Restaurant Budapest 107 Manchester Street Ph. 60-778 B.Y.O.

Press, 25 February 1987, Page 31

Restaurant Budapest 107 Manchester Street Ph. 60-778 B.Y.O.

By

BOB IRVINE

“Reliable” friends said when asked their opinion of the Budapest. Trustworthy and tasty. We were hungry enough to ransack the menu, so lunged in. She kicked off with Gulyas Leves (goulash) at $4.95, while I toyed with a very playful bottle of German champagne. (Was this a bad choice, I wondered. After all the ring of jackboots on cobblestones must still thunder through the Hungarian national consciousness. But then, if the Magyars held a grudge against everyone who had invaded them, they would be basket-cases.) “That’s a bit florid for this early in the evening,” She said. “Ring of jackboots, indeed.”

She had been testy all day about a forgotten wedding anniversary. A perennial favourite. Serves me right for marrying just after Christmas, which tends to pickle the memory.

“Earn your mealticket,” I retorted. “How is your soup?” Mmmmm, delicious. Tingling with an exotic, mysterious herb. “On the tip of your tongue,” I asked, with mine firmly in my cheek. “Ho, ho, Oscar Wilde. What about your entree?”

Faultless. From an extensive selection of meat and vegetarian tantalisers, I chose crumbed and fried chicken breast, with gooseberries in a creamy wine sauce (Kirantott Csirke Darabok, $8.20). She was equally im-

pressed with Her Mushrooms Romanov ($6.50). Cooked to perfection, She enthused. Full flavour and firm texture, with perhaps the creamiest sauce She had ever tasted.

And this is not an easy woman to please.

After a decent interval — and more of that Teutonic nectar — the mains arrived.

The friends were right; totally reliable. My Kirantott Borju ($14.30) — unbelievably tender slices of veal, crumbed and fried — came topped with Lesco (mixed salad) and served on rice. The accompanying potato, onion and broccoli crunched with just the right consistency. “You old fake,” She snapped. “Your are copying that off the menu.” “I am not. Weil, not the bit about the veges.” “And crumbed again,” She added. “What an adventurous soul you are.”

“I’ve always had a weakness for crumbs,” I riposted, which bought a few minutes silence. Professionalism eventually got the better of me. “How is your Toltott Csirke Mill ($15.40),” I inquired sweetly. She could not stop the smile. An enormous chicken breast, fully boned and so tender, with camembert cheese oozing out to mingle with the white wine sauce.

“This gives you a problem,” She remarked, leaning back in her chair. “It’s looking like a rave. How about a bit of your customary nit-picking for the sake of credibility.” “No, no,” I expostulated. Well, all right then. Ummm, ahhh, the decor is not spectacular: brick and green ruffle curtains, with nothing but photos of Byzantine cityscapes to interest the eye. “Yes, they could have done with a few Brueghel

prints or something,” She ventured.

Brueghel, Hungarian? "He could have been,” She whimpered. “Since when was geography one of your desiccated disciplines — just add wine to reconstitute."

It so happens that I had consulted Fodor’s “The Yokel’s Europe” before leaving home. Hungary: cold winds off the Danube; 10 million Magyars with impenetrable names; the ring of Russian tanks on cobblestone, etc., etc.

Main exports: machinery, consumer goods, and people who can COOK. Brueghel a son of the steppes I don’t think. I can pronounce his moniker for a start.

(I sometimes wake up in a cold sweat at nights, dreaming that it is my job to proof-read the Warsaