dhrMl2Ap_kdCE2xqD6-6nVLql0xzyINefYOZUQz-c2F3yWj7BR8W_Smcs17q6oE7KEmV4s69n0Hjs-eSpLC5WV3fVIrSY-oc9EZk9VfZCN_Zo-MLdPbAmN_QQEl5gzckL/s320/1+Zoe_CD_cover_bandcamp600dpi.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span><span style="color: #4d5156; font-family: inherit;">Zoe also just </span><a href="https://borschtbeat.bandcamp.com/album/in-vald-arayn" style="font-family: inherit;">released her own CD, "In Vald Arayn" </a><span style="color: #4d5156; font-family: inherit;">in which she mixes what she has learned about Transylvanian band playing styles with old style traditional Klezmer and comes out with something amazingly new. It officially came out just as we were driving around in Transylvania so we had it on the car stereo all the way to Mera. While we were in Mera I checked in with some of my old acquaintances from the Berki family. </span></span><p></p><p><span></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtvMNxbkNsOlnXjSalQtxx0o0zkyJgEitCZ7oV04AQUpTU4PXF9er0fJ-haGCUaGppkO-_fqQS_4H2TQpZOVlmxHcD4guNbtF7hpvjwgFdzfiWzdb63P4qd36pcNu7Ajpmf8xBGPASN5J-HoOCF1ShDHU3W_11f0RD7DyrzZ8CmRDxnQWx/s640/300149433_397099699201657_6146106389143612974_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="640" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtvMNxbkNsOlnXjSalQtxx0o0zkyJgEitCZ7oV04AQUpTU4PXF9er0fJ-haGCUaGppkO-_fqQS_4H2TQpZOVlmxHcD4guNbtF7hpvjwgFdzfiWzdb63P4qd36pcNu7Ajpmf8xBGPASN5J-HoOCF1ShDHU3W_11f0RD7DyrzZ8CmRDxnQWx/w400-h268/300149433_397099699201657_6146106389143612974_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Berki Jeno and Árpi, 1999 [Photo: Fumie Suzuki]</td></tr></tbody></table><p><span><span style="color: #4d5156; font-family: inherit;">Feribacsi's grandson Árpi was the apple of his eye: Árpi's mom had left to work in Hungary, basically </span><span style="color: #4d5156;">abandoning</span><span style="color: #4d5156;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> him as a child and he was raised by his Grandparents. Feri had hoped Árpi would take command of the Mera band, but between the stiff </span>competition<span style="font-family: inherit;"> among fiddlers and Árpi's need to work as a shepherd in the high pasture <i>stana</i> outside of the village, combined with a passion for women, partying and shitty tattoos... his musical talent was never quite tamed. </span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><span style="color: #4d5156;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/L6-FqZ1HMIs" width="320" youtube-src-id="L6-FqZ1HMIs"></iframe></span></span></span></div><span><span style="color: #4d5156;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #4d5156; font-family: inherit;">Back in the summer of 1999 I bought an old fiddle at the Cluj flea market and gave it to Árpi in hopes that he had the stuff to become a primas. Unfortunately, Árpád, known as Pipi - never rose to the level of leading the village band, and suffered from a series of misfortunes in his life, the most recent of which was a pit bull terrier attack this summer that chewed up his leg and his butt so bad he nearly died.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxHYKav5uPlPBep__MbgCyWGEPJY2-X4Y987wy0D0kaIq2QGm2K4vZVuaT4Rd4oqh__tly6I5AmyL43mNCHvRDFcBbMJuIw3k22L3_hGlR1e8KIQbHNQ61gWhOzL0e8Zhez19f2I-LdnAR6iOYF2sUUwiRAe8jN3VGu_fTLTCA0SZksEPP/s3000/299793540_2683068695163124_5357459009977144680_n%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2002" data-original-width="3000" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxHYKav5uPlPBep__MbgCyWGEPJY2-X4Y987wy0D0kaIq2QGm2K4vZVuaT4Rd4oqh__tly6I5AmyL43mNCHvRDFcBbMJuIw3k22L3_hGlR1e8KIQbHNQ61gWhOzL0e8Zhez19f2I-LdnAR6iOYF2sUUwiRAe8jN3VGu_fTLTCA0SZksEPP/w400-h268/299793540_2683068695163124_5357459009977144680_n%20(1).jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="color: #4d5156; font-family: inherit;"><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Every time I meet Pipi my heart breaks - I remind him of his Grandfather and he starts tearing up and turns to me for advice he never takes on how to get his life in order. One of the reasons I stopped visiting Mera after Feribácsi passed away was the simple fact that even as a quasi-adoptive family member, there were expectations that I could preform economic miracles. While Rozinéni was alive we tried to take good care of her - taking her to doctor visits in Cluj, trying to get her eyes fixed, helping out with the bills. </span></p></span><p></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHgUQfH9JbgMTooi7DgJ1jq32jthc1MrjZLasNE8gGnV7m2e7QaBTUpcZBkPjZ0bjnY9ksnQMBGQXYEOjpNV_Eebpgpc0sWqS7XMm1j6S3qyBS333ptaSotv2HdmdoGwwfzu5ZdgabRsPn25pWvK3lZczF6Uo7jI-pakX8E6bbaR_93YOh/s640/300299306_453704259990805_6337301178420580574_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="427" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHgUQfH9JbgMTooi7DgJ1jq32jthc1MrjZLasNE8gGnV7m2e7QaBTUpcZBkPjZ0bjnY9ksnQMBGQXYEOjpNV_Eebpgpc0sWqS7XMm1j6S3qyBS333ptaSotv2HdmdoGwwfzu5ZdgabRsPn25pWvK3lZczF6Uo7jI-pakX8E6bbaR_93YOh/w268-h400/300299306_453704259990805_6337301178420580574_n.jpg" width="268" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rozinéni singing in 1999. (Foto: Fumie Suzuki)</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p><span style="color: #4d5156; font-family: inherit;">But after she passed I didn't return to Mera for nearly 20 years. Until the <a href="https://www.meraworldmusic.com/">Mera World Music festival</a> called. It is an impressive event. Held in a former barn turned into a stage, it features not only local traditional music but also a wide spectrum of names on the world music circuit - I had to miss a few on the final day of the festival, including Craig's Old Time American band <a href="https://www.interstateexpressband.com/about">Interstate Express </a>and the Ghanaian <a href="https://www.facebook.com/theAlostmen">Alostmen</a>, featuring the half Romanian half Ghanaian <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wanlov_the_Kubolor">Wanlov the Kubelor</a>. And I missed the set by Erdofu, by far my favorite Hungarian traditional band right now. And my legs are no longer quite enough to get me up the mountain to the cemetery where <a href="https://www.facebook.com/erdofucommunity">Erdőfú</a> plays a memorial set to honor the memory of the great Árus musicians at their burial site. A wooden "kopjafa" memorial marker (top photo) was erected this year, but three years ago I did get the chance to haul up to the cemetery to pay my respects to Árus Feri and Rozinéni while at the festival. </span><span style="color: #4d5156;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/erdofucommunity">Erdőfú</a></span><span style="color: #4d5156;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/erdofucommunity"> </a>and the local musicians of Mera: Berki Béla on accordion, his son </span><span style="color: #4d5156;">Béla</span><span style="color: #4d5156;"> on kontra, </span><span style="color: #4d5156;">"Kis Netti Sányi" on violin) did the honors.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/eFuVd83ct6E" width="320" youtube-src-id="eFuVd83ct6E"></iframe></div><br /><span style="color: #4d5156;"><br /></span><p></p><p></p>dumneazuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03595663581295671582noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21879466.post-83415875732818272112022-07-24T08:19:00.007-04:002022-07-24T13:41:34.197-04:00Hurka: The Tastiest Turd in Hungary<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCMNDeXXAjP66hQNMP82VbDUZK5nx0Khm1-0c5gRxYXE3Oxbpzrld2i-oh2TfVkAxTIu7VofbNAG76VR4y8NLDGZvftYv8yVjfF3_bNrdtLcAY9_rjb3AfHe2U3GgTBpPAK26LHZn4HhEBuEm7z43t8yYY-Xqz-Q8AP--QEzBpY6uyitkD/s867/IMG_20170508_123902.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="867" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCMNDeXXAjP66hQNMP82VbDUZK5nx0Khm1-0c5gRxYXE3Oxbpzrld2i-oh2TfVkAxTIu7VofbNAG76VR4y8NLDGZvftYv8yVjfF3_bNrdtLcAY9_rjb3AfHe2U3GgTBpPAK26LHZn4HhEBuEm7z43t8yYY-Xqz-Q8AP--QEzBpY6uyitkD/w400-h300/IMG_20170508_123902.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blood and guts and oh so good!</td></tr></tbody></table><p>East Europe doesn't offer a lot in the way of <i>extrémé </i>foods. We don't eat bugs, we don't find grubs and worms very tasty, and we do not to eat anything alive. This makes us a bit boring for the TV food travel shows - like Tony Bourdain's<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hzO_-wgHo00"> No Reservations </a>- which tend to dwell on the portion sizes (case in point: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qOyubJ6M4s8">the Pleh Csarda)</a> and the exciting blood and gore of a countryside pig killing feast. But there is one food most visitors to Hungary and its neighbors will probably miss out on: <i>hurka</i>. <i>Hurka </i>is the dark underside of Hungarian sausage. <i>Hurka </i>is the lunch which dare not speak its name. <i>Hurka </i>haunts the nightmares of small children and vegans. <i>Hurka</i> is neither a polite nor a dainty food. <i>Hurka </i>is a culinary afterthought stuffed into a pig's ass. Unless you are invited to a pig killing feast, you are not likely to taste <i>hurka </i>outside of a butcher shop lunch counter. No restaurant offers it - <i>none </i>- and most home cooks avoid it due to its tendency to explode while cooking, splattering grease and guts around the kitchen and reacting exactly like a garden slug that has just been sprinkled in salt. <i>Hurka </i>is<i> a problem food. </i>Also, it tastes really good. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAfiKgnESc_DfvVfBaffFhY6JkM7RhI4PisVBzFdHuwxPT1QNJE8o4pZbSLqpdGBt1pghT-Ubwa4EeXa7rGVg0zH63WGTZ5CLBWxCfSlEET9tHsRxP5AjbpdmRKXZrT8XAIDYKuVKi9H5P6PsIvGVeSdU8vZF2YmtoMZByyfWzZrF26wPC/s964/20220509_114756.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><i><img border="0" data-original-height="723" data-original-width="964" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAfiKgnESc_DfvVfBaffFhY6JkM7RhI4PisVBzFdHuwxPT1QNJE8o4pZbSLqpdGBt1pghT-Ubwa4EeXa7rGVg0zH63WGTZ5CLBWxCfSlEET9tHsRxP5AjbpdmRKXZrT8XAIDYKuVKi9H5P6PsIvGVeSdU8vZF2YmtoMZByyfWzZrF26wPC/w400-h300/20220509_114756.jpg" width="400" /></i></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Blood sausage and liver sausage, in action.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p><i>Hurka</i> is a kind of sausage made out of spiced ground pork liver or blood mixed with rice as a filler. <i>Hurka </i>is not really <i>that </i>strange except for one thing: it<i> really looks like pooh.</i> This is a point not lost on Hungarians, for whom the term <i>hurka </i>is a polite alternative term for "turd". <i>Hurka</i> was the first food I discovered that could also be used as a psychological weapon against my sister. When I was growing up in New York my Mom used to take us down to the -now vanished - Hungarian neighborhood in Yorkville, on Manhattan's upper east side, to stock up on essentials like poppy seeds and paprika at the famous Paprikas Weiss Hungarian delicatessen on 2nd Avenue. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSIKCMu5XMvUHdHBXvi0hxJ7ruS8x1eoXcW_wSqQeFUnOpwv4IAxXBjVoVdQgNEBvlZ-7eAxVgNUCvz1U_UvWTyiv7mWq9aRZ90eu9GfSpwaJ7F0rQXXs5e9WyXQ0fCi0SuuW9dH-PW3f2LUCSnqLv2dFA9n9ZmUZ-H39qWqGrV0SDe8Pd/s1058/hungariansecondaveeastside79thstlookingsouthnypl.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="688" data-original-width="1058" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSIKCMu5XMvUHdHBXvi0hxJ7ruS8x1eoXcW_wSqQeFUnOpwv4IAxXBjVoVdQgNEBvlZ-7eAxVgNUCvz1U_UvWTyiv7mWq9aRZ90eu9GfSpwaJ7F0rQXXs5e9WyXQ0fCi0SuuW9dH-PW3f2LUCSnqLv2dFA9n9ZmUZ-H39qWqGrV0SDe8Pd/w400-h260/hungariansecondaveeastside79thstlookingsouthnypl.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p>The next stop stop was at the aptly named "Valodi Magyar Hentes" butcher shop to pick up some <i>kolbász </i>and <i>hurka </i>and the wonderous thing sold there which was actual Magyar bread. The bread was unlike anything available in the USA in the 20th century... which is to say it was <i>real bread</i>. At home my Mom would cook up a family favorite - <i>lecsós kolbász</i> - and a couple of <i>hurkas</i> on the side. Nobody except me and my Mom would eat the <i>hurka</i>. It elicited groans and cries of "<i>ewwwww gross!</i>" from my brother and sister, who couldn't bring themselves to taste the turdlike mix of organs and blood. The mere idea of eating a tube of congealed blood and ground pig weenie was enough to send my sister running from the table. (Update: she has since become a respected and world renowned Oncologist.) You know the saying "don't ask how the sausage is made"? The stuff they don't use to make the sausage is what goes into the <i>hurka</i>. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZrvMoNXzGRQP2BASMbjUqlWo5xiB5kO9lkBfMotPFwINYOqqC5IdmuCDyRBEA7R3ZkQ-s4e8gnJsP7DCzUVUPO_kD5tJI7KkzipCbv2VQH3MYtZdX_dsEcONeaPc7WDa523sAHqOotizVxx0iRF9W_tQVF2IYAePrDTQiacm5IA_aUumx/s867/20211029_131618.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="867" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZrvMoNXzGRQP2BASMbjUqlWo5xiB5kO9lkBfMotPFwINYOqqC5IdmuCDyRBEA7R3ZkQ-s4e8gnJsP7DCzUVUPO_kD5tJI7KkzipCbv2VQH3MYtZdX_dsEcONeaPc7WDa523sAHqOotizVxx0iRF9W_tQVF2IYAePrDTQiacm5IA_aUumx/w400-h300/20211029_131618.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Hurka</i>, fried liver, ribs at Brunch at <a href="https://www.facebook.com/Ica-Mama-H%C3%BAsboltja-1560354577543316/">Ica Mama Meatshop</a></td></tr></tbody></table><p>You may ask yourself "Why were these otherwise traditional Yiddish speaking New York Jews happily eating pig privates ground with pig blood in casing made of pig intestines?" Simple: my mom was born in Hungary, and we are not orthodox Jewish, kosher, or otherwise bound for glory on<i> tkies hameysin</i> when the souls fly up to find their reward in heaven. When I was nine my Dad took me to City Island in the Bronx to introduce me to eating live clams on the half shell, which is about as unkosher as anything you can put in your mouth except maybe for rabbit. It was a rite of manhood, but also a guarantee that I would not adopt the ritualized eating disorders of my more observant mates... I mean,<i> dude, you ate a living clam, for pete's sake!</i> As for my Mom... Hungarian Jews split into orthodox and Neolog (reform) a long time before that was an issue with the rest of East European Jews, and part of the social assimilation of Hungarian Jews was the acceptance that virtually everything ever eaten in Hungary is made out of a pig.<i> Pushing boundaries is just what we do</i>. The origin of the Neolog movement in Hungary started in 1798 when <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aaron_Chorin">Rabbi Aaron Chorin</a> chose to make a foodie argument about whether or not sturgeon was a kosher fish. Today many Orthodox Jews won't eat sturgeon, yet it features in the less rigid Jewish tradition of the <a href="https://ny.eater.com/maps/best-jewish-appetizing-shop-deli-nyc">New York smoked fish "appetizing" shops </a>like Barney Greengrass and Russ and Daughters. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijTR1ekRBYV0AgxByyxGr1thJEZG4hfbUdh45IPHxiwD3N2lf1DXR1BV3XudGbfEx56L45nghmFM-jMfAOJeeYjMJX8su4uVTXAQF45HPMJn1PIDq54mpx5-XfGPkarfN-RPJSBUVaY7_ePcYRDSEyCPlvRFDeGzUpGJO5q6mbK_ajp3l_/s867/IMG_20160629_190418.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="867" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijTR1ekRBYV0AgxByyxGr1thJEZG4hfbUdh45IPHxiwD3N2lf1DXR1BV3XudGbfEx56L45nghmFM-jMfAOJeeYjMJX8su4uVTXAQF45HPMJn1PIDq54mpx5-XfGPkarfN-RPJSBUVaY7_ePcYRDSEyCPlvRFDeGzUpGJO5q6mbK_ajp3l_/w400-h300/IMG_20160629_190418.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Poland: <i>Kiszka </i>or <i>kaszanka </i>at a restaurant in Krakow</td></tr></tbody></table><p>You can go into virtually any Budapest <i>hentesbolt</i> - a butcher shop serving hot foods - and there will almost always be a steaming tray of grey liver <i>majás hurka </i>or black <i>veres </i>blood <i>hurka</i>. Most are made from ground mystery meats mixed with rice, but you may see some labeled "<i>Svab hurka</i>". For some reason, the German speaking <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Danube_Swabians">Schwabians of Hungary </a>- most of whom were deported to Stuttgart after WWII - preferred to mix their mystery meat with bread crumbs. Those crafty <i>Svabs</i>... what will they do next? Either way, most commercially made <i>hurka</i> is insipid, oversalted, and usually dried out by the time it gets served. <i>Never </i>buy hurka from a supermarket meat refrigerator. Most of the hurka available today is made in factories, and is a rather banal and usually too dry and salty ghost of what a good <i>guts'n'organs'n'blood</i> sausage should be. Worst of all they are often kept warm under infared lamps which dries them out into a sandy, dry, unpalatable bit of pooh in stick form. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyne97XexS-4lKgY77HTI0DgVkcS3zRiK329wnmx3QZQl10PaO0curkzp8E7jdh427AEVLZLAo92YEfwAwSnM9cpmz12Dyuyr4tXKOCx1msr37aCDFxgXgInmduPtR32vDlh1TgURG-AfFVY_jPKpcJVsHIZFzF5B6u8YFVreimBXcnziy/s4896/020.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyne97XexS-4lKgY77HTI0DgVkcS3zRiK329wnmx3QZQl10PaO0curkzp8E7jdh427AEVLZLAo92YEfwAwSnM9cpmz12Dyuyr4tXKOCx1msr37aCDFxgXgInmduPtR32vDlh1TgURG-AfFVY_jPKpcJVsHIZFzF5B6u8YFVreimBXcnziy/w400-h300/020.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The butcher at Klauzal Piac.<i> Hurka </i>on the lower left...</td></tr></tbody></table><p>The search for a good, locally made artisanal <i>hurka </i>is never ending. The best was once found at the lunch stand run by an old guy named Palibacsi who made his own organic meats on a farm north of Budapest and for a couple of years his lunch counter at the Klauzal market was easily the best place to experience Hungarian food in Budapest besides the also now defunct <a href="https://horinca.blogspot.com/2020/06/the-end-of-kadar-etkezde.html">Kadar Etkezde, </a>located four doors down from the market. Today, seek out private butcher shops and look for misshapen, odd looking, and juicy <i>hurkas </i>that defy commercial sizing and try your luck. <i>Hurka </i>and other meat products sold by peasant stands at big markets or smaller farmers markets like the one at the Sunday <a href="https://www.facebook.com/szimplahaztajipiac">Szimpla Piac</a> or the<a href="https://www.facebook.com/czakotermeloipiacz/"> Czako kert</a> are a good bet. The lady who brings homemade bacon and smoked meats to the Klauzal market on weekends has good hurka, but it sells out fast. At home you can bake them in an oven (in a tray with a bit of water) or fry them at low heat in a pan, but either way they tend to explode while cooking. If you have the time, try soaking them in water for an hour or two before cooking: it helps the skin resist exploding.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTK7ovpYq6TsaNfufgaVMSGoMWXsRW9PVVcWx76GLwyPvi2MYtF1JGsJdxrjWCH8oOP00N2N-edvoZN55ERI_dcrzXeYVswxUjI3KXp8pW54xNoHkiaN6uRdZfWMcEHzeIYiBQYPM-CToZCJMmRJsBzneTstD9431LifnFMZIt8Qm7Mumo/s4896/037.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTK7ovpYq6TsaNfufgaVMSGoMWXsRW9PVVcWx76GLwyPvi2MYtF1JGsJdxrjWCH8oOP00N2N-edvoZN55ERI_dcrzXeYVswxUjI3KXp8pW54xNoHkiaN6uRdZfWMcEHzeIYiBQYPM-CToZCJMmRJsBzneTstD9431LifnFMZIt8Qm7Mumo/w400-h300/037.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>dumneazuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03595663581295671582noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21879466.post-92063254536334505082022-07-10T10:09:00.009-04:002022-07-12T04:27:06.075-04:00Germany: It Gets Würst...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIVAokqoIaOMkyIeQ2TkqccGtDJvwu1dRt-zhd3t8JEjHaD7_8zImpcV9f4SoXMo0c42L2znfUB9feYycuQwMtD3QftEP807zpbT6CSINV_kfaPHIK9eZd6wKtIr_18A7niI6iSQvW0cHoh4-9Dq9gr6bkipVqMP-t3N1bDp0PYNfpQwFU/s750/292284128_1193071204815721_7018818691397435924_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="750" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIVAokqoIaOMkyIeQ2TkqccGtDJvwu1dRt-zhd3t8JEjHaD7_8zImpcV9f4SoXMo0c42L2znfUB9feYycuQwMtD3QftEP807zpbT6CSINV_kfaPHIK9eZd6wKtIr_18A7niI6iSQvW0cHoh4-9Dq9gr6bkipVqMP-t3N1bDp0PYNfpQwFU/w400-h400/292284128_1193071204815721_7018818691397435924_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>June found us traveling around the Berlin vortex of the European Klezmer music world, a world in which Jewish traditional music comes in contact with two of my favorite things: Turkish food and Würst. Berlin has two iconic street foods: the Berlin doner kebab and the curry wurst. I managed to not eat either of them. I have eaten curry wurst, many curry wursts... and I don't like curry wurst, which is basically a wurst with ketchup and curry powder or some <i>hausgemakht </i>version of the same. I like my bratwursts clean, hot, and straight off the grill. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0cIFSBcGo2P7NHZ1fuASW1JsdQ_IWFx-_xQNtzHO0J3nvb_c7iQD7p9n5QffQSXJKsuZozpOQbvqSJOpBE_TsO1tYQnryRrucQv6SNCG60mgazCo6YHha-U5HT3urKDCRiPfjaAKThnCwU5jnvFSd26dFhSwN39NAaIrngfHc1Bu6zH5V/s750/291887830_563544468596190_6835979553169308039_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="750" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0cIFSBcGo2P7NHZ1fuASW1JsdQ_IWFx-_xQNtzHO0J3nvb_c7iQD7p9n5QffQSXJKsuZozpOQbvqSJOpBE_TsO1tYQnryRrucQv6SNCG60mgazCo6YHha-U5HT3urKDCRiPfjaAKThnCwU5jnvFSd26dFhSwN39NAaIrngfHc1Bu6zH5V/w400-h400/291887830_563544468596190_6835979553169308039_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Bratwurst, Leipzig, Mozart ate these.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>I especially do not enjoy the post WWII east German invention of the <i>"ohne darm"</i> skinless bratwurst such as those served by the famous <a href="https://www.konnopke-imbiss.de/en">Konnopke's Imbiss</a> in Prenslauerberg. One stop up the Ubahn at Schönhauser Allee is the nostalgic East German Alain Snack kiosk, which provided the classic bratwurst and mustard seen above. It was so good I tried to get a bockwurst (more like a fat Katz's Deli frankfurter that went to heaven) in a bun with mustard but the chef objected to the mere thought: the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ketwurst">Ketwurst</a> was designed by the East German State Gastronomical Research Center to provide the communist workers of Berlin with a convenient snack. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWR9IjQ_Gf7k9RoxSBFbPYGxWM8i_cyZcHKkqnbK2sXRUi5-W6kEnPnDXF8S6dGPckh6w0WGMKsJED0PwdJJ1Z6jzBO-3Zjry72Ox-vBrxDEtRp8FTTyKWCAmhTe4sEUwUknd5vu1bnpigRJVlMeeADC9LB7HrsYd0-OzkwZT_Eh-4sDIT/s750/292359463_738606937474169_1197463413636347480_n%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="750" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWR9IjQ_Gf7k9RoxSBFbPYGxWM8i_cyZcHKkqnbK2sXRUi5-W6kEnPnDXF8S6dGPckh6w0WGMKsJED0PwdJJ1Z6jzBO-3Zjry72Ox-vBrxDEtRp8FTTyKWCAmhTe4sEUwUknd5vu1bnpigRJVlMeeADC9LB7HrsYd0-OzkwZT_Eh-4sDIT/w400-h400/292359463_738606937474169_1197463413636347480_n%20(1).jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The stupidest food I have ever posted.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>A Ketwurst is basically a hot dog (in this case a pretty darn good bockwurst) stuck in a bun heated on a toaster spike which has been filled with "special sauce" (i.e., ketchup.) It is an unmistakably East Berlin nostalgia flavor <i>and </i>it is an incredibly stupid food in a country known for incredibly stupid food. East Germans didn't simply melt into a post 1990 German" identity: a lot of them cling fiercely to the small things that once defined them as Ossies... like Ketwurst! </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnJgu62RDL9UZHrEm9t3LcWXKyoGjuuqzx82zXGMGEP0KRnJ42S7v48S-LqvmG7Dowke7W-vJOW9Gk5vDP2WHqGYAl7rroZy4XLKEsvb2e2-KsnaDcYgHD6_hmeuvu2kHlf5vXVqJ6hoo5O5eNpIIBMh7Hy9Xvy8t41WSEBb-_42Ifj-4-/s4160/IMG_20220621_114815634.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnJgu62RDL9UZHrEm9t3LcWXKyoGjuuqzx82zXGMGEP0KRnJ42S7v48S-LqvmG7Dowke7W-vJOW9Gk5vDP2WHqGYAl7rroZy4XLKEsvb2e2-KsnaDcYgHD6_hmeuvu2kHlf5vXVqJ6hoo5O5eNpIIBMh7Hy9Xvy8t41WSEBb-_42Ifj-4-/w400-h300/IMG_20220621_114815634.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Bockwurst is the one item I always bring home with me after visiting Berlin. For some odd reason, Hungarians - who love German sausages - do not produce anything nearly as good. Only the Czech and Slovak supermarket <i>parky </i>rivals the Hungarian virsli for lowest place on the frankfurter quality index (as defined by snap of skin, texture of mystery meat filling, and rate at which it dries out into a wrinkled turd in your fridge.) So all available space in my home bound luggage is filled with bockwurst. Did I mention that Berlin is probably also the most vegan -friendly city in Europe? Yes, it indeed is. <i>As if I could give a shit.</i></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbsTWizK0N4Nseehi1UmuUC8kNI9ytzBMRWmGZD4aI2j0YHH5V2ENfsw_kRTLHr4ovdB_s89Mul-0gR6mvEF1veBLVL64Q7_PYrPzGpBv69Ul5MKBs-GIweWVOWI_3QJnImiEptsbDqOswkuQiMytYZF_-boMQHJfqXWilBaXKbu9vmIeI/s867/20220622_112956.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="867" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbsTWizK0N4Nseehi1UmuUC8kNI9ytzBMRWmGZD4aI2j0YHH5V2ENfsw_kRTLHr4ovdB_s89Mul-0gR6mvEF1veBLVL64Q7_PYrPzGpBv69Ul5MKBs-GIweWVOWI_3QJnImiEptsbDqOswkuQiMytYZF_-boMQHJfqXWilBaXKbu9vmIeI/w400-h300/20220622_112956.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>The other thing I bring home is mustard. The mustard available in Hungary does almost nothing beyond stain your white T-shirt yellow. Somehow people in Eastern Europe fucked up mustard. I don't know how, they just did. So I bring it back from my trips to Germany, in particular the Dusseldorf brand Lowensenf, which beats any French Dijon mustard for making sauces or just dipping hot dogs into. We picked up a bit of the Bautz'ner brand, which we tried in Leipzig, and while in Erfurt we picked up some of their local "Born" brand, which is good but definately a classic "Ostbloc" mustard. Erfurt has a beautiful old town that seems to go a bit overboard about their mustard industry. There is a Mustard Museum downtown, and I was even given a gift bottle of "Born Mustard Brandy". It was truly vile, but it is the thought that counts. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq7z87PNVhuXdDdhE8DUROUIWgMK-sJWjqgxWPNXN-j52nGnYnGKbUz4ZXyNQjGZl2Ub033i0QODjYbMlnrloDvzj_yAp7ZKJ9rbCPFN_iZkli1mlR616A1_d7qwXpIzQuBywVKYZo1mSh-uoXCJxbpuwZlIeUjCyy71J__uije9fJO8gY/s867/IMG_20220621_133129244_HDR.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="867" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq7z87PNVhuXdDdhE8DUROUIWgMK-sJWjqgxWPNXN-j52nGnYnGKbUz4ZXyNQjGZl2Ub033i0QODjYbMlnrloDvzj_yAp7ZKJ9rbCPFN_iZkli1mlR616A1_d7qwXpIzQuBywVKYZo1mSh-uoXCJxbpuwZlIeUjCyy71J__uije9fJO8gY/w400-h300/IMG_20220621_133129244_HDR.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Berlin is easily the city where a visitor can spend less and eat better than almost any other European capitol. There are other things to eat in Berlin besides Turkish food and sausage, but trust me: <i>they suck</i>. I don't use the term "suck" to simply indicate lesser quality... I mean "<i>Whoa! That sucks!</i>" Most of the nicer places specialize in what we ex-kitchen staff know as "pretentious tweezer food". Another problem is that <i>Germans can not eat spicy food.</i> That is not a stereotype." If a German unexpectedly encounters a blast of hot pepper they can - and sometimes do - sue the restaurant. So the smart chef dumbs everything down: watery stocks pass as <i>pho</i>, bland plates of noodles with peanuts sprinkled on top are labeled "pad thai" alongside menu categories identified as "Asia Wok" and of course, "China Box". There are hundreds of these "pan-asian" monstrosities all over Germany. The late <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ed_Ward_(writer)">Ed Ward</a> - one of the best American expat writers ever to set foot in Europe took umbrage at the easy racism that powers this perception that all "Asian" food is the same <i style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://berlinbites.blogspot.com/2005/10/chinky-co.html">It's undeniable, though, that this sort of racism -- Orientalism, to give it its proper name -- is acceptable here</a>. There's a snack food that comes in "Thailandische süss-scharf" (sweet-hot) flavor, and features a "Thai" on the package wearing a coolie hat, slanty eyes, a pigtail, and those kind of Japanese wooden shoes with the two platforms, the kind that geishas wear. It's an offensive stereotype, but it isn't even a remotely accurate offensive stererotype.</i></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzcztJn7sK_turXU7zC9zH3SPppMRSmTsIr9cvKhl4Hrx46qt7nUSL8GhtlnE6QDv4RESPU-z0nMvLsfLgBkZpI94ot8QDYsd4JbxHyzHywjP7ENBjYeKk7SbF6g4uwsGDSFqEWxIEwxe2NqHBpE8w-dG1JVEZ0HW2hLn-C3UxbFmA5Ugt/s867/IMG_20220617_130045730_HDR.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="867" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzcztJn7sK_turXU7zC9zH3SPppMRSmTsIr9cvKhl4Hrx46qt7nUSL8GhtlnE6QDv4RESPU-z0nMvLsfLgBkZpI94ot8QDYsd4JbxHyzHywjP7ENBjYeKk7SbF6g4uwsGDSFqEWxIEwxe2NqHBpE8w-dG1JVEZ0HW2hLn-C3UxbFmA5Ugt/w400-h300/IMG_20220617_130045730_HDR.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Köfte</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="background-color: white;"></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #333333;">On the other hand, Berlin has glorious Turkish food. Most of the Turks living in Germany today have Anatolian roots, and also something very few people in Anatolia have: a decent income. And it shows in the restaurants in neighborhoods like Wedding. Wedding has the lowest income level and the highest percentage of foreign born residents in all of Berlin. That may sound like something out of a Viktor Orban fever dream, but it is one of the more pleasant parts of Berlin, especially if you have an appetite. We randomly chose <a href="https://www.koeylueoglurestaurant.de/contact" style="color: #333333;">Köyluoglu Turkish </a>Restaurant in Wedding and it was one of the best restaurant meals we've had in years. I was converted to köfte (roughly: </span><i style="color: #333333;">meatwads</i><span style="color: #333333;">) years ago in Istanbul: Fumie always goes for Adana kebab. Either way, nobody understands ground meat better than a Turkish kitchen. I have spent decades trying to make a decent Turkish style </span><span style="color: #333333;">köfte</span><span style="color: #333333;"> in my home, and only recently had any success in producing something that does not resemble a small dried hamburger. Good </span><span style="color: #333333;">köfte</span><span style="color: #333333;"> proves the rule that s</span><span style="color: #333333;">implicity can be deceiving. </span><span style="color: #333333;">K</span><span style="color: #333333; text-align: center;">öfte </span><span style="color: #333333; text-align: center;">is rapidly replacing doner as the King of Turkish street meat on Berlin's streets. </span></p><p></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifE4em2jB5_gbLA6loH-Btr_JuoWrXxjdaoL3H_g1cCnhF8QIAdM3Can1lz72XGpffQ6Elbx1dRW9BAbWpw6dLYseFRHMHI_KJCszR99aMtmCcXMylDt5dSpRghnoGmqlkgtQLVAvvwLV37ZU05_yszKcnJIiS3CHUXT5i9--vsmYR-TYB/s867/IMG_20220615_190739883.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="867" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifE4em2jB5_gbLA6loH-Btr_JuoWrXxjdaoL3H_g1cCnhF8QIAdM3Can1lz72XGpffQ6Elbx1dRW9BAbWpw6dLYseFRHMHI_KJCszR99aMtmCcXMylDt5dSpRghnoGmqlkgtQLVAvvwLV37ZU05_yszKcnJIiS3CHUXT5i9--vsmYR-TYB/w400-h300/IMG_20220615_190739883.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; text-align: left;">K</span><span style="color: #333333;">öfte sandwich at Gel G</span><a href="https://www.koeylueoglurestaurant.de/contact" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; text-align: left;">ö</a>r </td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">Later, after rehearsing in Neuk</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; text-align: center;">ö</span><span style="background-color: white;">lln, I had late lunch at<a href="https://www.instagram.com/gelgor_kofteci/?hl=en"> Gel G</a></span><a href="https://www.koeylueoglurestaurant.de/contact" style="background-color: white; color: #333333;">ö</a><span style="background-color: white;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/gelgor_kofteci/?hl=en">r, </a>a grill famous for its inegol k</span><span style="color: #333333; text-align: center;">ö</span><span style="background-color: white;">fte and</span><span style="background-color: white;"> that stays open all night long and is famous for impromptu street dancing at 4 AM on weekends. This rates as the best sandwich of the year so far, considering that I have not been able to visit Katz' Deli this year. And just down Kottbusser Damm on the next corner was <a href="https://www.lafemme-breakfast.de/">La Femme</a>, specializing in Turkish breakfast. There is a saying in Turkish (I am not making this up) that "lunch is for your friends, dinner is for your family, but breakfast is just for you." Omelets, cheese and olive plates, perfect for wasting a morning outside with your friends. I even ordered a breakfast to go on a travel day, only to offer it in sacrifice it to our unfed cimbalom player who was driving us to our next gig. </span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy1lCDJ2bd3EL8KlGxXoJ7isbc0JqNcrxZqnZoSf8v2GDs0tUy2yikJZmkVEcXxELK90DKeStUo8kNKhrVryp2nW-HmNoeg-G3sUnBoZmRg6ZUejQY0AYDiMDRj-jQN7nsSP92sF3dKa9WHAmUTGqxkIcAf7fIMrfmZDWNaAGvW7WNfotg/s867/IMG_20220615_114022870_HDR.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="867" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy1lCDJ2bd3EL8KlGxXoJ7isbc0JqNcrxZqnZoSf8v2GDs0tUy2yikJZmkVEcXxELK90DKeStUo8kNKhrVryp2nW-HmNoeg-G3sUnBoZmRg6ZUejQY0AYDiMDRj-jQN7nsSP92sF3dKa9WHAmUTGqxkIcAf7fIMrfmZDWNaAGvW7WNfotg/w400-h300/IMG_20220615_114022870_HDR.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Su burek: think non-tomato lasagna for breakfast. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="background-color: white;">On the upside, the music - with Craig Judelman's Klezmer Kompanye - was great. With Craig and Zoe Aqua on fiddle, Shaun Williams on accordion and cimbalom, and Dasha Fomina on flute. We played the Panda Platform in P-berg, Berlin, and it was like a homecoming for all kinds of Yiddish friends and klezmerei... Michael Wex, Shane Baker, Tamas Wormser were all in the house. The road always leads home.</span><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi03Yr7GMLOD_YmdFZ82UyDz7G6U1RcaCo5g1GK9LZ8C35z8jpI8VkvtdNYocdTGpdKd2cUvkaWs7p_8I9LQweme25g4ELBsJVTVqPrXdsrDZzMXHkE0EWscZgFjBfhBA4Fx86OTtIJ5HRf4lLsbkH_JV6eXtEcvnpO6PQJFCRV6OQp5qw/s993/20220617-Berlin-24.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="663" data-original-width="993" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi03Yr7GMLOD_YmdFZ82UyDz7G6U1RcaCo5g1GK9LZ8C35z8jpI8VkvtdNYocdTGpdKd2cUvkaWs7p_8I9LQweme25g4ELBsJVTVqPrXdsrDZzMXHkE0EWscZgFjBfhBA4Fx86OTtIJ5HRf4lLsbkH_JV6eXtEcvnpO6PQJFCRV6OQp5qw/w400-h268/20220617-Berlin-24.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><p></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p></p></div>dumneazuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03595663581295671582noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21879466.post-14659450006720957382022-05-27T04:45:00.003-04:002022-05-29T00:22:27.631-04:00Hungary: It Could be Wurst...<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcT7XSNjG6JL_8L53Fh8NBjWUD-8uNomtc09MNSxrIuwnDhy43le2RFJRhCbQVfp_8kGIaUKmm5gtpUiZIHduWjbDpZAZDaWdoaAKjU1fHZ6f2ABfda8Nt7asHInBGov6okbg7v8phpBmtqkYnyXX9q-61OOzKs8peFCp65QOvffSLFU63/s867/IMG_0379.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="867" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcT7XSNjG6JL_8L53Fh8NBjWUD-8uNomtc09MNSxrIuwnDhy43le2RFJRhCbQVfp_8kGIaUKmm5gtpUiZIHduWjbDpZAZDaWdoaAKjU1fHZ6f2ABfda8Nt7asHInBGov6okbg7v8phpBmtqkYnyXX9q-61OOzKs8peFCp65QOvffSLFU63/w400-h300/IMG_0379.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Lunch at Pinczi Hús és Hentesüzlet</i></td></tr></tbody></table><div>I've been back in Greater Magyaristan for several months without any updates to the blog. There are good reasons for this. Putin's insane war in Ukraine and the Hungarian election essentially rendered me mute with rage for two months. <i>You wouldn't like me when I am mute with rage. </i>Also, my wife went to visit her family in Japan. This meant that I would awake in the morning to find that I was somehow transformed into some kind of unsanitary zoo animal whose keeper had forgotten to clean his cage and give him his proper feed. ("Hey... this isn't mine... this tastes like... PENGUIN FOOD!") But it also meant that I could pretty much eat whatever I wanted for two months without guilt or portion control. (Or residual religous conviction. Seriously.) Yes, I am talking about pigs. I ate a lot of pigs.</div><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlJ3B40ivhPo8gj84djpzp6Oqp67-PvSFAWfAXDgbI0oT9fKuee1If7qGHCZYwwNOtZs8HoQbfRWD9MRgubcUuO2_hEh0iT6FLC7c_HWZpcOUkdpo9dYDigzniLOmKU5ErnapVbc2krcqpvbHusImXospKAL0EO3GbAR5nhiQGnO2UdkTR/s3648/2009%20May%201%20Budapest%20006.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlJ3B40ivhPo8gj84djpzp6Oqp67-PvSFAWfAXDgbI0oT9fKuee1If7qGHCZYwwNOtZs8HoQbfRWD9MRgubcUuO2_hEh0iT6FLC7c_HWZpcOUkdpo9dYDigzniLOmKU5ErnapVbc2krcqpvbHusImXospKAL0EO3GbAR5nhiQGnO2UdkTR/w400-h300/2009%20May%201%20Budapest%20006.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Szafalade: Tubular Baloney of the Titans</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>Regardless of Hungary's historical and contemporary shortcomings one thing they do well is cook pig meat. While it is easy to imagine that the Magyars eat more pork than anybody else in Europe, they don't - Spain and Austria lead the pack for <i>treyf </i>hounds. But the plucky Hungarians make up for it in ease of availability. Sausages are available for snacking within a five minute walk of almost anywhere you might find yourself in Budapest... but you have to know where to find them. We don't have <i>wurst </i>stands like you would find in Austria or Germany, nor do restauarants serve the humble <i>kolbász (</i>as many foreign born Hungarians are shocked to find when visiting the motherland for the first time and find that their favorite national delicacy is not on the menu. Ever.) This isn't tourist food on sale at the faux-street-food stands downtown. For cooked sausages you have to visit... <i>a butcher shop.</i></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj9twHKpkXOhohFslhSlGzDfHpbrcQXm4n5rRz4f2XXT_fkhyuqk5aZT-vbUgYjzyiZBO5IducuCXEDft_8jGJnprLrfhJSq2mYuYjWVtJYvaCgffAEPjEdiaTwmhQ01wqfwIRzFI4BeZzfpVvLsnnreG7HffaqdopcFVGs9PJm8qR53bb/s964/IMG_0367.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="723" data-original-width="964" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj9twHKpkXOhohFslhSlGzDfHpbrcQXm4n5rRz4f2XXT_fkhyuqk5aZT-vbUgYjzyiZBO5IducuCXEDft_8jGJnprLrfhJSq2mYuYjWVtJYvaCgffAEPjEdiaTwmhQ01wqfwIRzFI4BeZzfpVvLsnnreG7HffaqdopcFVGs9PJm8qR53bb/w400-h300/IMG_0367.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Interior of Pinczi Hús és Hentesüzlet accross from Nyugati pu. train station<br /><br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table>Hungarians often eat lunch at a butcher shop. Considering all the changes in Hungarian life over the last fifty years, a simple, cheap kolbász and a slice of bread at a standup table next to the meat counter is one of those constants that define "comfort food." There are no trendy sausage stands, although some have tried. And failed. The food is predictably good - like pizza in New York, there is no <i>bad</i> kolbász.<p></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8jQdqpGxqucjbayXyM6hAK1quLYlSv5Um40MvLLue_Le0-dahQSyL_6WtRg8FEZYSOnKMNRaBAx4GfUfltllMp_8cZv3s_iHJfB-eZvNoIBtxjru3kgsuiaFyHJQ-91jPT3EQgm_0vKjKuZOl-eF2oOjkjQr9SXbTrZ6xXtrg8tmyRZjP/s4160/IMG_20220524_123245098.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8jQdqpGxqucjbayXyM6hAK1quLYlSv5Um40MvLLue_Le0-dahQSyL_6WtRg8FEZYSOnKMNRaBAx4GfUfltllMp_8cZv3s_iHJfB-eZvNoIBtxjru3kgsuiaFyHJQ-91jPT3EQgm_0vKjKuZOl-eF2oOjkjQr9SXbTrZ6xXtrg8tmyRZjP/w400-h300/IMG_20220524_123245098.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Unnaturally patient Hungarians waiting to order lunch</i></td></tr></tbody></table>Many, but not all, butcher shops double as lunch counters. There is usually a vat of greasy hot water with an armada of meat tubes floating around in it, and a shelf of roasted meats gradually dessicating beneath heat lamps. A hand written chalk board announces the theroretically available offerings (half of which will <i>always</i> be sold out) and the price per 10 dekagrams. You order by weight: 20 dekas of sausage or smoked meat is a modest lunch, 30 dekas is what a small Hungarian would order. <p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGTRPRSnO2Xlb9q_7JU8a_O7Ah72y9P52GAX6Zdg_4r_m3Kkkgq-fUygKac0PDOumEMINOnZUYK8J4f5R7Jea7q0dUgxV5sfOIkdd0XBsU45yTAwdt7UNfsPo_ZoKcRj4oWV8iZmQiWfzAwFxH52hA9fjTacj5FkD-o52G_8ZANBVK6-po/s964/IMG_20141215_143440.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="723" data-original-width="964" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGTRPRSnO2Xlb9q_7JU8a_O7Ah72y9P52GAX6Zdg_4r_m3Kkkgq-fUygKac0PDOumEMINOnZUYK8J4f5R7Jea7q0dUgxV5sfOIkdd0XBsU45yTAwdt7UNfsPo_ZoKcRj4oWV8iZmQiWfzAwFxH52hA9fjTacj5FkD-o52G_8ZANBVK6-po/w400-h300/IMG_20141215_143440.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The butcher shop at Bosznyak ter bus stop in Zuglo.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>Larger Hungarians - there are many - often order shocking huge piles of sausages, cuts of smoked pork, three or four pickles, and maybe some roasted potatos crowded onto a plastic cafeteria tray, to be taken to one of the stand up tables lining the walls of the shop and eaten - preferably with a single bladed pocket knife that nearly every Hungarian male proudly carries around just for such occasions, known as a <i>szallonázás bicske</i> (bacon snacking knife.) You have to specify how many slices of bread you want, what kind of pickle or salad, mustard or horseradish, and bottled drinks are always self serve from a standing cooler.If you don't speak Hungarian just point and smile and shake your head when they give you too much meat.</p><p></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDciF32OJOm4o1_GNkWN2z12QVx15YRfnLtIdFZTVKFuQed7VFYVi-kFMZdnHLUys_vPcWodVAmKo7CIf20CL3haC4WiI40KKbfLRGMKLio9ZLuaUo9hzGiFSO6lfRmt_UlhN8LmDg4NQuTwurBk3l0VUtxAbWr9rBbyvSjVN_doM0UsS5/s964/IMG_20220524_125802117.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="723" data-original-width="964" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDciF32OJOm4o1_GNkWN2z12QVx15YRfnLtIdFZTVKFuQed7VFYVi-kFMZdnHLUys_vPcWodVAmKo7CIf20CL3haC4WiI40KKbfLRGMKLio9ZLuaUo9hzGiFSO6lfRmt_UlhN8LmDg4NQuTwurBk3l0VUtxAbWr9rBbyvSjVN_doM0UsS5/w400-h300/IMG_20220524_125802117.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The sausage tub</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>The king of the butcher shop dining experience is kolbász, the humble sausage. I suggest you go with <i>debreceni </i>- a paprika rich, dense and meaty sausage considered the King of the kolbász world. the Decreceni is one of Hungary's real gifts to the world. Forget the fountain pen, subway transport, heroin, illiberal democracy, or any other famous Hungarian invention. This chunky paprika laced pork weenie is, perhaps, Hungary's most lauded and beloved gift to the world.</p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgpOPWr_4xgcUDXODxKjv2ShjoOxhOCEUlvWmYi_m1vdEUt1Hqj9fBFTsEmQbl8hSvJg68pKDkBoMovTug8lOLSz-hbWsnElAy1CisbOKj7hhgi5jp2sOE5I4_tnLhfHl3KQudombM8EDWzT2oHrrlduDqpwwzz3Eim1o3eMSRl2gc0OVC/s867/IMG_20220524_124006602.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="867" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgpOPWr_4xgcUDXODxKjv2ShjoOxhOCEUlvWmYi_m1vdEUt1Hqj9fBFTsEmQbl8hSvJg68pKDkBoMovTug8lOLSz-hbWsnElAy1CisbOKj7hhgi5jp2sOE5I4_tnLhfHl3KQudombM8EDWzT2oHrrlduDqpwwzz3Eim1o3eMSRl2gc0OVC/w400-h300/IMG_20220524_124006602.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Debreceni, virsli, roasted pork belly</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>Most shops offer plain <i>főtt kolbász </i>(boiled) and <i>súlt kolbász</i> (grilled) but time has not treated the <i>kolbász </i>family gently. After the fall of communism and the rampant price inflation that followed, meat became expensive and the iconically cheap <i>kolbász </i>gradually became... cheaper and insipid, the actual <i>taste </i>of poverty. Today most <i>főző kolbász </i>are simply tubes of orange colored protein. I used to love straight boiled f<i>őtt kolbász</i>... but it is hard to find a good one anymore. The roasted and grilled ones which you often see for sale at outdoor tourist markets are always so salty (<i>and I like salt!</i>) and greasy that it is like somebody crossbred a shipping container of paprika with a small Arab Emirate. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpOgGUYq5M7tDdpChuo8eJufiRfAcZdWgoOkZdmfkdmPWAS9ZdN3puLdVqu76qzqdCK4Glpahnuatujd4zBZaeIBd4iD2Ym3goDEYPH96OIqBSZKLDDNILg1g8I0dpaiI0ZmzsSiWZZ1cotes2OcrJSpH7LSYRoB1vG7ufkMXdYOLITTJN/s3648/DSCN2311.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpOgGUYq5M7tDdpChuo8eJufiRfAcZdWgoOkZdmfkdmPWAS9ZdN3puLdVqu76qzqdCK4Glpahnuatujd4zBZaeIBd4iD2Ym3goDEYPH96OIqBSZKLDDNILg1g8I0dpaiI0ZmzsSiWZZ1cotes2OcrJSpH7LSYRoB1vG7ufkMXdYOLITTJN/w400-h300/DSCN2311.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Beware the salty tourist kolbász!</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>There are always a few <i>virsli </i>hot dogs floating around in the hot tub, but you might see a big fat <i>krinolin </i>or a shorter stubby <i>szafaládé </i>wurst: go for the <i>szafaládé</i>. They are both basically baloney in an intestine skin, but it hits the spot at 11 in the morning when you haven't had breakfast. And of course, it is all mix and match here, so point at some of the unidentifiable meat wads on display and try your luck. It could be a chunk of smokey pork hock <i>csülők</i>, or maybe a chicken leg or fried chicken livers. We were just at the<i> Pinczi Hentes</i> and took a chance on a piece of mystery meat that turned out to be a delicious slice of braised pork belly with very little extra fat. This chunk of meat would cost you dearly if you were to meet it in a legitimate restaurant. Our whole lunch for two came to FT 1700. Not quite five dollars.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOecHwJaJeugnR1ISfISQaIrYCpXGnCkIRjbJC9zAaZFwcOl66lTkkJKf84A_7C5gQ2ej0YEQY7-_ww0sq0rstvGAx0yIRC1E1cqdwyFbuFsIOrILy14M5iZKWPRWOmUqerF8l281z0LY874q63vyB6z9bQZx_PkuEwAg81AsY8clbQMt1/s867/IMG_0388.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="867" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOecHwJaJeugnR1ISfISQaIrYCpXGnCkIRjbJC9zAaZFwcOl66lTkkJKf84A_7C5gQ2ej0YEQY7-_ww0sq0rstvGAx0yIRC1E1cqdwyFbuFsIOrILy14M5iZKWPRWOmUqerF8l281z0LY874q63vyB6z9bQZx_PkuEwAg81AsY8clbQMt1/w400-h300/IMG_0388.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Mystery Meat Award of the Year</i></td></tr></tbody></table>It is hard to reccomend a "best" butcher shop, but we took most of these photos at the legendary<b> </b><span style="text-align: center;"><b>Pinczi Hús és Hentesüzlet</b>, a butcher shop across the street from Nyugati train station at 60 Teréz krt. in Pest. I used to eat lunch here nearly every day when the old <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Budapest_Week">Budapest Week</a> offices were located around the corner, and today they have summer tables on the street, shared - ironically - with the <i>halal </i>Turkish fast food joint next door. A lot of info can be gleaned (albeit in the Hungarian language) on the facebook page of the aptly named "<a href="https://www.facebook.com/Hentesn%C3%A9l-ev%C5%91k-bar%C3%A1ti-k%C3%B6re-219460661408319">Eating in Butcher Shops Facebook Appreciation Page</a>" </span><div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe3ga2CFRwJMOL-tQ43vQRf-gqVSUJ4_kIMph6oNl_XPTLfuPLTqEUyLIwGfWKcmDvrRKC5dhc4kI9v__gN_ipa98OmlZste10f2y5qXSRDWMsuhpajL-ZvGquy9JUxxI7ejzvga3AURqp3vLsc_VEU7LQTblVzQatuERC48sHQR7EL36B/s964/IMG_0363.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="723" data-original-width="964" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe3ga2CFRwJMOL-tQ43vQRf-gqVSUJ4_kIMph6oNl_XPTLfuPLTqEUyLIwGfWKcmDvrRKC5dhc4kI9v__gN_ipa98OmlZste10f2y5qXSRDWMsuhpajL-ZvGquy9JUxxI7ejzvga3AURqp3vLsc_VEU7LQTblVzQatuERC48sHQR7EL36B/w400-h300/IMG_0363.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Pinczi Bucher Shop on Terez Krt. </i></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="text-align: center;">I could go on... I have not even touched on the topic of </span><i style="text-align: center;">hurka</i><span style="text-align: center;">... but I am hungry and writing this has inspired us to hop on the bikes and hit another butcher shop... so more later. </span><i style="text-align: center;">It sure beats talking about illiberal democracy!</i></div></div>dumneazuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03595663581295671582noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21879466.post-83185899965929677672022-02-16T12:05:00.006-05:002022-02-18T11:36:17.498-05:00Paterson NJ: Peruvian Chaufa. Fried Rice of the Gods.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhfiazPkoX3pDP2qhBFI_-gyzqsAbT_oCF98B8Lo8xCkwGpnPBTO0MRRsgUQ-NT_xdo6p8WrHHwsyOdbFUc9QvVK-yxhcPSIxX7D1rB4YYxnvrXPLTl4wW3xqcVXlqqYLn1MPf58cWYY2PNPbn38XdOgHIJq6A30oVQC42gMpD8FU1uEq5i=s4160" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="3120" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhfiazPkoX3pDP2qhBFI_-gyzqsAbT_oCF98B8Lo8xCkwGpnPBTO0MRRsgUQ-NT_xdo6p8WrHHwsyOdbFUc9QvVK-yxhcPSIxX7D1rB4YYxnvrXPLTl4wW3xqcVXlqqYLn1MPf58cWYY2PNPbn38XdOgHIJq6A30oVQC42gMpD8FU1uEq5i=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div>Nobody goes on vacation in their home town. You go on vacation to get away from it all, to put your troubles behind you, to enjoy the sights and flavors of being far away from daily life. So maybe you can understand that I have spent the last few months in New York without actually visiting New York. I'm a New Yorker, Bronx born and bred, and this is not a vacation. <i>I'm in New Jersey. </i>Nobody in New Jersey is on vacation.</div><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiEAmN2uEokecID-JAHVb8qKzusHhjNXV2m3wKIk72IfAZF7UacxLyIE2ErGthjDRWVkQbrYMLJRe2lSH7A4Tiep3kgxO1OHlSShQTlqc_UXm4T9le6E_fWMTwoV77KtFIXzUSCjELWpmbQn0QP6xE-n_yuIGnMMoZzGZ9TqFwcXAgGY59e=s4160" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="3120" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiEAmN2uEokecID-JAHVb8qKzusHhjNXV2m3wKIk72IfAZF7UacxLyIE2ErGthjDRWVkQbrYMLJRe2lSH7A4Tiep3kgxO1OHlSShQTlqc_UXm4T9le6E_fWMTwoV77KtFIXzUSCjELWpmbQn0QP6xE-n_yuIGnMMoZzGZ9TqFwcXAgGY59e=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This a not a vacation view.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><div>New York City is four miles away from us in New Jersey but we have yet to cross the bridge. This is because we are staying with my Dad, who is a few years short of a century. And we don't want him (or us) exposed to Mr. Covid, so we have been avoiding the city like, well, "the plague." We arrived on the crest of the Omicron wave in December, so no crowded subways for us, no Christmas shopping crowds, no packed Chinese food courts on this trip. I don't, however, feel like we are missing very much. Manhattan has changed over the years into a playground for the very rich and very infected, and apart from a few neighborhoods like Chinatown and Washington Heights, there is little on the island to attract me beyond its museums. Gone are the bookstores, CD shops, weird musical instrument stores, replaced by Starbucks and office space and hot yoga studios. If you are looking for New York ethnic neighborhoods where you can find a decent meal for ten bucks, you have to head out to the boroughs or the suburbs. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgv459IQd1235njPV5TGzt_xZ9ggB4Bb929PhnWa7vWTJVQv2z8-HRR5p8WNDlrtjbkZ803UpSURu1lqE9w5R0BiURFR-Qz6Ke6iGydNrdLzRA67j8WPl_A5LZHdt-xvUQHwXzIFmsmNHVmjBY1zuFUlNv_HVayZgzHUInsJVyrorD7PIfT=s4160" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgv459IQd1235njPV5TGzt_xZ9ggB4Bb929PhnWa7vWTJVQv2z8-HRR5p8WNDlrtjbkZ803UpSURu1lqE9w5R0BiURFR-Qz6Ke6iGydNrdLzRA67j8WPl_A5LZHdt-xvUQHwXzIFmsmNHVmjBY1zuFUlNv_HVayZgzHUInsJVyrorD7PIfT=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Pete and a lomo saltado the size of a Chevy station wagon. He finished it.</i> </td></tr></tbody></table><div>So we did. We went to Paterson, New Jersey, with folklorist and klezmer cimbalom player <a href="https://ctmd.org/about/our-staff/">Pete Rushevsky,</a> who had never been to the fabled Silk city. Paterson is roughly fifteen minutes drive from my folk's home, and yet nobody I grew up with ever visited the place, and it <a href="https://horinca.blogspot.com/2015/07/paterson-new-jersey-part-one-ramadan-in.html">maintains an air of mystery and menace </a>among New Jerseyites roughly equivalent to the way Italians view northern Albania. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiW9cLS17kxbyO2_gTY9JJsTey0SWey3MwnJ_8vyQjx1bHBmi5DUQm2o6wMyDEhg3BiOKX_Oe8MkU62dMAybXCDkVy-EQT9wWT8Om20wZWsZ-H_XG3H37mqyziTZnwL2Bq04mkVc4JnjQ2gs6vZTi5LJ8HRkMfoHzuNjhjUklFIEUdj_ZUr=s4160" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="3120" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiW9cLS17kxbyO2_gTY9JJsTey0SWey3MwnJ_8vyQjx1bHBmi5DUQm2o6wMyDEhg3BiOKX_Oe8MkU62dMAybXCDkVy-EQT9wWT8Om20wZWsZ-H_XG3H37mqyziTZnwL2Bq04mkVc4JnjQ2gs6vZTi5LJ8HRkMfoHzuNjhjUklFIEUdj_ZUr=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Albania or the Passaic River? </i></td></tr></tbody></table><div>Paterson is the uncut urban gem of the New York area. It is one of my favorite places, also: Nobody visits there. It boasts the America's first industrialized city, complete with a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Falls_(Passaic_River)">waterfall in the middle of downtown</a>, the second biggest east of the Mississippi behind Niagara Falls. The Falls impressed Alexander Hamilton so much he encouraged the growth of heavy Industry, eventually making Paterson the "Silk City" a center of the silk and textile trade which attracted the first Turkish and Syrian merchants to settle in the USA, and now South Paterson has the largest Turkish and Arab community in the New York area, and America's second largest Muslim community percentagewise. We visited the amazing Fatal Bakery - now a mega supermarket of Middle Eastern foods, and had some killer kunefe at a bakery on the corner of Crook's ave.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEghzpbHgMawszPvSNrXd0092MkhUt2cZ3dxZtYJUmi2WPAnC4MsjHOZAK2_H8OiNQCxBoq0b1sW8CzmC8agR1CJnhXo8rGiz41YWpd9RqxSDDZ2XsrMR62xtE6q59nd9crHkYYGQsLxc9JycIiackM33iWvewh5Wr7vEyfwPXeMW8dm4G8V=s4160" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="3120" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEghzpbHgMawszPvSNrXd0092MkhUt2cZ3dxZtYJUmi2WPAnC4MsjHOZAK2_H8OiNQCxBoq0b1sW8CzmC8agR1CJnhXo8rGiz41YWpd9RqxSDDZ2XsrMR62xtE6q59nd9crHkYYGQsLxc9JycIiackM33iWvewh5Wr7vEyfwPXeMW8dm4G8V=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Kunefe</i>:<i> if baklava and cheesecake had a baby. </i></td></tr></tbody></table><div>Downtown Paterson is home to Little Lima, a <a href="https://www.theatlantic.com/business/archive/2016/05/peruvians-paterson/483288/">large Peruvian community</a> with the largest community of Quechua languge speakers in the USA. We had lunch at the <a href="https://lenaycarbonus.com/en/home/">Market Street Lena y Carbon</a> to satisfy Fumie's need for a rotisserie chicken and fried rice, two things Peruvians have pefected to a science. Peruvian food is the ultimate Creole mix. Home to one of Latin America's larger Chinese emmigrant populations, Chinese food has become fully integrated into Peruvian cuisine, with the classic dish being "chaufa" fried rice (from Cantonese<i> chow fan)</i> The general term for Peruvian Chinese food is "Chifa" and you can find specialized Chifa joints all over the Paterson area, alongside regular Peruvian eateries all of which will serve <i>chaufa</i> fried rice, at the least.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjC7Eflc_aryLdKBAbJGluMcaGB7X_UJ6EG9SGhdMReCeZf8SMWpI-lfa205GpsydCNUSXYQg7Qg-NiGwI9qvZtlPQmmgIn8VtjcEqd8RLeWQB15_yW45N-ZGEVZuy2kq-lBJh6WelM_AQgHYSOwoVh-kzbTThJNvxOV7Ct_PeKYkt0rtY4=s4160" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjC7Eflc_aryLdKBAbJGluMcaGB7X_UJ6EG9SGhdMReCeZf8SMWpI-lfa205GpsydCNUSXYQg7Qg-NiGwI9qvZtlPQmmgIn8VtjcEqd8RLeWQB15_yW45N-ZGEVZuy2kq-lBJh6WelM_AQgHYSOwoVh-kzbTThJNvxOV7Ct_PeKYkt0rtY4=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Chaufa Mixto at Lena Y Carbon</i></td></tr></tbody></table><div>While New Jersey has a lot of great ethnic food, Chinese food is not one of them. I have been dragged out to some of the most miserable Chinese restaurants in New Jersey (Tenafly? Englewood? Fort Lee? Teaneck? Just ask me and I <i>will name names</i>!) where my safe go-to is to order fried rice. I love fried rice. It is a simple, almost canonical Cantonese dish that comprised about 75% of the things I ate for lunch before I moved to Europe decades ago. Over the last few years, however, I have seen so many strange concoctions posing as "fried rice" that I have lost count. Weird tumeric yellow grainy stuff with kale bits, bowls of wet rice floating on salad, leftover rice doused with miso... all horrible art projects on the theme of fried rice by cooks with no idea of what fried rice is or should be. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiOVbImjcT-0ghlKw-rs03TinrqpAaBpezS7q2ZSoYzIZRxSNO9NATLQk0peDtLH6Do75KnZVoH6NiMeI3PmXKaoJjwA1tS_qMBnwdCAFPg01_PqDKAucLIQ47xZvSPPwtbUw2V4ojV8l7LAyInBHiDZiW4Eu6G6uwAMmriT3qjaubStqcG=s4160" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiOVbImjcT-0ghlKw-rs03TinrqpAaBpezS7q2ZSoYzIZRxSNO9NATLQk0peDtLH6Do75KnZVoH6NiMeI3PmXKaoJjwA1tS_qMBnwdCAFPg01_PqDKAucLIQ47xZvSPPwtbUw2V4ojV8l7LAyInBHiDZiW4Eu6G6uwAMmriT3qjaubStqcG=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Pollo braso con chaufa</i></td></tr></tbody></table><div>So when Fumie's order of chicken and fried rice chaufa arrived I almost fainted: it has literally been years since I saw a proper plate of fried rice in New Jersey. I ordered the mixed meat chaufa, and it arrived as a monstrously huge portion of perfect fried rice loaded with beef and chicken. My surprise is not so much that the Peruvian style of chaufa is so amazingly good... it is just fried rice, after all, but I am surprised at how amazingly bad the fried rice from the average NJ Chinese take-out has become. </div></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh-SxTyExBFIA0QdI_WvAJL2pIj6yBmGI5pzpaXfD-4n0-PdN7P7j1D_AYnFs0kI7fg8wjzT7T9cN7RtHj-inu9MmTiEZWX0kox3QuujddeuNUKLeEIsya75ctPMQtSRwJNsCMOVHhRniSU2drb79STEzcHeh0PuGvcfhhlF0cC9LOzv9eF=s4160" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh-SxTyExBFIA0QdI_WvAJL2pIj6yBmGI5pzpaXfD-4n0-PdN7P7j1D_AYnFs0kI7fg8wjzT7T9cN7RtHj-inu9MmTiEZWX0kox3QuujddeuNUKLeEIsya75ctPMQtSRwJNsCMOVHhRniSU2drb79STEzcHeh0PuGvcfhhlF0cC9LOzv9eF=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Lomo Salatado: Beef Lo Mein on Steroids</i></td></tr></tbody></table><div>The portions at Lena y Carbon were huge... Pete finished off his <i>Lomo Saltado </i>with tallarin noodles - basically a beef lo mein on steroids - in a few seconds but we had to ask for boxes to take home the leftovers of our orders. We had also ordered a <i>parihuela</i>, a fish and seafood soup originating from the seaport of Callao that came stuffed with shrimp, fish fillets, mussels, and even a couple of crabs for good measure. This made the Tokyo half of our marriage very, very happy, but it was enough to serve a small family so it went home with us as well. Now we are obsessed with finding more Peruvian food before we return to Budapest, where it can safely be said, no Peruvian food can be found. </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh4xD-DL5hnXF1cbs28sqcEwh6EYMK5nlGHuZsrZ7l1dxcRKdY_78_bplTVSPY_n8r0RicVMHG1N3-GOViyESBvNkKyLAcgP7r3hHln05Wr2Ak6XMCxU0LIw0qiHMNGw6V6QljhfG1vylZ7_nUqDAG-SEONvOatJbc3z1VP1dYdLyFM9evk=s4160" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh4xD-DL5hnXF1cbs28sqcEwh6EYMK5nlGHuZsrZ7l1dxcRKdY_78_bplTVSPY_n8r0RicVMHG1N3-GOViyESBvNkKyLAcgP7r3hHln05Wr2Ak6XMCxU0LIw0qiHMNGw6V6QljhfG1vylZ7_nUqDAG-SEONvOatJbc3z1VP1dYdLyFM9evk=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Parihuela</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>dumneazuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03595663581295671582noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21879466.post-80194616666475118832021-12-31T21:03:00.003-05:002021-12-31T21:03:35.955-05:002021: Tempura For New Jersey New Year!<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgwbeZ-1vrxTRmLbV5fV1sVNSXcQR7_TQzQ4MG3NOT0zz2DTNw9ibc7eFT7nvPLTH2Vipj74hXPNolmWviA6mtX2U6V2rM-2nVp-FkV_EG2hHLFqmH_w07ipydMAVQXpqClmLp-KhoOx9NdpnrfGOYLYstIsIrCBYLGAKVLWto7l6IFKLx_=s1920" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1398" data-original-width="1920" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgwbeZ-1vrxTRmLbV5fV1sVNSXcQR7_TQzQ4MG3NOT0zz2DTNw9ibc7eFT7nvPLTH2Vipj74hXPNolmWviA6mtX2U6V2rM-2nVp-FkV_EG2hHLFqmH_w07ipydMAVQXpqClmLp-KhoOx9NdpnrfGOYLYstIsIrCBYLGAKVLWto7l6IFKLx_=w400-h291" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A new look for the New Year!</td></tr></tbody></table><p>It has been a heck of a ride, 2021 has. Rarely has a year been held in so little esteem as this last one, So I am not sad to see it go. 2021 set a pretty low bar for 2022 to pass, so I am heartily looking forward to a year that lives up to its reputation as being "sometime in the future." By the future I mean a mixture of hope, progress, and no more of this damned covid pandemic... although Dr. F says to expect that the pandemic will probably fade sometime in 2024. This is what we call a "dystopic future" if you ask me. (Actually, somebody out there is presently pregnant with George Jetson...<a href="https://www.newsweek.com/internet-determines-george-jetson-was-likely-conceived-this-week-viral-posts-1654970#:~:text=The%20show%20was%20said%20to,birthday%20was%20August%2022%2C%202022."> George Jetson who will be born on August 22, 2022. </a>At this rate we will never get to enjoy Spacely Sprockets during our lifetime!)</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZ4bYYMuTUx9JRZReOm-tC_357XtrztoI4FtOY1-ydYnoIG3Aeq1sUlbPwwoMAWnWkTh7AXKfhT5LampDTfM5GLxaTEU3_qtrnFCGeo1HnlcHA-sRSH3Rv8EIpLLAx6JFV3yrJFZ4hMRjIa3yDaIOZES2znveHWgJEjW-I879XgAO-Vb6z=s827" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="516" data-original-width="827" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZ4bYYMuTUx9JRZReOm-tC_357XtrztoI4FtOY1-ydYnoIG3Aeq1sUlbPwwoMAWnWkTh7AXKfhT5LampDTfM5GLxaTEU3_qtrnFCGeo1HnlcHA-sRSH3Rv8EIpLLAx6JFV3yrJFZ4hMRjIa3yDaIOZES2znveHWgJEjW-I879XgAO-Vb6z=w400-h250" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A newer look: with Jake Shulmen-Ment doing a zoom video concert</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Presently I am located four miles west of New York City in a reclaimed swamp that was once the northern boundary of what the new Netherlands Dutch rulers of old New York called <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/English_Neighborhood">"The English Neighborhood" </a>and today we call Teaneck New Jersey. My Dad and brother still live here so we are visiting for the holidays. Dad is now a spry 95 and to keep him that way we have to be extremely careful not to track any virus into the house, and because of the Omicron variant we have not even gone on any trips across the Georgé Washington Bridge into the city a mere four miles away.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiOPaJFCr3Khr_oF-hbxicCowuRGKyBEDEYADbL2P7TI48BTm8wai1lRXsgSHxwuTrtS5VnVv8Y10Pgeuxbq3E4XSvQ_SJ2kCEWx1LMZa-NS2Hneb_qdgdvhm_qJ95AKTM8_fnzrwk2byAEZQ6W5Z0Be0Y-rtxklsg5pch_8W5vOpRaBKva=s4160" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiOPaJFCr3Khr_oF-hbxicCowuRGKyBEDEYADbL2P7TI48BTm8wai1lRXsgSHxwuTrtS5VnVv8Y10Pgeuxbq3E4XSvQ_SJ2kCEWx1LMZa-NS2Hneb_qdgdvhm_qJ95AKTM8_fnzrwk2byAEZQ6W5Z0Be0Y-rtxklsg5pch_8W5vOpRaBKva=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cans of Tuna as big as your head!</td></tr></tbody></table><p>On the other hand, New Jersey is more than the sprawling wasteland of suburbs, industrial zones and reeking foetid swampland that first greet the eye and nose of visitors. It is also the the place that everybody from the Bronx moves to when they get enough money. It is home to huge and varied ethnic communities seeking better schools and homes with gardens for their children after saving money for years in the Bronx. And within a ten minute drive of Teaneck we have the largest Korean neighborhood in the USA. We also have a lot - I believe the proper term is "fucktons" - of Turks who have opened bistros and kebaberies and baklava cafes that would not seem out of place on Istikklal Caddesi, Filipinos have entered into our sphere, bringing garlic pork and industrial sized cans of tuna into our lives. And Italians... And of course, my own people: Jews. Teaneck is full of 'em in all their Modern Orthodox, Beys Yaakov School Kosher splendor. Teaneck is also home to a large Muslim community, with a Medressah and mosque and lots of Halal pakistani grill houses. Teaneck is also famous as the first town in the USA to voluntarily desgregate its school system in 1965, and has always been a magnet community for Black musicians working out of New York. Jimi Hendrix lived here for a year while he was guitarist with the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Isley_Brothers">Isley Brothers</a> - a Teaneck institution. When I first moved to NJ from the Bronx their son Riondo Isley was the first kid to beat me up on the school bus. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/BW8-BRnbV-Q" width="320" youtube-src-id="BW8-BRnbV-Q"></iframe></div><p>Later we will make a trip to the next town over, Englewood, which is home to the fabled Crispy Crust Pizza shop. In 1979 the world of pop music changed forever when the Sugarhill Gang released "Rappers Delight" - the first hip hop song to break into the top 40. <a href="https://www.vanityfair.com/culture/2005/11/hiphop200511">The Sugarhill Gang were comprised of some of the guys who made pizza at Crispy Crust.Producer Sylvia robinson had heard rumors about a new kind of Black party music coming out of sound systems in the Bronx, and sombody tipped her off that the pizza guys at Crsipy Crust used to rap in the back while baking the extra large cheese with sausage</a>. Personally, I haven't been eating much pizza these days. I tend to go for the Clemente's Special Italian sandwich from <a href="https://www.clementebakerynj.com/">Clemente's Bakery </a>in Hackensack, NJ. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh4S7qREdlqC_fewiTC6WCA3zwGL-_4TVc4t571HSFytnH1HcIrLyREF-1_QCOFwX2OEj9iqIE6KOXFafNG2mVn8ZYb_Z36YyGuxN0CZJb29E_LtkgezKMhL4poGQVpqeinztadYXCoO7WWe8pbPsCnWKDDRsW0eijq4K5aU-MZdeBXnYaR=s3264" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh4S7qREdlqC_fewiTC6WCA3zwGL-_4TVc4t571HSFytnH1HcIrLyREF-1_QCOFwX2OEj9iqIE6KOXFafNG2mVn8ZYb_Z36YyGuxN0CZJb29E_LtkgezKMhL4poGQVpqeinztadYXCoO7WWe8pbPsCnWKDDRsW0eijq4K5aU-MZdeBXnYaR=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ham, mozzarella, coppa, and sliced artichoke hearts. Oil and Vinegar. </td></tr></tbody></table><p>But the saving grace of being stuck in Teaneck is the proximity of so much incredible Korean food. First of all, we have <a href="https://www.hmart.com/">H-Mart,</a> the Korean mega-supermarkets that have fish and vegetable selections that we can only dream about in Hungary.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh_uG-YmfoCTdAh5lhWWgrn--Oz3tyxGPT8VMl1k_CQ_dn9S6-227YRPgyi7WQyhj0kq9LrEor30SoUBnA61RGdqooXW_9wTi0pQYH1M0118hxCbc0AWYaZfoylKeyyu3tZ3jK_r-ZuO9YMFWaXIARY8utxAohpY8_vrPAROdksJCLaMJmj=s4160" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh_uG-YmfoCTdAh5lhWWgrn--Oz3tyxGPT8VMl1k_CQ_dn9S6-227YRPgyi7WQyhj0kq9LrEor30SoUBnA61RGdqooXW_9wTi0pQYH1M0118hxCbc0AWYaZfoylKeyyu3tZ3jK_r-ZuO9YMFWaXIARY8utxAohpY8_vrPAROdksJCLaMJmj=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p>Kimchi everywhere. Not everybody loves this ubiquitous Korean pickled cabbage, but we do, and once you get the taste for it you dump it in everything. On our way home from Newark airport we were able to get to the Leonia H-mart before it closed. We picked up kimchi, some Korean seafood pancakes, some sushi rolls, and some noodles, thus saving us from having to arrive home to a dinner of cold Ball Park hot dogs my brother had left for us.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjZtxNGGc1QuPbblXmm3mTS8hB6DvxF2XJbL2oVWr2y1QA0TPXjZBpTA3m7ZfSjFDJJYSwnWUT9yVD85zhO_KzF0IgZPZmXTVDAHwu-ytBEIAc8ck2u0WCwnDVR_579oBYMbJk6VPJHZjf67mSQJBTYXg6g4KphEU4Knsthw5tqGSAH7ZE0=s4160" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjZtxNGGc1QuPbblXmm3mTS8hB6DvxF2XJbL2oVWr2y1QA0TPXjZBpTA3m7ZfSjFDJJYSwnWUT9yVD85zhO_KzF0IgZPZmXTVDAHwu-ytBEIAc8ck2u0WCwnDVR_579oBYMbJk6VPJHZjf67mSQJBTYXg6g4KphEU4Knsthw5tqGSAH7ZE0=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>At SGD Dubu So Gong Dong restaurant in Hackensack, Korean Tofu soup. Kimchi beef tofu soup, to be precise. Served with a tableful of banchan (small plates of kimchee, pickled radish, seaweed salad, and often a whole fried fish) with a seafood rice pancake on the side to top it off. This restaurant is located across the parking lot from 99 Ranch a humongous Chinese superstore that supplies anything H-Mart forgot. We're good for now... just finished our New Years eve Japanese tempura feast. tiger prawns, squid, Japanese sweet potato, shishito peppers, egglant, and onion fitters. At midnight we eat noodles. Don't ask why... I married a Japanese woman and thus it shall always be on New Years for ever after, Its noodles from here on down.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEggzlTi4obPgjmFJ6pXRYck8CAvxssWFsnCxvRo3njbQhuHVBFxQc3L_-5XbQQAZ1fL2bC_EFm1iuaxlOzuX-1j8STpD5SDTkP5VFJZ9fIVrD7jNSMucZZxUppaqP-Z11gjwUqvt8WV_JN7Opb5LrOtVwdAlI25Ey-aZFWq-S_TUJZR5mEl=s4160" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEggzlTi4obPgjmFJ6pXRYck8CAvxssWFsnCxvRo3njbQhuHVBFxQc3L_-5XbQQAZ1fL2bC_EFm1iuaxlOzuX-1j8STpD5SDTkP5VFJZ9fIVrD7jNSMucZZxUppaqP-Z11gjwUqvt8WV_JN7Opb5LrOtVwdAlI25Ey-aZFWq-S_TUJZR5mEl=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div>dumneazuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03595663581295671582noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21879466.post-48414520186641262792021-10-04T07:04:00.003-04:002021-10-04T07:21:37.489-04:00Kabul Bufe: Afghan Lunch in Budapest<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YfUmnMp6FrE/YVrO6ZUJwrI/AAAAAAAAXzc/c1PuCpQtyNEGQs6p3mMSsc7msNRVxMa-gCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/243074749_840002866712026_3355415189033882774_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YfUmnMp6FrE/YVrO6ZUJwrI/AAAAAAAAXzc/c1PuCpQtyNEGQs6p3mMSsc7msNRVxMa-gCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h400/243074749_840002866712026_3355415189033882774_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Pilav of our dreams</i></td></tr></tbody></table>Hungary, if you read the news these days, is not a nation that is exactly welcoming to immigrants, <i>especially </i>refugees. Viktor Orban made a political career out of demonizing refugees as "migrants" since the 2015 refugee crisis, when thousands of mostly Syrian refugees faced a bottleneck at Budapest's Keleti Train Station. The crisis was handled in the worst possible way by Hungarian officials denying services to the encamped families and then intentionally misleading them about travel onward to Germany. <i><a href="http://horinca.blogspot.com/2015/09/refugees-in-budapest-not-proud-day-for.html">It was not Hungary's proudest hour.</a></i> The crisis has passed but the sour attitude remains. The government controlled media refer to all emigrants and refugees simply by the perjorative "migrants" - usually adding that they are being sent to Hungary by the <a href="https://www.buzzfeednews.com/article/hnsgrassegger/george-soros-conspiracy-finkelstein-birnbaum-orban-netanyahu">demonic financier George Soros,</a> because, you know, <i>he can</i>. The <a href="http://www.migszol.com/blog">volunteer organization</a> that helped feed the refugees during their brief stay in Budapest was treated as a subversive antigovernmental plot and many of its participants were harrassed out of the country. I was out on the street when thousands frustrated Syrians at Keleti finally decided to take their fate in their own hands and <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/projects/cp/reporters-notebook/migrants/march-budapest-hungary">march on foot </a>toward Vienna. As I watched them march towards the Danube bridge leading to Vienna, I actually felt a sadness. I had been hoping for some new neighbors. And now they were marching away, never to return, taking their Syrian culture and cuisine with them. <i>And we are poorer for it.</i> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HGb5z6OhLZs/YVrXkSkr1MI/AAAAAAAAX0E/LzXXbZJf5lsvbe_Fin9wBwR5QSZ5V0oCACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/244413865_1481843448853656_3407877216781776241_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HGb5z6OhLZs/YVrXkSkr1MI/AAAAAAAAX0E/LzXXbZJf5lsvbe_Fin9wBwR5QSZ5V0oCACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h400/244413865_1481843448853656_3407877216781776241_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>You have to look closely for the Kabul Bufe. Népszínház u. 27,</i></td></tr></tbody></table><div>If you visit Budapest, you will notice that Budapest, unlike most European cities, doesn't seem to have any real immigrant neighborhoods. The unfortunate truth is... people don't emigrate to poor countries. <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_countries_by_GDP_(nominal)_per_capita">Hungary is not dirt poor,</a> but it can't offer the wages and opportunities that its western neighbors can to families looking to resettle in Europe. And the anti-refugee rhetoric plays into the canard that Hungary is "protecting Europe" and by extension, Christianity, from the hordes of hummus eating, kebab grilling, and <i>fatoush</i> mixing Middle Easterners lining up to take up Evil Master Soros' command to move to the eighth district. The result is... very few immigrants and very little of the advantages that come with growing up in multicultural environments. Like <i>immigrant food.</i> </div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UA6ebAwoWQc/YVrSoxCijJI/AAAAAAAAXzs/I5s4G2CbxQQ37Mj-bOSQqBlF8gJbbUJLwCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/243395853_294512908779659_960897802528496649_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UA6ebAwoWQc/YVrSoxCijJI/AAAAAAAAXzs/I5s4G2CbxQQ37Mj-bOSQqBlF8gJbbUJLwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h400/243395853_294512908779659_960897802528496649_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The daily double: Kabuli beef pilav, and chicken pilav, both with kidney beans.</i></td></tr></tbody></table>Presently, we are facing an unprecedented refugee crisis in Afghanistan. Hungary - a NATO member - was a military participant in the Afghan War since 2003, and it <a href="https://www.reuters.com/world/hungarys-two-military-planes-have-left-afghanistan-2021-08-26/">has flown in 540 Afghans</a> who had connections with the Hungarian government and military during the conflict. Hungary already has an Afghan community of around 2000, but unless you stroll along Népszinház utca in Budapest's 8th district you would never know it. Népszinház has become the street which immigrant multiculturalism shines the brightest in Hungary. We bike up Népszinház utca about once a week to stock up at the<a href="https://horinca.blogspot.com/2014/03/budapestde-hamsi-var-hamsi-in-budapest.html"> Troya Turkish Supermarket,</a> which offers a full selection of Turkish products including an onsite butcher selling the best and cheapest lamb in the city (but no longer stocks fresh fish...) . The big magnet along Népszinház utca for us, however, is the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/kabulbufe">Kabul Bufé. </a>This is a tiny hole in the wall lunch spot serving Halal Afghan food open from 11AM to 10 PM. There are several Middle Eastern luncheterias along Népszinház utca offering the usual felafuls and shwarmas and Iraqi, Pakistani, and even Nigerian food, but we couldn't pass up the<a href="https://www.facebook.com/kabulbufe"> Kabul Bufe</a> when we first found it. Now we are <i>addicted</i>. </div><div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NtlLSL_ZUXQ/YVrWa2MYifI/AAAAAAAAXz0/oPk2esXB2WYgONISYZ6nxx7TdLTl8rB2gCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/242831671_592642095096606_6473479524517657838_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NtlLSL_ZUXQ/YVrWa2MYifI/AAAAAAAAXz0/oPk2esXB2WYgONISYZ6nxx7TdLTl8rB2gCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h400/242831671_592642095096606_6473479524517657838_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The choice: with or without.</i></td></tr></tbody></table>The menu consists of what you see: a choice of two rice pilavs. One is Kabuli Pilav, a brown spicy beef or chicken and rice mix, and the other is usually meatless with some veg and raisins floating around in it, and some mildly spiced creamy chicken stew to spoon on top. There is usually a bean or lentil dhal of some kind to add on the side, my favorite being the kidney beans. And that's it. Both are good: I always order one of both to go, because there is hardly any space to dine inside beside a single table. Also: they are incredibly cheap. A Styrofoam container that can fill two normal people for lunch costs about the same as a Big Mac. Also, as soon as we finish we want more.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JcDS4tjuRLg/YVrY_339iyI/AAAAAAAAX0M/Y-0wU0lgPWII7RbOv1imbi4DhgzpTwv7wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/243878669_382849263463469_3459212695327789125_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JcDS4tjuRLg/YVrY_339iyI/AAAAAAAAX0M/Y-0wU0lgPWII7RbOv1imbi4DhgzpTwv7wCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h400/243878669_382849263463469_3459212695327789125_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Two pilavs... with string beans and spud-filled samosa on the side.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><div><p>The real fast food of Afghanistan are <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bolani">bolani</a>, supple stuffed flatbreads filled with spiced leeks, potato, or chicken. these are worthy of a meal in themselves, so I usually take a few home, and later dry fry them up in a frying pan for a quick evening meal. The samosas are a bit more substantial than ones you might find in an Indian restaurant: the potato filled ones are some of the best vegetarian food available in Budapest. And again: you can afford them. Several of them. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-G0_RGMoHWn0/YVraHSoWirI/AAAAAAAAX0o/PFqMCFA0fIwpdagqY58QeqThMKF3vy9JQCLcBGAsYHQ/s867/20200903_134720.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="867" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-G0_RGMoHWn0/YVraHSoWirI/AAAAAAAAX0o/PFqMCFA0fIwpdagqY58QeqThMKF3vy9JQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/20200903_134720.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Bolani</i></td></tr></tbody></table>One last suggestion: if you see plastic cups with some kind of creamy dessert in the cooler... get them. I have no idea what they call them... and I don't usually eat dessert, but The Queen Who Rules My Existence loves any kind of flan or cream dessert with sweet spices and She loves them. The last one was some kind of creamy mango with cardamom flan... She also took the photos, at least the ones that are in focus...<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8HYq1F8SL-s/YVremUC_XAI/AAAAAAAAX04/ZgaiLv0oStMs52NL_YwWcHrjoY-1jSJqgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/244411911_246395467298326_6275297675154767207_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8HYq1F8SL-s/YVremUC_XAI/AAAAAAAAX04/ZgaiLv0oStMs52NL_YwWcHrjoY-1jSJqgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h400/244411911_246395467298326_6275297675154767207_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Two cups of cardamom mango flan next to our usual order.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p></div></div>dumneazuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03595663581295671582noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21879466.post-68098230520239787452021-09-28T10:53:00.004-04:002021-09-28T13:13:10.056-04:00Roma Ételbar: Hungarian Food in the Post-Kadar Era<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0htVBA8zJMA/YVLZmpdKEBI/AAAAAAAAXxw/n2smk-PgRrIn87KZoEcTRiK5ewfaOydvgCLcBGAsYHQ/s867/20200803_113413.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="867" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0htVBA8zJMA/YVLZmpdKEBI/AAAAAAAAXxw/n2smk-PgRrIn87KZoEcTRiK5ewfaOydvgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/20200803_113413.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Marha pőrkőlt: when people want 'goulash' (Roma Ételbar)</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>When somebody asks me to recommend a good authentic Hungarian restaurant in downtown Budapest these days, I can't. I live in the 7th district "Party Quarter" which is still - invisibly - the Jewish Ghetto. This area is crowded with bars and eateries catering to the swarms of tourists - both foreign and domestic - who pack into local hostels and Air B&Bs within staggering distance of the bars and clubs, most of them operated by fly-by-night <i>bizniz </i>sleazebags who could not care less about the negative impact they have on one of Budapest's most unique residential neighborhoods. People in this community know each other - many have lived in its flats for generations. We greet each other by name on the street. We have resident forums in the park. If you actually live in this district it can feel more like a village than a downtown Budapest neighborhood. What we don't have is a decent Hungarian restaurant. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-I_UDigsnpWE/YVLk8sC0NpI/AAAAAAAAXyA/pUCssKyXcbMuM6BWoJ2LAOM6krxiiCDnwCLcBGAsYHQ/s867/20210701_115544.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="867" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-I_UDigsnpWE/YVLk8sC0NpI/AAAAAAAAXyA/pUCssKyXcbMuM6BWoJ2LAOM6krxiiCDnwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/20210701_115544.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Krumplis tészta </i>at Roma Ételbar (veggie-friendly spuds 'n' noods)</td></tr></tbody></table><p>There are lots of Hungarian restaurants in Modern Magyarland, so you would think that all you had to do to find some good honest goulash or a nice country style bean soup is to wander down to the corner, pay a reasonable price, and tuck in. Sorry, that<i> doesn't happen anymore. </i>Most Hungarian restaurants<i> kind of suck</i>, for lack of a better term. Well, at least many do. There used to be a lot more of the non-sucking variety, but they are getting sparser on the ground (or are found way out yonder in Óbuda, <i>fer chrissakes.</i> The <a href="https://www.facebook.com/Kehlivendeglo/">Kéhli</a>, for example.). Many aspire to either some mis-imagined version of Magyar <i>haute cuisine</i>, or they serve some crazed fusion dreamed up while working in the kitchen of a cruise ship or German hotel - which is where a shocking number of Hungarian culinary school graduates end up ( explaining the strange and now almost universal custom of sprinkling dried parsley all over the edges of the serving plates and adding ginger and pineapple to dishes where <i>pineapple simply do not belong</i>.) Hungarian food is peasant food, at its best simple, filling, and made with local ingredients. Károly Gundel, the famed restauranteur, knew this when he stressed the essence of Hungarian cuisine began with simply "frying onions in lard."</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ebs5uX2uIZ4/YVLjK0nbtKI/AAAAAAAAXx4/4jvh6LDWOz8r-0z0Ylvnsipt7trG71BBgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1144/mikes.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="1144" height="210" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ebs5uX2uIZ4/YVLjK0nbtKI/AAAAAAAAXx4/4jvh6LDWOz8r-0z0Ylvnsipt7trG71BBgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h210/mikes.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When Yorkville was still the center of the universe.</td></tr></tbody></table>I was raised on Hungarian cooking. Growing up in the Bronx my Mom used to take us to Manhattan to the Hungarian enclave in Yorkville on Second Avenue to shop at the legendary Hungarian grocery Paprikás Weissz, to stock up on <i>hurka </i>at the Hungarian butcher, and bring home big, very un-American loaves of real Hungarian bread. I love Hungarian food, and my family heritage here is rooted in the food industry. So yes, I am intolerant of bad, overpriced, crappy Hungarian food. I have a right to be. I have eaten the good stuff.<div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Nj77oFFfnDk/YVMIRYHak1I/AAAAAAAAXyI/q32pCA9Nxdcwd_HbSfh7zA5XQNHOBth2ACLcBGAsYHQ/s1019/andre_magyar_hentes.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="858" data-original-width="1019" height="336" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Nj77oFFfnDk/YVMIRYHak1I/AAAAAAAAXyI/q32pCA9Nxdcwd_HbSfh7zA5XQNHOBth2ACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h336/andre_magyar_hentes.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Hungarian Yorkville... now just a memory.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><div>One reason Hungarian restaurants have declined in quality is the astonishingly low pay for trained chefs. If a chef is any good he will get recruited for an Austrian resort hotel or a Belgian cruise liner. I just perused a few online ads for chefs in Budapest... want to make $6.00 an hour making <i>tapas </i>in a fancy downtown tourist joint? That's also the advertised pay rate for a chef at the famous Gerbeaud Cafe... the best advertised chef positions in Hungary pay around US$800 -$1000 a month. <i>You can make four times that in Germany, </i>and so that is where capable Hungarian chefs go, later to return to Hungary sprinkling parsley everywhere and adding ginger and pineapple to their <i>Kalbshnitzel Asiatische arte</i>. The folks working the kitchens here at home tend to be either inexperienced youngsters fresh out of cooking school or grizzled old reprobates too sozzled to hold a job in Austria. And it is reflected the food you are served. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5KfHU1FmDow/YVMI_0J1VyI/AAAAAAAAXyQ/Pi93Ot9FOdwUS0px8SnUoFP45HRzG4d1QCLcBGAsYHQ/s867/20200625_114758.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="867" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5KfHU1FmDow/YVMI_0J1VyI/AAAAAAAAXyQ/Pi93Ot9FOdwUS0px8SnUoFP45HRzG4d1QCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/20200625_114758.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><i>Székely Guly<span face="arial, sans-serif" style="color: #5f6368;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px;">á</span></span>s.</i>.. has nothing to do with either Székelys or goulash. </td></tr></tbody></table><div>As we noted on this blog, our local favorite, the <a href="http://horinca.blogspot.com/2020/06/the-end-of-kadar-etkezde.html">Kadar Étkezde, closed last year,</a> a financial victim of the first phase of the covid-19 pandemic. The Kadar was an <i>étkezde, </i>which are small restaurants that often only serve a limited menu for lunch, and are often located off the main streets in small, unassuming shop fronts. Although I doubted anything could ever replace our beloved Kadar, I had heard that the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/romaetelbar2020/">Roma Ételbar, an étkezde in Buda,</a> had closed down in 2019, but it had such a <a href="https://streetkitchen.hu/street-kitchen/ujra-kinyitott-a-roma-etelbar-mi-voltunk-az-elso-vendegek-megkostoltunk-mindent/">loyal following t</a>hat a few young <a href="https://welovebudapest.com/cikk/2020/3/3/aki-magaz-az-100-ft-ot-tesz-a-zsebembe-ujranyitott-a-roma-etelbar-es-cica-is-visszatert">investors got together and reopened it,</a> preserving not only the original décor and menu, but hiring the original owner, Cica, to keep the spirit of the place going as well. We had to try it. Luckily, it is located a few blacks away from our health clinic, so we gave it a try. The first person you meet as you approach the place is the legendary owner, Cica.</div></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KZM7qCwIni8/YVMhei6lD3I/AAAAAAAAXyY/X9CqIEvQUqkzTxfomWHXIZJh4Z2nbhvHACLcBGAsYHQ/s867/20200625_113851.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="867" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KZM7qCwIni8/YVMhei6lD3I/AAAAAAAAXyY/X9CqIEvQUqkzTxfomWHXIZJh4Z2nbhvHACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/20200625_113851.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kitten in command</td></tr></tbody></table><div>Cica ("kitten") is in her late 70s, having run the Roma for over 36 years, but she still shows up every day and takes her seat by the door, making sure that everyone is happy and aware of the specials and that they know they would really like a bowl of cold cherry soup or glass of good old retro raspberry syrup soda to go with their meals. She is lot more than a hostess<i>.</i> She is the <i>étkezde Goddess.</i> One must Obey Her. The food at Roma is classic Hungarian lunch: beef or pork paprika stews, tripe (<i>pacal) </i>with potatoes, and potato pasta, a surprisingly good simple mix of paprika spuds and thick square noodles that reflects the older, hardier meals that kept our grandparents going before protein became affordable. The salads are familiar to anybody who has ever sat at Grandma's table: cucumbers in sour cream, simple sliced tomato, cabbage and horseradish.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--8h3A6tH_NQ/YVMlOhHK8TI/AAAAAAAAXyg/8PnwB1_OzdYv5TZrdnjNnKyCpGGOdfk8ACLcBGAsYHQ/s867/20200625_114714.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="867" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--8h3A6tH_NQ/YVMlOhHK8TI/AAAAAAAAXyg/8PnwB1_OzdYv5TZrdnjNnKyCpGGOdfk8ACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/20200625_114714.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>What is this tripe that sits before me?</i></td></tr></tbody></table><div>The Roma doesn't have a huge menu, but everything at the Roma Ételbar is a perfect version of a Hungarian classic dish. It is a must visit if you have visitors from abroad who want Magyar flavor without the <i>fru-fru</i> and snotty waiters. Also, it is convenient to the Buda Castle - where no sentient being should ever even consider sitting down and ordering anything beyond a Snickers bar. (I know that the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Mekons">Mekons </a>enjoyed a lunch at the Roma a couple of years ago when they were in Budapest, so there is a good chance you will too. The Mekons have exquisite taste.)</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A-DSmhAXnTk/YVMpnfO3mYI/AAAAAAAAXyo/3U9PbZ7Tbj01W-7pkOmcmh7vzir55tmGQCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/243111366_1236502816869609_3034499082122494152_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A-DSmhAXnTk/YVMpnfO3mYI/AAAAAAAAXyo/3U9PbZ7Tbj01W-7pkOmcmh7vzir55tmGQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h400/243111366_1236502816869609_3034499082122494152_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>Also: I recommend going while the weather is nice: they have great outdoor seating on the street, but avoid going in large groups because they are not really set up for it. It may be in one of the least appealing aluminum and cement neighborhoods of<b> Buda, at Csalogány utca 20 </b>between Széna tér and Batthyány metro stations, but it is an island of wonderfulness in a sea of cement. And do not go late: the Roma is open for business every day between 11 AM and 4 PM. We usually try to get there before noon, at the latest, to avoid waiting for a table.</div>dumneazuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03595663581295671582noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21879466.post-20942057561053514212021-09-20T06:02:00.002-04:002021-09-20T06:46:53.887-04:00Romanian Stuffed Cabbage and That Old Jewish Guy Who Collects Folk Music <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-48LWiSwiq28/YUhVJv6sGVI/AAAAAAAAXmM/vF3uPOhBGfk6POl8l-3UzGhUj-cWgKkQACLcBGAsYHQ/s1200/received_222894809885252.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="801" data-original-width="1200" height="268" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-48LWiSwiq28/YUhVJv6sGVI/AAAAAAAAXmM/vF3uPOhBGfk6POl8l-3UzGhUj-cWgKkQACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h268/received_222894809885252.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p>My son messaged me yesterday that all his friends had heard me mentioned on the podcast of the <a href="https://444.hu/2021/09/19/a-popzene-merkely-belaja-a-legjobb-helyek-miskolcon-a-legszemetebb-meduza-zalatnay-drogot-nepszerusit" target="_blank">Budapest news portal 444.hu, and </a>that they said that they liked my food blogging. They actually said that if you wanted to find decent, honest food around Hungary you ought to depend on advice coming from English language bloggers, like the one written by "Some old Jewish fiddler who lives downtown with his Japanese wife who collects folk music." OK. My cover is blown. I was hoping everybody would think I was some retired British rock star living with a sexy Russian spy/diplomat, but now the truth is out. My fictional alter would probably drive an Audi, nibble on caviar, fly first class, and never eat stuffed cabbage in Romania. I, however, have been living on the stuff for a couple of weeks now. And looking for older fiddlers in the Iza Valley of Maramures in Northern Transylvania in Romania.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-C9emjFpz92s/YUglsMnxNxI/AAAAAAAAXk4/qJZRQ4_ds9sJC1jmPrmK4o66PkPXqF5SQCPcBGAsYHg/s3264/20210906_075348.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-C9emjFpz92s/YUglsMnxNxI/AAAAAAAAXk4/qJZRQ4_ds9sJC1jmPrmK4o66PkPXqF5SQCPcBGAsYHg/w400-h300/20210906_075348.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I have, indeed, been collecting folk fiddle music in Romania for years, and I am there now, tapping away furiously on my tablet in the village of Ieud, in the Iza valley of Maramures. In 2000 we stayed at one of the five houses in the village that had indoor plumbing. Today... am using the village internet network and sipping espresso... although I tend to eat at the home of our host, a woman we have known in Ieud since we first came to record the fiddler Gheorghe Ioannei Covaci in 1999, almost every home we visit offers us a feast when we visit. The hospitality of the <i>Moroseni</i>, as people from Maramures are known, is boundless, and part of that hospitality is liquid: <i>horinca</i>, clear fruit brandy distilled three times into a clear, hellishly strong schnapps that is pure enough that you can drink it without fear of raging hangovers. And drink it they do! I actually stopped drinking back in the spring. No good reason, I just did, but I make an exception up here. Most drinking in Maramures is ritualized and social. It is the welcome wagon in a glass when you enter a house. You always begin a meal with a shot of horinca. <div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-x3-HGA8qufo/YUhIzENyMDI/AAAAAAAAXlk/CyxQYbeTIko5dhXCame1QI8BetKQJi5jgCPcBGAsYHg/s3264/20210905_115925.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-x3-HGA8qufo/YUhIzENyMDI/AAAAAAAAXlk/CyxQYbeTIko5dhXCame1QI8BetKQJi5jgCPcBGAsYHg/s320/20210905_115925.jpg" width="320" /></a>u</div><div><div><br /></div><div>Sarmale is stuffed cabbage, and if you think there is only one type, think again. Right now we are eating a summer version, which is made from fresh cabbage leaves which are parboiled and then brined in salt water and vinegar befored being stuffed. In colder months people use leaves from whole heads of cabbage made into fermented sourkraut in large buckets. Then there is the filling. In Romania, where country folk remain devoutly religious, lent is taken seriously and a lot of the year feature meatless days. This is served by meatless sarmale de post (Lenten sarmale) filled with rice, carrots, and mushrooms. Otherwise, the filling usually includes soaked rice, onions, and smoked pork. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-z_E3QLTSEXU/YUhOUzi5KpI/AAAAAAAAXlw/apaLZ2ftwzgBk4m9sQUSb-mQwHVRaGsOwCPcBGAsYHg/s3264/20210905_115954.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-z_E3QLTSEXU/YUhOUzi5KpI/AAAAAAAAXlw/apaLZ2ftwzgBk4m9sQUSb-mQwHVRaGsOwCPcBGAsYHg/w400-h300/20210905_115954.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>Stuffed cabbage is something you always make in bulk. Like all cabbage foods, it improves with time, reaching cabbage and rice nirvana around 36 hours after cooking. This is the reason so many visitors to Hungary are disappointed at Hungarian restaurants. They arrive expecting to try Grandma's stuffed cabbage in the old country and find to their horror that it is almost never on any menu. Hungarian law requires restaurants to prepare and serve all dishes on the same day. Time consuming preparations like stuffed cabbage (and stuffed peppers) that require a day to ripen and reheat are nearly impossible to find except at home. Szekely kaposzta, a blend of stewed sourkrat and paprika pork stew tend to serve as a stand in for the real thing, but luckily you can find sarmale in most restuarants in Romania. If you are ever in Cluj ( or Kolozsvar in Hungarian or Clujenstadt or some other, real name in German , Kokoshvar in Romani) go to the Restaurant Varzarie (The Cabbagerie) on Strada Eroilor 35-37 for some of the best sarmale in the world. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KZBMm9tYW8Q/YUhSggTxTVI/AAAAAAAAXl8/hXZSzaZdPXcBJ30eBGJHX5tCQXfnCDxhwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1200/received_611087446585147.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="801" data-original-width="1200" height="268" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KZBMm9tYW8Q/YUhSggTxTVI/AAAAAAAAXl8/hXZSzaZdPXcBJ30eBGJHX5tCQXfnCDxhwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h268/received_611087446585147.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>While we were recording Covaci Gheorghe, who at 88 may be the oldest fiddler in Maramures, his daughter treated us to some of amazing Dobrudja style sarmale. She explained that her mother in law came from the Black sea region of Dobrudja and she had learned the Turkish style beef stuffed grape leaf version preferred by her husband, who is from that region. They were fantastic, and like a lot of Turkish influenced dobrudja dishes, free of forbidden pork. I happen to like forbidden pork, but I like Turkish influenced Romanian cuisine better. I got to make some plans to visit the Dobrudja again sometime soon.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LLFwIOBz9F0/YUhS7fJtvfI/AAAAAAAAXmE/ZnwYKeZYswAciASpAf9VQORbL59K4ELjgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1200/received_394435558928748.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="801" data-original-width="1200" height="268" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LLFwIOBz9F0/YUhS7fJtvfI/AAAAAAAAXmE/ZnwYKeZYswAciASpAf9VQORbL59K4ELjgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h268/received_394435558928748.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>This trip is the first time we have done any traveling since the covid19 pandemic began, and with the immanent rise of the delta variant I have no idea when we will be able to return. Romania takes its covid precautions seriously - masks are always worn indoors, on transport, and free vaccinations are available in shopping centers. But the virus likes the cold weather, so it may be a while before we feel this safe travelling again.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XI3_L-lslZo/YUhaXRixyiI/AAAAAAAAXmU/tfwCaFWoUy0HO1lOPTimmQTGMS5wmOZlACLcBGAsYHQ/s1200/received_970815640163801.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="801" data-original-width="1200" height="268" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XI3_L-lslZo/YUhaXRixyiI/AAAAAAAAXmU/tfwCaFWoUy0HO1lOPTimmQTGMS5wmOZlACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h268/received_970815640163801.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>We will be back...<br /><br /></div></div></div>dumneazuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03595663581295671582noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21879466.post-69728796548356919272021-06-15T05:47:00.002-04:002021-06-15T08:53:41.151-04:00Things Fall Apart: Seafood in Hungary.<p><br /></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CykzdhjFD_I/YMXo2ea1duI/AAAAAAAAW5w/9eanxQIdRq48VeEj3l3U9rjCOQ8i_75BgCLcBGAsYHQ/s650/IMG_3752.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="oyster" border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="650" height="446" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CykzdhjFD_I/YMXo2ea1duI/AAAAAAAAW5w/9eanxQIdRq48VeEj3l3U9rjCOQ8i_75BgCLcBGAsYHQ/w446-h446/IMG_3752.JPG" title="The post-covid world is our oyster" width="446" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>An Oyster. In Hungary. </i></td></tr></tbody></table><div>I know that this is something of a blog record for not posting (since November!) but I have a perfectly lame excuse: the covid pandemic! For a year now there has been no travels, adventures, visitors, or even trout. Covid has put the kabosh on all of that. We've all been living through it, surviving as best we can. We retreat into ourselves. We become boring. Basically... <i>we make lunch</i>.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4hpuSKIX8c0/YMXuKS2VekI/AAAAAAAAW54/5FTe08VDwwQdSKk4oDFRLIFTS6GIaT2gQCLcBGAsYHQ/s650/IMG_3604.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="650" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4hpuSKIX8c0/YMXuKS2VekI/AAAAAAAAW54/5FTe08VDwwQdSKk4oDFRLIFTS6GIaT2gQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h400/IMG_3604.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>An effective response to the covid pandemic: Shrimp pesto with tagliatelle.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><div><p>Given my age and my less than perfect physical state I'm a prime target for the Covid-19 virus. Those little corona spikes were virtually designed for me! A few of those not-quite-living critters may be floating around in a droplet of sneeze juice and if they see me they just go weak at the knees and want to use my biological real estate to replicate their little strands of DNA... and I am not going to give the little spikey bastids any easy advantages. At least not here, on my home ground. Hungary managed to pull together during the first two waves of the virus, shutting down the borders and enforcing curfews and limiting meetings. The situation was admirable until the third wave hit late last fall, and since then Hungary topped the list for the world's highest death rate for covid patients. Hospitals were not a good place to be: remember the ad slogan for Raid Ant and Cockroach Hotel traps? <i>They check in, but they don't check out...</i> Things have gotten better recently, but the best advice I can share for aging Jewish fiddlers in Hungary is to simply <i>do not get sick.</i></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OiFfzqO0W24/YMXuTmY42KI/AAAAAAAAW58/Vj9bRGMHGvQo1Ior6WNUEsZ7Ts1Zo0hxgCLcBGAsYHQ/s650/IMG_3207.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="650" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OiFfzqO0W24/YMXuTmY42KI/AAAAAAAAW58/Vj9bRGMHGvQo1Ior6WNUEsZ7Ts1Zo0hxgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h400/IMG_3207.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Shrimp and Scallops.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p><br />On the other hand, Hungary has one of the world's most successful vaccination programs - all kinds of vaccines were purchased and distributed, from Pfizer, Moderna and AZ down to a few that seem to have been tossed into the delivery bag alongside the Szechuan spicy pork and shrimp rolls. And - a remarkable feat of Hungarian beauracracy - I have still not managed to get vaccinated, even though I have registered and pestered local doctors and followed every rumor and lead I can. Only the Government - not private clinics - can distribute vaccines and decide who gets them. Rumor from the embassies is that foreigners and other folks lacking Hungarian social security numbers will be able to get our shots at the end of this month. (They said the same thing last month, but heck... we're keeping our fingers crossed. In Central Europe, as we all know,<i> official spokesmen never lie!)</i></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="650" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fVvlDbZIR1k/YMXu3NSQq6I/AAAAAAAAW6E/iO0bVE7HE1QUU9jdZLyKzwrpHVh4Id9IQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h400/IMG_3665.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><i>Traditional Hungarian shrimp pesto risotto.</i></td></tr></tbody></table>So we keep to ourselves, maintaining a rigid social isolation that means we rarely go out except to do our shopping or ride bicycles for exercise, we avoid crowds, we don't eat out, and since the relaxing of mask rules in Hungary and much of Europe, we still keep our masks on in public. And that makes for pretty boring blog subjects. What we actually do is... spend a lot of time preparing intricate meals. Of fish, preferably. </div><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-C5tLwY-TVnQ/YMXvAkVaQPI/AAAAAAAAW6I/-eVR0xDjBrIwWRJuHqDXxrafwK3mFMsQgCLcBGAsYHQ/s650/IMG_3546.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="650" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-C5tLwY-TVnQ/YMXvAkVaQPI/AAAAAAAAW6I/-eVR0xDjBrIwWRJuHqDXxrafwK3mFMsQgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h400/IMG_3546.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Locally smoked salmon and Russian black bread.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>Early this spring a fish seller appeared at our local Klauzal ter market offering something we hadn't seen in a long, long time: fresh fish. Let me qualify that: fresh good fish at a very affordable price. He displayed the usual carp and bullhead, but also fresh dorado, branzino, salmon, and even haddock - my favorite North Atlantic fish. Fresh tuna. Smoked tuna - and salmon, both of which he expertly smoked himself. He also offered fresh shrimp, scallops, and sardines. Once we became regular customers he even offered us each a free oyster. I took it home, popped the shell, and immediately wanted to sell my vintage 1934 Gibson mandolin and buy more oysters. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yB49hmruXkg/YMhqPORIW5I/AAAAAAAAW7E/-g6y0WXNzpYHg3iYzhuSDMw_SC3h4Uz2QCLcBGAsYHQ/s964/20210401_202601.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="723" data-original-width="964" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yB49hmruXkg/YMhqPORIW5I/AAAAAAAAW7E/-g6y0WXNzpYHg3iYzhuSDMw_SC3h4Uz2QCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/20210401_202601.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tuna sashimi with daikon radish.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Until now we could get fish in Hungary, but only if that fish is carp or any of its lesser, bonier, and more garbage oriented smaller relatives known collectively in the English language as "trash fish." We can also get catfish: either the traditional <i>harcsa</i>, European Wels catfish which grows as big as Volkswagens on the muddy bottoms of whatever industrial trough passes for as river in these parts: or the "African catfish" which is a fishlike product artificially cloned by Tesco and other supermarket chains for its ability to resemble fish. There is also <i>törpeharcsa </i>"dwarf catfish" which is the American brown bullhead. It is a fine eating fish in its native North American waters - kind of like a KFC chicken leg that swims - but in Hungary it is a thumb sized pest with sharp spikey fins that clogs waters and is mainly boiled into a fishy sludge as a base for a fish soup. I'll pass.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-E4Ojxeffl2o/YMXvJUeY7_I/AAAAAAAAW6Q/2zVixO1CTC0zJjwHDRtowRwMEpA4-L1pwCLcBGAsYHQ/s723/IMG_3278.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="723" data-original-width="723" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-E4Ojxeffl2o/YMXvJUeY7_I/AAAAAAAAW6Q/2zVixO1CTC0zJjwHDRtowRwMEpA4-L1pwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h400/IMG_3278.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sole, also known as "better flounder"</td></tr></tbody></table><p>As a general rule, Hungarians do not like ocean fish. Compared to the more familiar freshwater carp the meat of sea fish seems hard and dry and lacks the sharp Y-shaped carp bones that Hungarians have grown to love in their fishermen's soup (prepared in a stock of spicy paprika and pulverized bullhead sludge.) When Hungarians do eat oceanic fish it is usually in the form of <i>hekk</i> - frozen whole Norwegian hake served as a snack fried at beaches and riverside snack bars.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Kt_y49rVZuA/YMhrH5b4ZyI/AAAAAAAAW7M/eZG3wFWUVJwBvc22GZhz2A2mH9fy2jP-QCLcBGAsYHQ/s867/201707222.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="578" data-original-width="867" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Kt_y49rVZuA/YMhrH5b4ZyI/AAAAAAAAW7M/eZG3wFWUVJwBvc22GZhz2A2mH9fy2jP-QCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h266/201707222.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Hekk</i>. </td></tr></tbody></table><p><i>Hekk </i>isn't the worst thing: it originates in an ocean, albeit one far, far away. It is usually served at snack bars at beaches located on lakes because in Hungary it naturally occurs frozen and then battered and deep fried and served next to soggy French fries with a pickle. It is a boney fish, but mainly it has one huge mega-bone running all along its body so you don't have much to fear. That's basically the non-carp repertoire of Hungarian seafood dishes. But <i>hekk </i>does satisfy an urge for beach resort fish and chips if you are drunk and don't want ice cream for lunch. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aQY73NZa-84/YMXvRBfh7FI/AAAAAAAAW6Y/BVdUsY6FKe8xbhaeTOgC6IaafuU5TeQCwCLcBGAsYHQ/s650/IMG_3287.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="650" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aQY73NZa-84/YMXvRBfh7FI/AAAAAAAAW6Y/BVdUsY6FKe8xbhaeTOgC6IaafuU5TeQCwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h400/IMG_3287.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The sole object of our affections.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Recently some ocean fish, primarily the Mediterranean Sea Bream (dorado) and Sea Bass (branzino) have become widely available in some local supermarket chains. Hungarians are familiar with these fish due to the popularity of the Croatian coast - particularly the city of Zadar - as a magnet for Magyar holiday goers every summer. Needless to say, no fishermen are involved, since these two species are both artificially spawned in aquaculture farms. Which is to say they are cheap. The problem is that they are never really fresh. They are refrigerated, for sure, but only in the same sense that Ötzi the Ice Man was kept fresh atop an Alpine glacier. Looking at the eyes of a fish - or of a frozen ice age hunter - should usually tell if they are fresh or not. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FJpMT7VKEts/YMXvaEL_YRI/AAAAAAAAW6g/7nH7LiUdTYY6vNuT5br2P5d20x7FZcrjgCLcBGAsYHQ/s650/IMG_3947.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="650" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FJpMT7VKEts/YMXvaEL_YRI/AAAAAAAAW6g/7nH7LiUdTYY6vNuT5br2P5d20x7FZcrjgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h400/IMG_3947.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Shrimp and Asparagus risotto. </i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>I know fresh fish. I was raised in New York, and lived many years in Boston, so I have always expected my fish to be fresh and - ahem - from an ocean. I often traipse down to the water to catch and kill them myself. (But not trout or grayling.) My wife is from Tokyo and knows fish better than me, and in fact she believes all the fish in the entire planet personally belong to her. And yet we choose to live in a landlocked nation where people eat carp bones and bullhead sludge. So yes, when a new fishmonger appeared at the market across the street from us we did react like Evangelicals meeting Jesus in the parking lot of a suburban Walmart. We crapped our pants. We were happy. For a few months... </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rtvwx9WwQpA/YMhw9ovIprI/AAAAAAAAW7U/JeXpP1ebIAUTcJnYutY6PYsZpLFrdyCfgCLcBGAsYHQ/s800/kepkonyvtar_82434_100153.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="591" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rtvwx9WwQpA/YMhw9ovIprI/AAAAAAAAW7U/JeXpP1ebIAUTcJnYutY6PYsZpLFrdyCfgCLcBGAsYHQ/w295-h400/kepkonyvtar_82434_100153.jpg" width="295" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>"Say Beef, why so sad? Because CARP IS BACK AGAIN!"</i></td></tr></tbody></table><i><br /></i></div><div><i>"Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold / Mere Anarchy is loosed upon the world."</i> William Butler Yeats really knew how to describe the feeling when you walk into a market hall on a Thursday morning expecting to find you fish seller and he is not there. We did what any fish eating cosmopolitan covid stranded in a landlocked country would do: panic. We asked the neighboring vegetable seller if she had any news of the phantom fishmonger. "He's gone. Don't expect him back." <i>NO! No!</i> No! This would not do... I searched out the market manager and got a cagey "The fish seller? He's on vacation... for a while..." We are devastated. Our world has collapsed. I spent the last week in virtual vegetarian penance praying for the return of fresh fish at our market. We have our fingers crossed, though. Come back, fish guy... come back!</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZT-S-k2He0o/YMh0ZnktbYI/AAAAAAAAW7c/5sjyNlhm1i8UVO-s8Fo_EBXIrGkERrCDwCPcBGAsYHg/s3264/20200314_123217.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZT-S-k2He0o/YMh0ZnktbYI/AAAAAAAAW7c/5sjyNlhm1i8UVO-s8Fo_EBXIrGkERrCDwCPcBGAsYHg/s320/20200314_123217.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>As you can guess, I haven't updated the blog in a half a year, and I needed an excuse to post all these pictures of delicious fish. As soon as we get vaxxed and get our vaccine passports and things seems safe enough to get out and around more, I will start updating more frequently. But the sad truth is... not a heck of a lot is happening around here lately, at least in our balliwick.</div>dumneazuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03595663581295671582noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21879466.post-14766097300429353382020-12-01T04:46:00.004-05:002020-12-01T05:27:28.882-05:00Hungarian Goose for Thanksgiving! <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_ULTcwUas6I/X8Tm-Q8czWI/AAAAAAAAWP8/ZnvvLUofZLozIEC-ACbbgs9P_doWnU7LACPcBGAsYHg/s3264/20201119_154337.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_ULTcwUas6I/X8Tm-Q8czWI/AAAAAAAAWP8/ZnvvLUofZLozIEC-ACbbgs9P_doWnU7LACPcBGAsYHg/w400-h300/20201119_154337.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>November - that bastard child of the calendar, a blurry sump pit of grey days and unfortunate holidays - has finally passed. We know this because thousands of Americans have loudly celebrated Thanksgiving last week, chowing down on synthetic domestic turkeys and stuffing in simulated Zoom family gatherings. And then there is Black Friday, a mindless consumer orgy culminating in... Christmas? We don't do Thanksgiving in Hungary - no fanatic English Pilgrims washed up on the shores of the Danube to swindle the Hungarians out of their land and concoct tales of a happy feast to honor the myth. There is no horrific November turkey massacre in Hungary. Turkey is mainly available on school lunch menus and as cheap breast meat for <i>shnitzels</i>. You won't find a whole turkey for a thanksgiving roast unless you know a specialty butcher who can order it for you. But we Central Europeans do have a favorite edible Big Bird. November 11 is Saint Martin's Day, and in Hungary (as well as Austria and the Czech reservation) we gorge on goose.</div><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NhD3Tw28TwU/X8TmmjnDYaI/AAAAAAAAWPw/DE3BjIRhp38kNPVZyJlAHKAKwjFLwpsEACLcBGAsYHQ/s714/06martin.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="714" height="393" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NhD3Tw28TwU/X8TmmjnDYaI/AAAAAAAAWPw/DE3BjIRhp38kNPVZyJlAHKAKwjFLwpsEACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h393/06martin.jpg" title="Saint Martin offering a nice slice of cloak to the Savior" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Care for a slice of my cloak?</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><div>Saint Martin is not on anybody's A-list of saints. Apparently he was a Roman soldier who shared his red cloak (which I suppose is a nice warm bit of outer clothing) with a freezing beggar who then revealed himself to be Jesus Christ His Own Self, thus guaranteeing Marty a place in the heavenly kitchen alongside other poultry saints such as Colonel Saunders and Anthony Bourdain. I don't know how goose became the focus of Sant Martin's day, but there is a folky saying that if you eat goose on Saint Martin's Day you won't be hungry for the coming year. The celebration seems to have been a bigger deal over in Austria and Czechia, and became popular in Hungary as a restaurant week marketing ploy during the 1990s. This year, however, restaurants have been closed (except for delivery orders) by the covid pandemic which meant that there was an huge glut of goose meat on the market. Prices plunged... We picked up a whole huge honker at our local supermarket from the cut-price sale cooler for FT2500. That is about US$ 7.00 for a fat plucked bird the size of your average roll-on luggage case. </div><div> </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OnbB9mvrOFA/X8Tsjbl_wbI/AAAAAAAAWQU/TVUtcLnw1dUEDIT0SzM4pSaI-bZDOQtWACLcBGAsYHQ/s775/liba%25C3%25A1rusok-mak%25C3%25B3.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="775" height="258" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OnbB9mvrOFA/X8Tsjbl_wbI/AAAAAAAAWQU/TVUtcLnw1dUEDIT0SzM4pSaI-bZDOQtWACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h258/liba%25C3%25A1rusok-mak%25C3%25B3.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jewish goose dealers in the Mako Market, 1920s. <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div>We fed off of that bird for a good week. Goose is the Hungarian Jewish equivalent of what the buffalo was to the plains Indians, except we didn't make clothes or tents out of the thing. First, I butchered it with my trusty chinese chef cleaver: legs off, breast off, and then quartered the carcass. We roasted the carcass first and then made soup, while saving the rendered fat for future projects like making matzo balls and flavoring chopped liver (<i>yes, I actually do eat a bit on the Jewish side of things.</i>) Hungarians rarely cook goose at home, given that Hungarian kitchen stoves tend to the small side and local geese tend to resemble feathered Volkswagens. Goose is a usually restaurant specialty. As I mentioned in the last post, we usually took advantage of the goose offered by the <a href="http://horinca.blogspot.com/2020/06/the-end-of-kadar-etkezde.html">now sadly defunct Kadar Etkezde</a> across the square from us.</div></div></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Nz_zO0znrnQ/X8Tq1ddqMFI/AAAAAAAAWQI/hk3cU1zmy0QKrTVR6mSksJLbMLTm0WUXQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/DSCN2838.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Nz_zO0znrnQ/X8Tq1ddqMFI/AAAAAAAAWQI/hk3cU1zmy0QKrTVR6mSksJLbMLTm0WUXQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/DSCN2838.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Goose meat loaf on Solet at the late, great Kadar Etkezde</td></tr></tbody></table><div>Kadar offered a modernized - that is non-Kosher - version of traditional Hungarian Jewish cooking, in which goose fat substituted for lard - the basic oil of Hungarian cooking. Basicallly, Kadar was a Jewish restaurant serving pork chops and various nosstalgic Hungarian dishes that in most cases disappeared from menus after 1990. The legendary Hungarian chef Karoly Gundel's famous cookbook starts off on the first page with the rule that onions must be sauteed in pig fat without any substitute allowed - and he built a culinary empire based around it. Jews, on the other hand, chose goose fat as their basic cooking medium. In pre-refrigeration days the goose meat itself was likely to be butchered and smoked for long term storage. There is nothing quite as good as beans cooked with smoked goose breast, but lacking anything resembling a smoker (<i>geez</i>, we live downtown I don't even have a balcony) I simply pan fried the breasts as I do with duck.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SAoFJXnt3as/X8T1X-EM8FI/AAAAAAAAWQg/wtFtszBlN1M_WBNAYNfTP9QHmoN88Zo6wCPcBGAsYHg/s3264/20201118_150810.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SAoFJXnt3as/X8T1X-EM8FI/AAAAAAAAWQg/wtFtszBlN1M_WBNAYNfTP9QHmoN88Zo6wCPcBGAsYHg/w400-h300/20201118_150810.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Goose breast with sauce made from stewed apples and plums in white wine.</td></tr></tbody></table><div>That left us with huge bits of body meat and wing meat and offal (liver, kidneys, heart and neck) and the stock, so next up was <i>ludaskása </i>(Hungarian goose pilaf.) <i>Ludaskása </i>is a play on out of date old Hungarian language: <i>lud </i>is the old term for goose and <i>kasa </i>refers to a family of medieval boiled sludge passing as food that were often based on buckwheat or oats. Today <i>ludaskása </i>is made with rice but it is one of the few classic Hungarian recipes that predates the use of paprika (which came into fashion only in the 19th century.) It really is just a third generation Turkish pilaf by another name.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-46bPNi8qNmE/X8T5UQWsA4I/AAAAAAAAWQs/gEDl2DAp93MmaD8MODqUf_hty1KhtiLYACPcBGAsYHg/s3264/20201120_132248.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-46bPNi8qNmE/X8T5UQWsA4I/AAAAAAAAWQs/gEDl2DAp93MmaD8MODqUf_hty1KhtiLYACPcBGAsYHg/w400-h300/20201120_132248.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="text-align: left;">Ludaskás</span><span style="text-align: left;">a </span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><div>At least having Goose Week breaks up the covid pandemic monotony. We haven't been able to travel at all this year, which kind of explains the dearth of blog postings, and even within the city of Budapest I find that a day spent inside reading obscure linguistic papers and playing mandolin is a day spent safely isolated from the plague outside. At least we have been able to keep amused watching the train wreck that was the American presidential election. And it is with a great sense of satisfaction that I can look forward to a future without having to wake up daily see the bloated orange face of that lying, child-caging rapist pretending to be the leader of the Free World every evening. No, I did not like him. No I did not vote for him. And no, I do not forgive him... just fuck him and all the furry little critters that came in with him. Its time to breathe again.</div>dumneazuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03595663581295671582noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21879466.post-2539463737095647332020-06-22T05:14:00.002-04:002020-09-30T05:03:31.898-04:00The End of Kadar Etkezde. <span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><br /></span>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">No new posts
since February is a record hiatus for this blog, but I have an excuse. There
was a worldwide pandemic going on.. It is not that I didn’t want to write about
it, but the Apocalypse can be distracting, and with so many writers busy with
the same topic I felt others did it better. (Incidentally, that is the same
excuse I give for why I don’t play bluegrass banjo.) I consider myself lucky
that I left New York and returned to Budapest in mid February, just
before the virus hit New York and Europe in full force. East Europe, for many
reasons, managed to avoid the horrific death tolls seen in Italy, Spain, and
<i>ferchrissakes</i>, the USA. Also, the covid-19 crisis in Hungary was a driving
reason that Our Great Leader (May the Good Lord grant his favorite football
teams victory) was voted emergency powers that some less forgiving (or more
sentient) have likened to a dictatorship. One of those emergency powers is
aimed at freedom of the press, particularly opposition bloggers and Facebook
posters, some of whom have found the <a href="https://insighthungary.444.hu/2020/05/12/he-criticized-the-government-on-facebook-and-was-taken-from-his-home-by-police-at-dawn" target="_blank">police knocking on their doors at dawn and a big black police car waiting outdoors. </a></span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Lockdown Order extended...</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The official explanation for this is
to prevent the spread of misleading news about covid-19. And therefor I decided
that I will not spread any misleading news. Given the prevailing atmosphere, I
wouldn’t spread anything at all, viral or verbal. Hungarians are keenly
apprehensive about what “outsiders” have to say about them, and foreign
journalists regularly receive hyper-nationalistic complaints from various Local Lilliputian
Mugwumps accusing them of “misrepresenting Hungary” … the problem is that now
these have the force of law behind them. So, instead <i>no opinion</i> will be
offered, unless you can find a way to buy me a socially distanced beer and
listen to me complain in person from across a large picnic table. That said, I was
stuck alone in our flat for three months, not venturing farther than <a href="https://horinca.blogspot.com/2017/05/three-minutes-from-my-door-klauzal.html" target="_blank">our local market across the square</a>. During this time I collected, and froze, a decent percentage of Hungary's spring strawberry crop. Unlike most years, there were almost no imported strawberries for sale in our local markets, which is not a bad thing. Hungarian strawberries are fantastic at their seasonal best.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xVWTNH1GIf8/XvBt4XyiVZI/AAAAAAAAVtQ/JjplZHVepwMT4fYC0dhkYXxkCCoxXrNUACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/20200509_143113.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="723" data-original-width="964" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xVWTNH1GIf8/XvBt4XyiVZI/AAAAAAAAVtQ/JjplZHVepwMT4fYC0dhkYXxkCCoxXrNUACLcBGAsYHQ/s400/20200509_143113.jpg" width="400" /></a>r</span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">May in Hungary: all local strawberries</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Budapest is quickly getting
back to normal, faster than I feel comfortable with. My district, which is both
the Jewish Ghetto and the hyper-touristic “party district” is beginning to get
a night life back, although I am not about to go out and enjoy a beer in public
anytime soon. The Covid-19 virus seems specifically designed to seek me out and kill me. I tick off lots
of the boxes for “Face certain death, Earthling!” so I have been safely cowering up in
my third floor Fortress of Solitude, venturing out only to shop at our local
market. </span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WbvB5ZVtNAc/XvBloV0wy1I/AAAAAAAAVsk/I5nt65OPSTsi56CZwds6FXoDoMX86UcxQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/20200509_140855%2B%25281%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="723" data-original-width="964" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WbvB5ZVtNAc/XvBloV0wy1I/AAAAAAAAVsk/I5nt65OPSTsi56CZwds6FXoDoMX86UcxQCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/20200509_140855%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">On a much sadder note, among the casualties in the restaurant business
is the best damn Hungarian restaurant I know of, <a href="https://horinca.blogspot.com/2015/03/the-whiskey-rabbi-returns-to-ghetto.html" target="_blank">Kadar’s Etkezde</a>. Sometime
around mid April a sign appeared on the Kadar announcing “For Sale”. This is
not a minor event. This means that there is no longer any restaurant in
Budapest that I can suggest to visitors looking for an authentic, home style
Hungarian meal of any quality. My guess is that the owner and staff decided
that rather than pay the overhead on the closed lunch spot they could just put
the place up for sale and retire. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-c8X-iMs9jro/XvBl1ISrk7I/AAAAAAAAVso/tfXW1oEkDoEBTz_ZvEE8yWRtUPrki5sEwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/IMG_20170927_130246.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="723" data-original-width="964" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-c8X-iMs9jro/XvBl1ISrk7I/AAAAAAAAVso/tfXW1oEkDoEBTz_ZvEE8yWRtUPrki5sEwCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/IMG_20170927_130246.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">The $5 goose Happy Meal -the Wednesday Special - packed to go.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I will sorely miss their Wednesday goose
risotto, which we used to order for take out, allowing them to pack an
unsightly huge half goose carcass and three fat wings on top of a huge portion
of rice pilaf for FT 1500 (USD $5.00) Once we got it home I would strip the meat from the goose carcasses and it was well enough to make an another batch of goose risotto. I will also miss their sólet, the Hungarian
Jewish version of the Yiddish cholent, which was the house specialty and the
reason the Kadar was first opened in the 1950s and allowed to function as a
private restaurant under Communism, in order to serve the hungry Jewish
comrades working in the neighborhood who missed the comforts of old style Hungarian Jewish food, but didn't mind it being served next to a pork chop just in case any of the Marxist fundamentalists at work were interested in ratting on their Semitic comrades. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Roast Goose Leg with Sólet</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>They used the breast meat from those
goose carcasses for the goose meat loaf they served with the sólet, and the
legs went with either sólet or braised red cabbage. The rest - carcasses and wings - went into the risotto, or more precisely, the pilaf. In Hungarian Jewish cooking goose replaces the role that pork has in Hungarian cooking. It provides meat, cooking fat, and soup stock, and until recently you could get amazing goose salami at the Orthodox kosher butchers shop on Dob utca down the street. Now I honestly can’t tell
you where to go for home style goose meat anymore. I am sure you can find
Hungarian Jewish sólet on some other menu in Budapest – it just won’t be from a
specialist who has fifty years of experience in the genuine product. </span><span> </span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Goose meat loaf and sólet, also more food. </span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>Kadar fell into a beloved, and rapidly
disappearing category: the non-Kosher Jewish restaurant. Most of my favorite
places are "t</span><span>reyfeterias"</span><span>: Katz’s in NYC, Hobby’s in Newark, Chez
Schwartz’ in Montreal. You can’t usually get ham in these places, but they will
serve meat with cheese or sour cream. It weeds out the Glatt Kosher Orthos, but
allows less fastidious Jews some sense of culinary safety. In places like new
York, this cuts out a large segment of the Jewish customer base who still
require strictly kosher food when out of the house. And kosher meals are
usually at a premium price range – this killed the traditional cheap lunch at New
York delicatessens in the 1970s, as more people adopted the stricter Hasidic “Glatt
Kosher” rules and deli prices rocketed. But there will always be an attraction
for non-kosher “Jewish style” deli food. </span><span> </span><span>Nobody eats a Rueben sandwich because it
tastes good… they eat it because it is a corned beef sandwich with sauerkraut
and cheese on it. It has no tradition. Pastrami, now </span><span>that</span><span> carries tradition.
In our family, clams have tradition. When I was 12 my father took me out to
City Island, the fishing hamlet located at the tip of the Bronx, and introduced
me to clams on the half shell. </span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Mamaliga and raw clams, a meal unknown in traditional Romanian Jewish cuisine.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>I believe that original clamfest was intended as a guarantee that I should
never wear the culinary shackles of the Jewish Religion. No practicing Jew in his right mind would ever eat a live
clam. A shrimp, maybe, hidden inside Chinese fried rice… but a clam? The only
thing less kosher would be rabbit, or suckling pig in its mother’s milk. </span><span>Since then clams have become a generational
ritual in the family: my son, born in land locked Hungary, started wolfing down
live bivalves when he was nine. I buy the clams at the Korean supermarket for dirt cheap - one can get a dozen for what you would spend on two clams in a restaurant. And then I shuck them, a technique that takes skill but all of my fingers are still attached to my hand, so I am doing something right. And my Dad is still eating those babies... my brother fed him oysters for his 94th birthday on June 20. The Old Man is still going strong. So Happy Fathers Day, Dad, and we still have dozens of clams to go. </span></span></div>
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<br />dumneazuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03595663581295671582noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21879466.post-32020685820425063062020-02-06T19:01:00.001-05:002020-02-06T23:24:37.730-05:00Give me your tired, your poor, and also your sandwiches!<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ckEPXPiRbK8/Xjx7jQL4ZgI/AAAAAAAAUXc/25p_sDvcAKIRU1uOhjYfQDljzLSvYUY2gCEwYBhgL/s1600/85033728_1418329084995032_1735155186877333504_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ckEPXPiRbK8/Xjx7jQL4ZgI/AAAAAAAAUXc/25p_sDvcAKIRU1uOhjYfQDljzLSvYUY2gCEwYBhgL/s400/85033728_1418329084995032_1735155186877333504_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clemente's Special Italian Sub, Hackensack, New Jersey.</td></tr>
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It has been a Very New Jersey few months with no new posts. But believe me, I have excuses. <i>Lots of excuses.</i> How much can you say about New York and New Jersey that hasn't been said before, especially within the confines of this blog? You want to know about <a href="https://horinca.blogspot.com/2015/07/paterson-new-jersey-part-one-ramadan-in.html" target="_blank">Paterson</a>? We done it! <a href="https://horinca.blogspot.com/2017/02/the-bronxthat-most-maligned-bit-of-new.html" target="_blank">The Bronx?</a> I sincerely direct first time readers to our archives, wherein you can read about <a href="http://horinca.blogspot.com/2006/11/tiny-burgers-of-new-jersey-white-manna.html" target="_blank">tiny hamburgers</a>, <a href="https://horinca.blogspot.com/2013/12/2013-year-in-chinese-noodles.html" target="_blank">chinese noodle soups</a>, <a href="https://horinca.blogspot.com/2009/05/sarajevo-cevap-report-part-one-sarajevo.html" target="_blank">Balkan meatwads</a>, <a href="http://horinca.blogspot.com/2015/06/do-not-take-salamis-of-hungarians.html" target="_blank">Hungarian salamis</a>, <a href="http://horinca.blogspot.com/2006/12/tiny-burgers-of-new-jersey-ii-white.html" target="_blank">more tiny hamburgers</a>, and <a href="https://horinca.blogspot.com/2019/11/transylvania-goulash-and-trumpet.html" target="_blank">wild boar goulash from Romania</a>. With over fourteen years of content, bouncing between Budapest, New York, and the Balkans this blog should keep you amused for hours. Also I spent a couple of weeks in Hackensack Meridian Hospital, so that also counts as an excuse. <i>Don't worry... I'm OK</i>. But my post-sick-puppy recovery period limited my adventure range to New Jersey, causing me to shuttle from the Kosher vastness of Teaneck across the mighty Hackensack River to the exotic allure of ethnic eats in Hackensack. (Also, a lot of blood tests.)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NIw8JpBOg3Q/Xjx7ROrhuJI/AAAAAAAAUXM/zJJERU3PtUkLKjKn77BHfLAebEb4BNwkACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/83915084_843910242722268_7398206906822557696_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="717" data-original-width="960" height="298" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NIw8JpBOg3Q/Xjx7ROrhuJI/AAAAAAAAUXM/zJJERU3PtUkLKjKn77BHfLAebEb4BNwkACLcBGAsYHQ/s400/83915084_843910242722268_7398206906822557696_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cosmo's Salumeria. 705 Main St, Hackensack, NJ 07601 (Closes at 6 pm!)</td></tr>
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Yes, I will pronounce the <i>Love that Dare Not Speak Its Name: </i><a href="https://horinca.blogspot.com/2017/02/i-love-new-jersey.html" target="_blank">I love New Jersey! </a>Unlike 85% of the people who spent time growing up in the Garden State and then left, I actually like New Jersey. One reason: the constantly changing ethnic mix in New Jersey means that we get to eat the best lunch food the world has to offer, much of which comes loaded between two hunks of bread with pepper sauce on top. <i>Sandwiches, they good</i>.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uRKN6PFm91k/XjyHB4CAkOI/AAAAAAAAUX4/rJqpwehhua0RxE7JexQ8eLZ70ZjGuFEAgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/20200128_151430.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="723" data-original-width="964" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uRKN6PFm91k/XjyHB4CAkOI/AAAAAAAAUX4/rJqpwehhua0RxE7JexQ8eLZ70ZjGuFEAgCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/20200128_151430.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cosmo's Salumeria. Mom and Pop style if Mom and Pop came from Italy.</td></tr>
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(And no, we are not sharing any of our NJ sandwiches with Trumpito and his lackey, Stephen 'Haman' Miller (insider joke for Purim!) They will have to eat at McDonald's forever. They would very definitely not be welcomed in Hackensack. When I was first waking up in the Hospital, a nurse from the Dominican Republic asked me the required questions: "What is your name? What is the date? Do you know where you are? Who is the President of the United States?" to which I answered "Uh...OH FUCK NO!" "You OK, Papi, you gonna be alright.")<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XDBJtOTV304/Xjx7Xo4eZiI/AAAAAAAAUXQ/IEfIaMY-zr4eKGRxZVieMiqSHkhOM1XhQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/20200128_151349.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="723" data-original-width="964" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XDBJtOTV304/Xjx7Xo4eZiI/AAAAAAAAUXQ/IEfIaMY-zr4eKGRxZVieMiqSHkhOM1XhQCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/20200128_151349.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ham, salami, home made mozzarella, hot pepper salad from Cosmo's. </td></tr>
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Our last post addressed the Italian hero sandwich, a marvel of local Italian American cuisine that has been sorely overlooked amidst the explosion of exotic local cuisines.<a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Cosmos-Italian-Salumeria/141467545893843" target="_blank"> Cosmo's Salumeria, </a>a tiny Italian deli and sandwich shop somewhat outside of the business center of Hackensack has won a number of accolades, including <a href="https://www.saveur.com/best-italian-deli-new-jersey-cosmo-salumeria/" target="_blank">Saveur magazine which called it "The Best Deli Sandwich in New Jersey."</a> They might just be right. The sandwiches are huge, and the price is low for something this good. But you will be back.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IpB76R5VPdA/Xjx7e2wlyyI/AAAAAAAAUXo/r840mPICaTALpg3WPNh9JL8cuy0JTXj_ACEwYBhgL/s1600/84765258_608841523012078_7549737128301690880_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="717" data-original-width="960" height="298" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IpB76R5VPdA/Xjx7e2wlyyI/AAAAAAAAUXo/r840mPICaTALpg3WPNh9JL8cuy0JTXj_ACEwYBhgL/s400/84765258_608841523012078_7549737128301690880_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Home made stuff for a seriously great sandwich.</td></tr>
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Cosmo's is run by a real Italian Mom and Pop who make their unsalted mozzarella fresh daily, know all of their customers by name, have adorable Italian accents, and accept only cash. The menu list is small, take out only, with one pasta dish and one soup offered daily (for take out, of course.) Hackensack has a lot of Italian Americans, but as you get to South Hackensack and neighboring Lodi things become serious: families still speak Italian in the third generation down here, and they expect their food to reflect the quality you get in <i>bella Italia</i>. One place they find it is <a href="https://www.clementebakerynj.com/" target="_blank">Clemente's Bakery,</a> located in the Middle of Fucking Nowhere in South Hackensack.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uN00D38Zl3E/XjyLWMdFtDI/AAAAAAAAUYY/kXuyKQTuPrg2BhsZ5Rt_BMV6HLFZ0MQyQCEwYBhgL/s1600/85049206_285119399114940_3402470605105135616_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uN00D38Zl3E/XjyLWMdFtDI/AAAAAAAAUYY/kXuyKQTuPrg2BhsZ5Rt_BMV6HLFZ0MQyQCEwYBhgL/s400/85049206_285119399114940_3402470605105135616_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Why Italy will rule the universe someday.</td></tr>
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Clemente's began as a bakery in the 1970s, and I wish I had know about it before last week - they make real Pugliese bread... which may be my favorite of all breads. They also make nearly everything else, especially cookies, cakes, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Focaccia" target="_blank">focaccia </a>and pizzas. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-socMQ8ghDBA/XjyLTeos_OI/AAAAAAAAUYc/6Om-VWpMdIILnSkybP3r-sDsUwPl-gtrgCEwYBhgL/s1600/85026763_624159965084338_6235613346318516224_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-socMQ8ghDBA/XjyLTeos_OI/AAAAAAAAUYc/6Om-VWpMdIILnSkybP3r-sDsUwPl-gtrgCEwYBhgL/s400/85026763_624159965084338_6235613346318516224_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I can look but not touch. I have a woman from Tokyo who does that for me. </td></tr>
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Clemente's Bakery make a stuffed bread - we bought prosciutto and cheese - that is so popular that it is known around North Jersey as "Hackensack crack." This is not to be confused with another particularly Italian American specialty, the stromboli (basically a sandwich rolled into pizza bread and baked.) It was also ridiculously cheap for a large loaf of bread packed with chunks of prosciutto.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t--C_gudNTc/XjyJyq0E_6I/AAAAAAAAUYM/uxZ6ah75GFADvgqstxsX5RZZ6lDLxxr0ACEwYBhgL/s1600/84513846_206784670720589_9084492907833982976_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t--C_gudNTc/XjyJyq0E_6I/AAAAAAAAUYM/uxZ6ah75GFADvgqstxsX5RZZ6lDLxxr0ACEwYBhgL/s400/84513846_206784670720589_9084492907833982976_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hackensack Crack: prosciutto stuffed bread. </td></tr>
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But the reason I came to Clemente's was for the sandwiches. I had heard about the "Clemente Special" and I have to admit, it gives the sandwiches at Cosmo's Deli something to worry about. Like most Italian subs, it is made with ham, salami, fresh mozzarella (not Swiss cheese or provolone like on Italian subs outside the Jersey Italian belt) made without mayo - which makes it Fumie friendly - but they also have a list of extras that you can add, and I chose artichoke hearts, which really sent the combination over the top. This sandwich... <i>words fail me.</i> It is the flavor of greatness, anointed with the vinegar and olive oil of heaven. Italians of Europe - learn from your diaspora! Harken to your brethren in Hackensack and Lodi, NJ! Put down your <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Panini_(sandwich)" target="_blank">paninis</a>, your <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Piadina" target="_blank">piadinas</a>, your <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carrozza_(sandwich)" target="_blank">carrozzas</a>, and your <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tramezzino" target="_blank">tramezzinos</a>! Try an Italian hero from Hackensack! These are the sandwiches which can lead you to Greatness! These are sandwiches worthy of Caesar!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-__l0XxaiP3k/XjyPifV4NsI/AAAAAAAAUYo/yylQCQvWOQUzaEXciV1Ia0KaaLGGZjE0gCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/84334862_2489079811304604_4323244213920595968_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-__l0XxaiP3k/XjyPifV4NsI/AAAAAAAAUYo/yylQCQvWOQUzaEXciV1Ia0KaaLGGZjE0gCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/84334862_2489079811304604_4323244213920595968_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Click here for more hot ham on ham action!</td></tr>
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This is not to say I ignored the sandwiches of my own People... for that I went to Katz' Deli on the lower East Side of Manhatten. Loyal readers will sigh and say "You always <a href="https://horinca.blogspot.com/2009/12/from-katzs-deli-to-willimsburg-let-my.html" target="_blank">go to Katz's deli!</a>" And it <a href="https://horinca.blogspot.com/2010/11/why-cant-we-have-pastrami-for.html" target="_blank">is true</a>. At $20 a Katz' pastrami or corned beef is a pricey sandwich, but then again, it <i>is the best</i>. Where else in New York can you buy the worlds best of <i>anything</i> for twenty bucks? Really, I only eat here about once a year, and Jewish delis are a endangered breed in New York City, so... yes, Katz's.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eSVVmh6FZe4/XjyPlsqhPOI/AAAAAAAAUZA/IRxKrSpRQ9A_mXYgvCOcBy6d_ryC_BHoQCEwYBhgL/s1600/20200204_113749.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="723" data-original-width="964" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eSVVmh6FZe4/XjyPlsqhPOI/AAAAAAAAUZA/IRxKrSpRQ9A_mXYgvCOcBy6d_ryC_BHoQCEwYBhgL/s400/20200204_113749.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Pastrami sandwich and a Corned Beef sandwich meet in a bar.</td></tr>
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My brother Ron braved driving into the city (four miles from where we live in Jersey) so that I could get my chompers wrapped around this thing I longed for while watching reruns of Seinfeld in my hospital bed. My morale was kept high by knowing that when I finally hobbled out of the ICU ward there would be a Katz' pastrami waiting for me out there. I actually fasted for the morning in anticipation, and it was worth it. And Ron loves Katz' pastrami as well. The man was a chef, and Katz' pastrami is the stuff chef's dreams are made of. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-47gYMSy5PQw/XjyPshGEiJI/AAAAAAAAUZI/WM3ZAp_Mx_QlLyffSotcjs0EVH9gXHibwCEwYBhgL/s1600/20200204_115216.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="723" data-original-width="964" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-47gYMSy5PQw/XjyPshGEiJI/AAAAAAAAUZI/WM3ZAp_Mx_QlLyffSotcjs0EVH9gXHibwCEwYBhgL/s400/20200204_115216.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is not porn. This is a corned beef sandwich.</td></tr>
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The best part of the experience: Pete Rushevsky, director of the New York <a href="https://ctmd.org/" target="_blank">Center for Traditional Music and Dance </a>surprised me by inviting my friends <a href="https://www.jakeshulmanment.com/" target="_blank">Jake Shulmen-Ment </a>(perhaps the world's best Klezmer fiddler) and <a href="http://www.franklondon.com/" target="_blank">Frank London</a> (perhaps the world's best klezmer anything.) I didn't have a lot of time to be running around the city, so this was a wonderful surprise, and although not exactly my birthday, I am counting this as the first and best surprise birthday party I have had since 1986 (surprise dinner at the Hoodoo BBQ Ratskeller in Kenmore Square, Boston.) Thanks Pete! </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6VdFEkiTyoc/XjyPuTFFg3I/AAAAAAAAUZM/d7YwA_3__cU9xL5q1Cjyd1SEclN9vZ42QCEwYBhgL/s1600/20200204_125923.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="723" data-original-width="964" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6VdFEkiTyoc/XjyPuTFFg3I/AAAAAAAAUZM/d7YwA_3__cU9xL5q1Cjyd1SEclN9vZ42QCEwYBhgL/s400/20200204_125923.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Up Front: Brother Ron and Frank, Pete in the back, Jake next to me, also Hi Abigale!</td></tr>
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dumneazuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03595663581295671582noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21879466.post-8023080034358007312019-12-12T12:13:00.000-05:002019-12-13T12:10:46.685-05:00Italian Food of New Jersey: The Meatball Sub<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xumJa6xY0to/XfJrgp_eilI/AAAAAAAAUHQ/4evq9ACzIHknx4enID-pHFifasP3a2fJgCEwYBhgL/s1600/78888681_541760686665864_5396464027595440128_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="716" data-original-width="960" height="297" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xumJa6xY0to/XfJrgp_eilI/AAAAAAAAUHQ/4evq9ACzIHknx4enID-pHFifasP3a2fJgCEwYBhgL/s400/78888681_541760686665864_5396464027595440128_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Like arctic geese, we tend to migrate over the oceans in seasonal patterns, which means we are in New Jersey again. Like geese. A family thanksgiving dinner, and an unveiling ceremony for my Mom's gravestone brought my boy Aron over from Europe (<i>thanks Pam!</i>) and then it is Black Friday (<i>Ka-ching!</i> for Mammon in All His Glory) and suddenly... Christmas Season!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7bVrIey4aOA/XfJreiLZtuI/AAAAAAAAUIA/lpDPO-P2PwABosJhbOV93zOXkO-wCjfkgCEwYBhgL/s1600/20191128_215201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="723" data-original-width="964" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7bVrIey4aOA/XfJreiLZtuI/AAAAAAAAUIA/lpDPO-P2PwABosJhbOV93zOXkO-wCjfkgCEwYBhgL/s400/20191128_215201.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Her Majesty, Queen Pamela of Tenafly, and the Baby Yoda.</td></tr>
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We met up with the legendary accordion repair wizard Bob Godfried for a trip deep into Brooklyn to the Christmas office party at <a href="https://www.retrofret.com/" target="_blank">Retrofret Vintage Guitars</a>. Retrofret was started by my old fiddle buddy Steve Urich in an industrial building in central Brooklyn and moved to a more comfortable site on Luquer Street in Carrol Gardens a year ago.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Gibson Mandola that should be mine. <i>Please</i>.</td></tr>
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A couple of years ago I brokered a lovely 1917 Gibson F4 mandolin for my buddy Claude from them, and thus I got a Retrofret branded tote bag which is now the most famous vegetable bag in Budapest. With the closure of vintage shops Matt Umanoff's Guitars and the Mandolin Brothers on Staten Island, Retrofret is now the primary site for high quality vintage string instruments in New York. Looking for a pedigree Gibson Mandolin, L5 arch top guitar, or a perfectly restored 1960s Fender Telecaster? This is where you'll end up. And speaking of Telecasters, the office party had live entertainment: Bill Kirchen (considered the King of Rockabilly Fender Telecaster, and Andy Stein (formerly of the Prairie Home Companion house band)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oD4OCLPJz8Y/XfJretlE_oI/AAAAAAAAUHs/aAyg74VWiIg0Nglsz-_WIujgHDtj6e45QCEwYBhgL/s1600/20191210_000112.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="723" data-original-width="964" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oD4OCLPJz8Y/XfJretlE_oI/AAAAAAAAUHs/aAyg74VWiIg0Nglsz-_WIujgHDtj6e45QCEwYBhgL/s400/20191210_000112.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Andy Stein and Bill Kirchen, Lost Planet Alumni</td></tr>
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Both are former members of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Commander_Cody_and_His_Lost_Planet_Airmen" target="_blank">Commander Cody and His Lost Planet Airmen</a>, which is to say 1.) they are not young, 2.) they were one of Jerry Garcia's favorite bands, and 3.) they put on a great show, which is an advantage when playing to a room of vintage guitarists, many of whom used to used to rule the radio airwaves themselves. Retrofret set out sandwiches catered by a local Italian Deli, and after watching John Allen - <i>the fiddling pyro of Beacon New York</i> - stroll past with some particularly attractive <i>sanwicherie </i>my wife decided to try a bit of the six foot long sandwiches. Fumie doesn't usually eat sandwiches - she hates mayo and is not a big fan of bread and European sandwiches are usually a single dry slice of salty meat on a dry roll with mayo - but she looked at me and said "What is this thing?" It was piled high with ham, cappacola, prosciutto, mozzarella cheese, and red peppers. No Mayo. "It's an Italian sub. You can get them anywhere. "<i>Why haven't you told me about these?</i>" And thus a new quest was begun.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BRjzBU2bj6s/XfJrhRZblZI/AAAAAAAAUIA/lxx9aq5PVWENeZt7imnbPjs0i9M_oRrfQCEwYBhgL/s1600/79158683_822706478180972_1705927689614917632_n%2B%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="716" data-original-width="960" height="297" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BRjzBU2bj6s/XfJrhRZblZI/AAAAAAAAUIA/lxx9aq5PVWENeZt7imnbPjs0i9M_oRrfQCEwYBhgL/s400/79158683_822706478180972_1705927689614917632_n%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">V and T of Hackensack Prosciutto, Mozz, and peppers.</td></tr>
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First I had to explain that you can get them in any place that makes pizza, and we usually order pizza in those places. And two, there are hot and cold subs. The classic hot sub in meatball. "You mean they actually put sauce - <i>hot tomato sauce </i>- into the bread?" I had forgotten how strange some of New Jersey's basic foods can seem to a Japanese person, so the best response was simply to go and pick up a couple of Italian subs. Oddly for a New Jersey suburb, Teaneck has no good pizza, hence no good Italian subs. For reasons entirely unconnected to the sociology of the Middle East, food in Teaneck needs to be either Kosher or Halal. Sounds like it should be great, but even the trad Kosher food is miserable. Our delis are crap, although we do have great fresh bagels. But Teaneck is the Vatican of the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Modern_Orthodox_Judaism" target="_blank">Modern Orthodox Jewish movement,</a> and if you are a MOJ ("This week in Torah Study:<i> How many Beverage Holders does a Jewish SUV need?"</i>) they eat it just the same. <i>It is fuel, not food.</i> Luckily Teaneck is bordered by suburban towns featuring some of the most defiantly unkosher cuisines in the USA - Korean, Columbian, Italian, Turkish and Mexican. A brief internet search declared that <a href="https://www.facebook.com/V-T-Salumeria-331672886924127/" target="_blank">V and T's Salumeria</a> on Main Street in neighboring Hackensack served the best Italian subs in North Jersey (we have yet to try a few other targets, such as<a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Cosmos-Italian-Salumeria/141467545893843" target="_blank"> Cosmo's Salumeria </a>in Hackensack.)<br />
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Good indicators: tables full of firemen having lunch, woman at the counter had an Italian accent.... and so we ordered the classic meatball with mozzarella and a prosciutto mozzarella with pickled peppers. Took them home and went to work. Now, these are classic American Italian subs - Italy has its own subset of sandwiches and these are not them. <i>Nuh-uh.</i> First off, the meatball of America is not the polpette you meet in Europe. American meatballs are whopping huge baseball sized hunks of meat, and we got five of them in one sub roll, smothered in tomato sauce with melty house made mozzarella cheese (which was extra.) We saved half for my Dad's dinner and still it filled us up.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-75dlHRcLJm8/XfJriRVI7LI/AAAAAAAAUH0/Hy_3ro5FyCU7vlB5UEJ9FsWCy6Lkxb6-gCEwYBhgL/s1600/79443207_1008048849544103_4724983454649810944_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="716" data-original-width="960" height="297" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-75dlHRcLJm8/XfJriRVI7LI/AAAAAAAAUH0/Hy_3ro5FyCU7vlB5UEJ9FsWCy6Lkxb6-gCEwYBhgL/s400/79443207_1008048849544103_4724983454649810944_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not a thing of great beauty.</td></tr>
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Then we went to work on the prosciutto... we got through half of it. It was good, but American prosciutto is not the stuff I know from Veneto or Dalmatia. You can't legally import most pork from Europe, at least not affordably. Real Italian cured meat from the old country is a regional specialty with a pronounced fermented taste and aroma that would probably not pass muster in any American consumer test, so most American Italian cold cuts are basically just salty. So next time I will stick to the classic <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Capocollo" target="_blank">cappacola</a>, ham and salami.<br />
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I used to work on a garbage truck in Hackensack - yes, hanging on the back of the truck as we rolled down route 46, running behind garden apartments and slinging huge metal cans into the back of the truck. For a few months of my life I was built like a triangle. Every day we would stop at an Italian deli and pick up their garbage (which was illegal for city trucks) and get paid with huge overstuffed Italian sub sandwiches. The drivers of the trucks would take them home and deconstruct them into small sandwiches and I would usually just bring mine home. In the midst of all this we had a terror attack on a Jewish grocery in Jersey City a few days ago that was tragic, but also <i>utterly New Jersey</i>. All of the elements of a classic New Jersey fuckup were present: insane Black Hebrew Israelites, Satmar Hasids so isolated that they could not react to news unless it was translated from Yiddish, armed paramilitary cop brigades marching past the <i>bodegas </i>and <i>botanicas </i>of a Dominican neighborhood. All a twenty minute drive down the road from here. It should be an interesting Christmas season in New Jersey.dumneazuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03595663581295671582noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21879466.post-90427655140601346262019-11-17T10:14:00.001-05:002019-11-17T10:14:33.623-05:00Transylvania: Goulash and Trumpet Fiddles for Everyone!<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-squZLim1XLM/XdA58Y4i5GI/AAAAAAAAT_Y/jbRWhP6CUEAIRZcLwWcJpgUeXkBDAbQeQCEwYBhgL/s1600/043.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-squZLim1XLM/XdA58Y4i5GI/AAAAAAAAT_Y/jbRWhP6CUEAIRZcLwWcJpgUeXkBDAbQeQCEwYBhgL/s400/043.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Transylvanian <i>vioara cu goarne </i>fiddles in Dorel Codobon's workshop, Rosia, Romania.</td></tr>
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<br />Yes, it has been too long since a blog post, and since we are about to make our annual migration to the New York I should at least cover my tracks. First off... I didn't want to post yet another blog about somebody dead. Hey - we are all gonna kick the bucket someday, right? No need to completely surrender all the column space to old Baron Samedi. What do my readers want? Goulash and fiddles. At least I think that is the core audience. And so... <i>goulash and fiddles it shall be,</i> at least until we get to New York and Chinese noodles and chicken and okra and Dominican meringue accordion to distract me. Next week, at least.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Goulash <i>ala </i>Marius Mihut: the real deal. Cihei, Romania.</td></tr>
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There is a segment of the Klezmer scene that takes Romanian traditional music very seriously - it is the closest thing we have to a living tradition from the old country, given that the Holocaust pretty well destroyed the "old country" for Ashkenazic Jews. Most of modern Transylvanian traditional music, however, doesn't really intersect with Klezmer tradition very much at all. But that shouldn't stop anyone from diving headlong into it. Between the active tradition in Transylvania and the fanatic revivalists of the Hungarian folk scene, this is one of the most vital folk fiddle traditions in Europe today.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Traian Ardelean, Dorel Codoban, and Ghica at Negreni, 2008.</td></tr>
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Among Klezmer fiddlers, a few have really dug deep into the tradition (Jake Shulman-Ment comes to mind) and so I was happy to when I got invited to travel with <a href="http://www.zoeaqua.com/" target="_blank">Zoe Aqua</a> and her sister Annie to Transylvania this summer, especially since she was renting a car (Shout out to my peeps at <a href="https://www.autonom.ro/" target="_blank">Autonom Rent a Car!</a> Best rates in Romania!) Zoe plays with the truly amazing Yiddish band <a href="http://www.tsibelemusic.com/about" target="_blank">Tsibele</a>, as well as in the duo Farnakht, and she has been studying Transylvanian Hungarian and Romanian fiddle styles for years and was ready to jump in the deep end of the pool. First off, she wanted to get a<i> vioara cu goarne</i>, the hybrid resonator "Trumpet-fiddle" played in the northern country of Bihor. I've written about these fiddles many times on the blog. They are a culture symbol in the Bihor region and there is a lively scene of players and a small cottage industry of makers.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoe gets a lesson on resonator adjustment.</td></tr>
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We stopped by Marius Mihut in the village of Cihei (six km outside of Oradea) to see what he had for sale. We met Marius last year while traveling with Mitia Kramtsov of the Russian band Dobranotch, who suddenly decided he absolutely had to have a trumpet fiddle before he could return to St. Petersburg.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mistia and Marius in his workshop.</td></tr>
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And so we found Marius, based on an internet search that led us to the village of Cihei. Marius is probably the best living maker of the<i> vioara cu goarne</i> alive today - at least since the passing of Dorel Codoban from Lazuri. Marius makes the resonator apparatus by cannibalizing old gramophone record player mechanisms, and his higher quality instruments utilize parts from old Czech Supraphone machines. Marius gets these by being in touch with gramophone fanatics around the globe that he finds on Ebay and other sites. And yes, it really makes a difference. These babies are loud. Marius is also a great host, and a really good cook, not to mention he hunts. We arrived to a full feast of wild boar sausages and wild boar goulash.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lunch among wonderful folks.</td></tr>
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And a TV crew from Televisiune Oradea to document the occasion. The goulash was bubbling away in a kettle hanging from a on a tripod above a bed of coals in the driveway. This was no tomato soup and carrot tourist goulash. <i>No</i>. This was bone in, floating chunks of yellow fat, paprika grown in the back yard genuine Carpathian plains cowboy soup.<i> It was wonderful.</i> I used to cook at a bistro in Budapest that was located next to one of the neighborhood open markets and as an act of cultural rebellion i made it my goal to serve the most authentic goulash in Budapest. I interviewed market workers, butchers, cops, and firemen about what they liked in a goulash and we all agreed that you can not get a decent bowl of goulash in Budapest. Back in 2006 I originally imagined this blog to be a food blog that would compare goulash as found in Budapest, except that not a single one was worth the mention as anything other than a thin orange soup, and so... it became what it is.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Smoked duck leg and bean goulash. Last weeks lunch at our house.</td></tr>
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If you want decent goulash you have to be at least thirty miles from the center of Budapest. Go to Slovakia or Transylvania if you want a good one. Hungarian restaurant goulash is a poor joke made at the expense of a simple soup, and so when I come upon somebody who takes goulash seriously, I rejoice. And Marius takes goulash seriously. He also took <i>mici </i>seriously: these little skinless sausagettes were made from wild boar he had shot himself.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Mici</i>: they taste better than they look.</td></tr>
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<br />I have eaten thousands of these little meatwads all over the Balkans - from Turkish version <i>kofte </i>to the divine <i>cevapcici </i>of Bosnia, and as far as I know these are first I have ever eaten made from wild game. Now, feral wild pigs are quickly overrunning the United states - especially in the US South, in Texas and Louisiana where they have become a major economic disaster for agriculture... and now they have shown up in Northern states like New Jersey as well. This is the solution. Shoot them and make Romanian sausages from them. After Zoe found the <i>vioara </i>of her dreams we headed towards Mera, a village near Cluj which hosted the Mera World Music Festival in August. (More on that later.)<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stay at the world's only Resonator Violin Hotel!</td></tr>
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Along the way we stopped to spend the night in Lazuri de Rosia at the<a href="https://www.pensiunerosia.ro/" target="_blank"> Pensiune Dorel Codoban. </a>run by the family of the late <i>vioara </i>maker and player Dorel Codoban. Dorel was a good friend of mine, and I still play a trumpet violin made by him. We got a peek at Dorel's workshop - shown in the photo at the top of this post - and took in the view from our room in the refurbished mountain inn.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Downtown Lazuri at rush hour. </td></tr>
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Located in one of the most picture perfect regions of the Transylvanian Hills, Dorel's family are usually on hand - Dorel's wife Florica cooks and amazing breakfast, and son in law Dan speaks both Hungarian and English. There is a trout farm across the street for adventure dinner, and lots of tourists hike the region exploring the limestone mountain caves. Its a great place to stay if you visit Romania - a half hour drive uphill from the town of Beius.<br />
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<br />dumneazuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03595663581295671582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21879466.post-70708180888971114042019-06-28T12:50:00.000-04:002019-06-28T12:50:49.197-04:00Ökrös Csaba 1960-2019. <br />
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<em><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Ökrös</span></em><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="background: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Csaba, my fiddle teacher and good friend, passed away on Wednesday night, two days ago. Csaba was,
perhaps, the definitive fiddler of the Hungarian folk music revival after the
late B</span><em style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">é</span></em><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">la Halmos. He was a band leader, a teacher,
a field collector in the tradition of B</span><em style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">é</span></em><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">la Bartok, an
arranger of music for theater and films. In a word, he was generally
acknowledged as the best damn fiddler in the Hungarian folk scene. The shock wasn’t
so much that he was young - he was 59 – but he seemed indestructible. Csaba was an absolute
original, and on the fiddle he was a genius.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<em><span style="background: white; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Ökrös</span></em><span style="background: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> Csaba was in
high school he first heard <em><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Béla</span></em> Halmos - the
father of the Hungarian folk music revival. Halmos provided the
teenage Csabi with the address of folklorist Zoltan Kallos in Transylvania. Csaba
hopped on a train and was soon off with Kallos to the village of Bonchida and
being introduced to the world of the archaic instrumental tradition of Transylvania. </span><br />
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<span style="background: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">The fact that Csaba was exposed to the real thing at an early age was what made
his approach to the music special: he learned it at the age a local musician
would, he played it naturally. Csaba could articulate the subtle differences
that define style in Hungarian and Transylvanian folk fiddle in a way that
older fiddlers, working backwards from notated music, could not. He also had a
talent for teaching: he would break down a piece into its most basic parts,
showing the simplicity of what, to the modern, urban ear, sounded like some
incredibly difficult deluge of bow slurs and trills. When he formed the band
Ujstilus with Antal Fekete, Adorjan Pityu, and G<em><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">é</span></em>za
P<em><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">é</span></em>nzes they were the first to perform the
different repertoires of folk music in the local styles – Kalotaszeg, Mezoseg,
Gyimes - before Ujstilus people simply fiddled up a generalized, trill filled
“Transylvanian” fiddle. Csaba took the specifics of each village style and translated them into a form young non-villagers could understand.</span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">I first heard the sound of Transylvanian village string bands while
visiting Hungary in the early 1970s, and while I played old-time Appalachian
fiddle in the New York area old time scene I could never quite make my
instrument phrase and play in a way that even came close to the original
recordings of music from Transylvania which I had brought back from Hungary as
a kid. Then, in 1983 in Boston, <em><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Ökrös</span></em> and
Ujstilus showed up America to teach workshops in Hungarian folk fiddle with Ujstilus.
Hungarian-American dancer Eva Kish arranged for the band to spend a month in
the USA based at her home in Medford, Mass. They gave a workshop at MIT in
Cambridge, Mass, and when Csaba asked if anybody could play Hungarian music I
stepped up and played some tunes I had learned from a recording from Sz<em><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">é</span></em>k. From then on we were buddies. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">The workshop led to a small tour with the band staying in Boston for a
couple of weeks. At the time I was involved with a lot of African music,
specifically Yoruba Juju music (I studied Yoruba language for several years.) and
had been playing fiddle with Demola Adepoju, the pedal steel guitar player of
Sunny Ade’s African Beats. Demola got an invite to play a recording session in
New York for Paul Simon and wanted me to come along. I told him, <i>sorry, there
is this Hungarian band in Boston this week, so I ain’t going anywhere, have fun
with Paul Simon and try and get a copy of whatever you guys record because
obviously it will never be released commercially.</i> Sometimes I make regrettable life
choices. (Demola can be heard playing pedal steel on Paul Simon’s “Graceland”) Csaba went on to form his own band, the </span><em><span style="background: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-style: normal;">Ökrös</span></em><span style="background: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> group, and also spent a lot of the 1990s as a guest fiddler with Muzsikas.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">A few years later I moved to Budapest, ostensibly to learn more fiddle,
covertly to do linguistics fieldwork in Transylvania, and overtly to teach
English in the ELTE Law school. I lived around the corner from Csaba in Buda
and became his least accomplished student. There was perhaps, too much
partying. In his earlier years Csaba was the embodiment of a Dionysiac madman: he loved
music, parties, women, and drink, preferably all at the same time and in large
quantities. Especially women and drink. He was a small guy – and yet he could out-drink anybody he met. Not that
this was ever a good thing.<i> I’m just saying.</i> I have seen it. I once took him
out to an R&B club in Boston where he jammed with the band on stage, then
decided he was going to jump ship and stay and become an R&B star and play
rock and roll in America for the rest of his life. That phase lasted about an
hour. At other times he would get melancholic in that classic Hungarian way and
muse about the losses of Trianon and the unfairness of communism and end up
smashing things, including several of his (less valuable) violins. He often
punched close friends in the nose during arguments (not me!) Just about
everybody in the old guard of the Dance House scene has a few wild “Csaba
stories.” And yes, he pissed me off as well, but I always considered him my
friend. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">He seems to have calmed down in later life – getting married and a
degree in folk violin pedagogy definitely tamed him. </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Csaba defined a generation of folk fiddlers Hungary – he was the link
between the village fiddlers and the younger city kids trying to wrap their
heads around the soul and technique of the old style Hungarian fiddle
tradition. We may miss Csaba but each time we reach for a violin we will always
bring him back in spirit.</span></div>
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dumneazuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03595663581295671582noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21879466.post-937429552094501002019-06-16T12:52:00.003-04:002019-06-16T13:18:02.755-04:00Gloomy Sunday: The Suicide Song Down the Street.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PPWdToqHa04/XQZr6HIcceI/AAAAAAAAThs/RmtIN4EYSWYIMygOKd3V8gruP_auM2AqQCEwYBhgL/s1600/zVZ6TaRG.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="801" data-original-width="1200" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PPWdToqHa04/XQZr6HIcceI/AAAAAAAAThs/RmtIN4EYSWYIMygOKd3V8gruP_auM2AqQCEwYBhgL/s400/zVZ6TaRG.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(all photos by Fumie Suzuki)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Back in the 1980s, Hungary had the world’s highest suicide
rate, a sad statistic that has been, happily, dropping over the decades to the
present point where Hungary is now in 31<sup>th</sup> place in World Suicide
standings, far behind Russia (#1 for males) and Lithuania (#2) and oddly,
Guyana at number three. While Hungary’s standing as the suicide champions of the
world is long past, we still have the “Hungarian suicide song” <i><span style="background: white; color: #222222;">Szomorú
vasárnap</span></i><i><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;"> “</span></i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gloomy_Sunday" target="_blank">GloomySunday</a>” to remind us of yore. Composed in 1933 by Rezső Seress (with lyrics added
later by poet Ferenc Javor) <i><span style="background: white; color: #222222;">Szomorú vasárnap</span></i><i><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></i>is a massively depressing little ditty
that eventually became one of the most widely recorded songs to come out of
Hungary. A translated version recorded by Billy Holiday proved so traumatizing
that the BBC banned it from their airwaves for twenty five years. </div>
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The song is reputed
to have inspired a series of suicides, beginning in Hungary where lovelorn
youths jumped from the Danube bridges with little white flowers pinned to their
lapels, just like in the song, and gained international fame as “The Suicide
song.” The song, is, as you may have surmised, quite gloomy. </div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px;">Sunday is gloomy,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px;">My hours are slumberless</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px;">Dearest the shadows</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px;">I live with are numberless</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px;">Little white flowers</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px;">Will never awaken you</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px;">Not where the black coach of</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px;">Sorrow has taken you</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px;">Angels have no thought</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px;">Of ever returning you</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px;">Would they be angry</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px;">If I thought of joining you?</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jdv8ti5UMeE/XQZryZqTP_I/AAAAAAAATh8/f0H2Wv19G5oqF_rMcbiqT7ITWlz7X7htACEwYBhgL/s1600/WhdWCnIu.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="801" data-original-width="1200" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jdv8ti5UMeE/XQZryZqTP_I/AAAAAAAATh8/f0H2Wv19G5oqF_rMcbiqT7ITWlz7X7htACEwYBhgL/s400/WhdWCnIu.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Gloomy Sunday on the roof of 46/b Dob utca</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Hungarians
are famously gloomy. You might not notice this if you are just visiting, at
least for the first hour or two, but nobody wants to be caught smiling. And
even activities that Hungarians find absolutely delightful, such as drinking
wine, telling political jokes, cursing French football (“soccer”) teams, can be
done without the simple simian facial communication we call “smiling.” It is
not that Hungarians are a dour lot. They most definitely are not. They are
loud, raucous, and tend to be almost hyperactive in the pursuit of pleasure,
but they rarely smile where you can see it. They might sneak a smile in if they
think nobody is watching, but essentially, the Hungarian’s moon is always blue. A deep, dark blue. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UNSiU5Esf_k/XQZryfjt8VI/AAAAAAAATh4/fpaeMh3biVUsWjFCxUsjRj5hH6vcolaRwCEwYBhgL/s1600/Y_-tsLDp.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="801" data-original-width="1200" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UNSiU5Esf_k/XQZryfjt8VI/AAAAAAAATh4/fpaeMh3biVUsWjFCxUsjRj5hH6vcolaRwCEwYBhgL/s400/Y_-tsLDp.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Klauzal Sqare. Nobody smiling in this picture.</td></tr>
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Which brings me to the building on the corner of my street. Rezső Serres was born Jewish in 1889 - as Rudolph Spitzer – and like most Hungarian Jews he
magyarized his name with an eye to social assimilation. After his initial
career as a circus trapeze artist ended in a fall he turned to songwriting. Seress
was sent into the forced labor camps during WWI and his mother was deported to
Auschwitz. Seress would have died as well if not for a Hungarian officer who
recognized him as the famous songwriter and took possession of Seress from a Nazi
guard. After the war Seress went back to the 7<sup>th</sup> district, and spent
his days composing songs (he played one finger piano) and evenings drinking and
socializing with writers and theater folk in the cafes and bars of the seventh
district. He wrote hundreds of popular songs, many of them quite good, in fact,
but he is remembered only for “Gloomy Sunday.”</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OeJSd2zZOUU/XQZr3R9_AyI/AAAAAAAATh8/N08p2vEBv44x9yoWSF5WqHvklkFl0zQ2gCEwYBhgL/s1600/sMgp55Gm.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="801" data-original-width="1200" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OeJSd2zZOUU/XQZr3R9_AyI/AAAAAAAATh8/N08p2vEBv44x9yoWSF5WqHvklkFl0zQ2gCEwYBhgL/s400/sMgp55Gm.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"This house is celebrating" 100 years of history.</td></tr>
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Serres lived at #46/b Dob utca in Budapest’s 7<sup>th</sup>
district. Built in 1938 on the northeast corner of Klauzal ter, is an example
of the Hungarian Bauhaus era - a unofficial knockoff of the movement that
produced some wonderful and quirky architecture. The building housed a series
of famous artists: actors, singers, and the young rock idol Gabor Presser,
whose memory of Seress is that he would spend each Sunday afternoon seated in
his living room with a stack of records of his famous song in different languages,
which he would listen to one by one, for hours.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1Y3wpOPd6pk/XQZrvOiK02I/AAAAAAAATh0/DteY8Yz19Rw20NilpdILgLwBcDHERKpxACEwYBhgL/s1600/DRFmMN22.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="801" data-original-width="1200" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1Y3wpOPd6pk/XQZrvOiK02I/AAAAAAAATh0/DteY8Yz19Rw20NilpdILgLwBcDHERKpxACEwYBhgL/s400/DRFmMN22.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Wall of Fame, with Gabor Presser sporting an impressive Jewish Afro.</td></tr>
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Seress rarely left the Klazuál tér neighborhood: he would
visit the Kispipa restaurant on neighboring Akácfa street, and occasionally the
Kulács on Osvát utca (sadly, both are now closed) but beyond that, he didn’t travel much outside of the 7<sup>th</sup>
district. His famous song accumulated millions in hard currency royalties but Seress
never went to America to claim them. Some say he was simply too scared to fly
in an airplane.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-s8M1qvNGzI4/XQZrzqrTyYI/AAAAAAAATiM/-HN0hcZlag0y0-WuWHLndcMSI8GwC5TEACEwYBhgL/s1600/fSTtyhyZ.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="801" data-original-width="1200" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-s8M1qvNGzI4/XQZrzqrTyYI/AAAAAAAATiM/-HN0hcZlag0y0-WuWHLndcMSI8GwC5TEACEwYBhgL/s400/fSTtyhyZ.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ever want to peek in on the neighbors?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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In 1968 the then 78 year old Seress attempted to go the way
of his most famous composition. He jumped from the balcony of his flat in a
suicide attempt, but since he was only on the second floor he survived the fall
with only a broken arm. Seress was taken to the hospital where he managed to
strangle himself with one of the wires suspending his cast. He was nothing if
not determined.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SgUrF-9Yd-Q/XQZrvTgGhiI/AAAAAAAATiE/u_Kz7GiCbqYHg_XbrpycXOHFPrwUrfk4QCEwYBhgL/s1600/Hr5QVyMF.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="801" data-original-width="1200" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SgUrF-9Yd-Q/XQZrvTgGhiI/AAAAAAAATiE/u_Kz7GiCbqYHg_XbrpycXOHFPrwUrfk4QCEwYBhgL/s400/Hr5QVyMF.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Open house with historian N. Kosa Judit. </td></tr>
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In early May the<a href="http://budapest100.hu/en/" target="_blank"> Budapest100 </a>society held an open house
visit to Seress’ building – five doors down the street from us – so we had to
go. Budapest100 comprises local historians and urban activists who sponsor an
annual weekend of open houses in historical buildings, with free lectures and
visits to some of the urban treasures hidden inside the courtyyards and flats
of the city. <a href="https://hu.wikipedia.org/wiki/N._K%C3%B3sa_Judit" target="_blank">N. Kosa Judit </a>is a local journalist and historian who specialized
in the history of Klauzál tér, and just happens to live in the building. Her
knowledge, informed commentary and personal connection made spying on our neighbors buildings just that much
more enjoyable..</div>
<br />dumneazuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03595663581295671582noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21879466.post-87222128303360513232019-05-10T05:22:00.000-04:002019-05-10T10:28:57.956-04:00Iran Cukrászda: Persian Pastries outside our door.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-z6PfbJUQ5uY/XNU8YogPHKI/AAAAAAAATac/YNEa_tXzevs0Q0Sg5y9i7v4WP8iv2CvaQCEwYBhgL/s1600/20190422_142112.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="768" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-z6PfbJUQ5uY/XNU8YogPHKI/AAAAAAAATac/YNEa_tXzevs0Q0Sg5y9i7v4WP8iv2CvaQCEwYBhgL/s400/20190422_142112.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
You may have heard a lot about how Hungary is hostile to immigrants, and how badly refugees are treated (declared by the government to be "migrants" and not "refugees" because, hey, <i>linguistics, how do they work?</i>) Hungary <i>wasn't always that way</i>, and even today - perhaps in contrast to the rest of the country - Budapest is still a place where you can see a number of cultures contributing to the whole of city life. Not on a scale that you might see elsewhere in Europe - a topic that causes Hungarian politicians no end of anxiety. Nutcase right wing Hungarian politicos regularly buy up ad space (on Government owned media of course!) declaring urban Hell-holes like Brussels, Vienna, or Manchester to be racial war zones waiting to infect pure, innocent, white Hungary. Living in Budapest's 7th district - the historical Jewish ghetto - I'm happy with the international atmosphere we have here in the 7th. It is sort of like an island of tolerance and cultural sanity - by day at least. (At night it becomes one of the world's worst hypertourism zones.) The 7th (and the 8th... and most of Budapest) has always had a healthy multicultural vibe - I like living near felaful stands, Turkish butchers, pho shops, and Indian groceries. And most of all, I like the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/category/Shopping---Retail/Iran-cukr%C3%A1zda-339084550213542/" target="_blank">Iran Cukrászda </a>, a Persian pastry bakery that opened in December on <span style="background-color: white; color: #444745;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nagydiófa utca 30-32.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444745;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-93m1Yozyfpg/XNU8XhJlb8I/AAAAAAAATaE/VvmmI1XfB9Mxhna0Xdc8IGz27GceB_GlACEwYBhgL/s1600/20190422_141024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="625" data-original-width="833" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-93m1Yozyfpg/XNU8XhJlb8I/AAAAAAAATaE/VvmmI1XfB9Mxhna0Xdc8IGz27GceB_GlACEwYBhgL/s400/20190422_141024.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Cukrászda </i>means pastry shop. A cookie addict gets her fix.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Apparently, I am not alone in my admiration for the Iran cukrászda - just about every <a href="https://welovebudapest.com/2019/01/23/edes-a-szo-minden-tekinteteben-irani-sutizo-nyilt-a-vii-keruletben/" target="_blank">Magyar foodie </a>blog (and there are a lot of them) has discovered this tiny hole in the wall on one of the less traveled side streets of the Ghetto. We were in the USA over the winter, so when we finally discovered this place - dangerously located about four minutes walk from our flat and open from 8am to 10pm) - we thought it was simply another baklava baker. <i>Wrong</i> (but they do have excellent baklava. Stuffed with pistachios!)<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GGyWDRwdNfU/XNU8Xl_QMyI/AAAAAAAATag/rhQ4yuBBquUZA24Ln-kx3e1ms0rdBodwQCEwYBhgL/s1600/20190422_141303.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="768" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GGyWDRwdNfU/XNU8Xl_QMyI/AAAAAAAATag/rhQ4yuBBquUZA24Ln-kx3e1ms0rdBodwQCEwYBhgL/s400/20190422_141303.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baklava with pistachio... (note the pan which says "Master Chef Ali)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Fumie began to systematically try out the cookies. Apparently these are typical pasties from the Azeri region of Northwest Iran, typical of what would be sold in Tehran as well, made by a family whose son was a student here - and the father is a master baker. These are flakier, crispier and chewier than other cookies. Many are only half as sweet or not sweet at all, and some are delicately flavored with spices unlike those used in western style baking: cardamom, saffron and ginger.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gP1wg3Gvyao/XNU8XmZ4tII/AAAAAAAATaY/D62V85QZxXQs0Vt7cNhS0qUWhAR8EDanwCEwYBhgL/s1600/20190422_141246.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="768" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gP1wg3Gvyao/XNU8XmZ4tII/AAAAAAAATaY/D62V85QZxXQs0Vt7cNhS0qUWhAR8EDanwCEwYBhgL/s400/20190422_141246.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My wife ate these cookies. All of them.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Personal favorites include: the walnut filled cake rolls.... or the barely sweet flaky biscuits with pistachio on top.... and the soft coconut cookies. also the chickpea flour cookies .... there is no way to choose, so the best option is to buy an assortment: the guy behind the counter speaks English as well and can help you choose. Best of all, these are not expensive, even compared to other local bakeries: you can fill a box assortment for the price of a sandwich.<br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QZK5PVmonaQ/XNU8clDXV6I/AAAAAAAATag/S8ffwHMBrjYomoVCYR86dLug1VRJ-GiaQCEwYBhgL/s1600/20190422_142217.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="768" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QZK5PVmonaQ/XNU8clDXV6I/AAAAAAAATag/S8ffwHMBrjYomoVCYR86dLug1VRJ-GiaQCEwYBhgL/s400/20190422_142217.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />dumneazuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03595663581295671582noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21879466.post-51010273622056641332019-02-21T13:58:00.000-05:002019-02-21T13:59:53.575-05:00Klezmer Pioneers Reunited<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-N0LW3cCsHn4/XG7TcIRPDeI/AAAAAAAATI4/AL36kOis4CwYiw0taiAtPmbxg-m_cCxIwCEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_20190220_231554.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="723" data-original-width="964" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-N0LW3cCsHn4/XG7TcIRPDeI/AAAAAAAATI4/AL36kOis4CwYiw0taiAtPmbxg-m_cCxIwCEwYBhgL/s400/IMG_20190220_231554.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The View from here.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The last days of winter are on us in the New York area, it would seem. Time to head back to Budapest and watch the spring arrive. First we get the <i>hovirag </i>- tiny crocus flowers - popping up in Klauzal ter, and then, slowly, the arrival of baby cabbages coming in late march. Yes, I would forsake all the gaudy trappings of New York City for one tender Hungarian cabbage. I am a simple man. I haven't been into the NY Urban Megalopolis that much this trip - but we did go into the city to attend the Center for Traditional Music and Dance event at the YIVO Intitute for Jewish Research <a href="https://yivo.org/Klezmer-Pioneers" target="_blank">"Andy Statman and Zev Feldman: Klezmer Pioneers Reunited!" </a><br />
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Statman and Feldman were among the first musicians to dig into the local roots of Yiddish music back in the 1970s, a period when performing Yiddish instrumental music was in deep decline. They did extensive research with clarinetist <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dave_Tarras" target="_blank">Dave Tarras </a>while he was still in his prime, Statman essentially inheriting both the style and, eventually, the clarinets of the great musician. The experience led Zev to a career as a highly respected musicologist - his study of Ottoman classical music is the standard text for the field, while his recent "<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Klezmer-History-Walter-Zev-Feldman/dp/0190244518" target="_blank">Klezmer: Music, History, and Memory"</a> is really the most successful attempt to produce a history of the genre. I first knew Statman as a bluegrass mandolinist who would show up at the Eagle Tavern jam sessions on 14th street - he played with the legendary Wretched Refuse String Band. I had bumped into Zev via the Balkan Arts Center Friday dances at St. John the Divine Church near Columbia University. Zev and Andy had been studying Azeri Jewish music with Zebulon Avshalomov and performed at the Balkan Arts Center's 1975 festival.<br />
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In 1978 Zev and Andy recorded one of the first "klezmer" records released during the revival period, presenting a traditionalist arrangement of Andy's clarinet or mandolin backed by Zev on tsimbl (small cimbalom.) Only the Berkeley, CA based "The Klezmorim" had produced anything considered "Klezmer" music, and that was based on learning from old 78 rpm recordings. "<i>Jewish Klezmer Music</i>" by Zev and Andy sounded like two young virtuosos coached by living master musicians. The duo performed at a 1978 concert sponsored by the Balkan Arts Center, the predecessor of the modern CMTD at the Casa Galicia, an ethnic club for Spanish immigrants that subsequently became the rock club The Ritz. I was in the audience that day - sitting up on the balcony.<br />
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After their set, Tarras himself performed in a trio with accordion and drums. After the concert was over I approached Dave Tarras and told him how much I appreciated his music. He look at me, 19 years old... and said "Are you Jewish? OK.... See those drums? Take them out to the car." Yes, I did meet the legendary Dave Tarras, and yes, he treated me as a dumb kid. Par for the course. (Compare this to my backstage meeting in 1972 with Tom Robinson, a nonagenarian New Orleans trombone player who was the last surviving member of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Buddy_Bolden" target="_blank">Buddy Bolden's</a> Band. He gave me my first beer.)<br />
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I know that both Zev and Andy have busy careers and new musical directions, but it would be wonderful for these two to record a follow up album to<i> Jewish Klezmer Music</i> after nearly forty years. After a concert set on clarinet and tsimbl that some would describe as <i>too fucking short,</i> Prof Mark Slobin joined Statman and Feldman onstage for a discussion. One point they made is that before 1975, nobody used the term "klezmer" to refer to Yiddish instrumental music. Klezmer refers to the caste of professional musicians who play the music, not the musical genre itself, but since "Jewish Klezmer Music" was one of the very first LPs that anybody bought for Jewish music, the name stuck and for the next four decades the question of "what is klezmer music" inspired thousands of improvised and inaccurate answers until finally Zev published "Klezmer: Music, History, and Memory" (I think that now would be a proper time to address the fact that when Blogger spellchecks <i>Klezmer</i> it provides the alternative term "<i>Kleenex</i>" and so in the future all inquiries to me will be addressed regarding <i>Kleenex Music</i>.)<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Upskirt view of some very <i>hot </i>pastrami.</td></tr>
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Yiddish culture in New York lurks not only in the ears and heart, but also in the stomach. Before I leave New York I had to make the pilgrimage to Katz's Deli for a pastrami sandwich. Yes, I know it is crazy overpriced. You want a good sandwich at a decent price you go to Loesser's or Liebman's in the Bronx, or Hobby's in Newark. On the Anti side of the equation: the things are now $22 at Katz's. Twenty two fucking dollars for a sandwich. But on the pro side... it is a world class meal, worthy of the best restaurants, better than 97% of anything served at Peter Luger's Steak House... the finest cured meat you will find anywhere that is not located in "<a href="https://horinca.blogspot.com/2014/09/the-brothers-nazaroff-deli-report.html" target="_blank">Montreal</a>" and you will not walk out of the place hungry, which is more than you can say for most places where you are going to part with $25 for lunch.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fumie just after shaking hands with Johnny Weir, figure skating champion. </td></tr>
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And now... <i>my life.</i> I don't drive. I used to drive, but I gave it up around the age of twenty, after sensing that The Lord would only allow me to continue living if I gave up automotive transportation. I was working hard to get through college while The Lord was frantically trying to reclaim me to his bosom by throwing other cars at mine, placing huge potholes in my car's way, slamming cars into me <i>while I was parked, </i>or even just crushing my fender often enough to empty my bank account, dooming me to starvation. So I stopped driving. I let my license lapse. I bought a bicycle. I am happy to report that I am still alive, the cars haven't killed me yet.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Why use a picture of a car? Really, we endorse Shake Shack burgers.</td></tr>
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One result is that I tend to confine my life to cities. In Europe you can reach almost anywhere using affordable trains and buses, but New Jersey is defined by towns with no commercial center. There are vast, rolling miles of suburbs that can only be navigated by car. So I decided to apply for a driver's license. I studied the New Jersey drivers manual, I took the online tests over and over again until I felt confident that I could identify driver blind spots or relate how to park a vehicle on an upward sloping street...<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The only good reason to drive.</td></tr>
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I failed.<i> I failed miserably.</i> And since I will be back in Hungary in a week I will probably not be able to take the test again until the summer, meaning I will have to go through the whole permit application process once again. And get my brother to drive me to the DMV center in Lodi at 7:30 in the AM to stand on line... all to be able to independently drive to get fresh bagels. I'll be spending the next few months with my drivers manual memorizing the reaction times for stopping on wet asphalt and the shape of Yield signs.... I will not fail again!dumneazuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03595663581295671582noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21879466.post-53016609600145547992019-02-06T12:42:00.000-05:002019-02-06T12:53:08.462-05:00Chinese New Year in New York<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happy Year of the Pig!</td></tr>
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<i>Gong Hao Fat Choy</i>! Yes, its is time for the annual Chinese New Year's blog post. This is notable because a) I'm not Chinese, and b) this is a blog post. The first factoid should become apparent very soon, but the second merits discussion. I started writing this blog back in 2006 while spending a summer in Istanbul, mainly to show my friends and family the things I was eating.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Henan lamb noodles at <a href="http://www.spicyvillageny.com/" target="_blank">Spicy Village</a> near Grand St. subway.</td></tr>
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I first read about this newfangled thing called blogging in an <a href="https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2000/11/13/youve-got-blog" target="_blank">article in New Yorker Magazine </a>around 2000. At the time, I had not been active in weekly journalism for a year and I saw blogging as a way to keep my writing chops in shape, push-ups in written form. This blog (purposely misspelled to its dialect form and named after a fiddler I know in Romania whose name means, essentially, 'The Lord' - <i>he tells you what to do and you did it</i>) began in Istanbul in 2006, ostensibly to share photos of food, travel, and music with my friends all over the globe. For a while blogs were the new kid on the internet block, and I was posting a lot, often getting over a thousand hits a day on some story about strange Romanian <a href="http://horinca.blogspot.com/2006/07/just-back-from-trip-into-romania.html" target="_blank">fiddles</a>, what Turks put in their <a href="http://horinca.blogspot.com/2006/08/dner-kebab-central-taxim-square.html" target="_blank">lamburgers </a>or <a href="http://horinca.blogspot.com/2006/12/pizza-pilgrims-in-bronx-louie-and.html" target="_blank">pizza in The Bronx</a>.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ioan Pop on<i> vioara cu goarne</i>, and no, I can't get you one.</td></tr>
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Blogging was to HTML what the Beatles were to Lawrence Welk. For a couple of years bloggers were celebrities, and some managed to eke out book deals or monetize their blogs into a small fortune. Those days are now long gone... attention spans have shrunk down to Twitter and Instagram and even more imbecilic platforms (Snapchat!) which make blogging look like what it is: a home for aging blowhards to discuss weird ethnic fiddle construction, klezmer history, and Chinese food.<br />
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Hungarian-friendly <i>kolb<span style="text-align: center;">á</span>szos </i>sticky rice <i>lo mai gai</i> from <a href="https://shanghainj.com/" target="_blank">Shanghai in Ft. Lee, NJ. </a></div>
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Which is fine with me. I may be posting a bit less than I used to, but I am not giving up the ghost just yet. My migration pattern often sees me spending a couple of months a year in the New York area - specifically, in Jersey, but close enough that a three dollar Spanish bus gets me into Manhattan and on the A train within a half hour of the old homestead. And after a week of nasty polar vortex during which Fumie dragged my nonathletic ass to watch... Johnny Weir, Olympic figure skating champion at the Bryant Park ice rink. I was very, very, very cold. <i>Oh, the things I do for love</i>.... this sub-antarctic survival test was preceded by a trip to a Vietnamese restaurant in the Bronx with <a href="https://horinca.blogspot.com/2017/02/the-bronxthat-most-maligned-bit-of-new.html" target="_blank">Professor Emeritus Bob Godfried</a>, the Man Who Knows the Bronx Better than Anybody.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rice Pancake at <a href="http://ctnknyc.com/" target="_blank">Com Tan inh Kieu. </a></td></tr>
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Located along Jerome Avenue south of Kingsbridge, the <a href="http://ctnknyc.com/" target="_blank">Com Tan Ninh Kieu</a> has upgraded itself from a cheap grubby local lunch space into a cheap and sleek restaurant that draws wary outsiders up the #4 subway to the Bronx for excellent Vietnamese pho and regional style Viet food. I love Vietnamese cuisine - and it is not that widespread in the New York area. I had a Vietnamese room mate in college... which very quickly grew to having 12 Vietnamese room mates in our two bed dorm room, so I know of what I speak. Chinatown is really the only part of Manhattan left that is of any interest to me, since the rest of the island seems to have turned into a Trump branded mall selling fashion sneakers and avocado toast to NYU students. While the city's main Chinese neighborhoods have migrated eastward to Flushing and Sunset Park, Manhattan's old neighborhood has remained staunchly Cantonese, and the old fashioned elaborate Chinese writing used in signage down here is nearly unintelligible to many mainland Mandarin speakers. And I like Cantonese food... it is what I grew up with, and when I was a wee teenager I was already familiar with the offerings of the Chinese tea shops down here, when I could stuff myself for a dollar on pork buns and rice rolls. My love for Cantonese wonton noodle soups leads me to systematically try every noodle shop in the city.<br />
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One of the last old time dim sum tea shop bakeries is the<a href="https://newyork.seriouseats.com/2011/07/lunch-today-buns-and-rice-noodle-rolls-at-mei.html" target="_blank"> Mei Li Wah</a> on Bayard street. For starters its cheap. And small. And dingy. It makes no concession to trendiness or, for that matter, hygiene. If authenticity is what you are after, yeah, it is authentic in an old New York meets Hong Kong way. If you want retro hipster old style Chinatown with a menu set up for non-Chinese, go to nearby Nom Wah. If you want to eat in an old Jackie Chan movie set, try Mei Li Wah. For starters their pork buns are the best in New York - huge, stuffed full of roasted pork and sauce, almost a full meal for a buck fifty.<br />
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There are crowds at the door buying the pork buns as fast as they came out of the kitchen, but we managed to grab a booth and enjoy a sit down meal. Buns to start, of course, but their <i>shiu mai </i>are also great (at least if you like big meaty noodly <i>shiu mai</i>) I like to come here for some of the items I usually only see in dim sum parlors, like <i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rice_noodle_roll" target="_blank">cheung fan</a></i> rice rolls. Here you can get a plate of them rolled into little carpets supporting a stew of beef navel (stomach) meat and ginger... lots of chewy tendon and and connecting tissue on fluffy rolled rice noodle. This is what I miss living in Europe...<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beef Navel Rice Roll... </td></tr>
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The <a href="https://meiliwah.com/" target="_blank">Mei Li Wah </a>has a short little menu, but the real dishes are displayed in photos taped around the walls of the room - this is how Fumie discovered the <i>Sticky Rice Egg Thing</i>. We know that is what you call it because that is what neighboring Chinese diners at Mei Li Wah called it when pointing at Fumie's plate asking to order that "Sticky Rice Egg Thing." When Chinese customers point at <i>your </i>plate for the waiter, you are doing something right.<br />
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The Egg Thing, however, reveals itself to be an edible Chinese style Clown Volkswagen: compressed inside a wad of sticky rice is a vast molten sea of meat, cabbage and Chinese chives.<br />
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<br />dumneazuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03595663581295671582noreply@blogger.com3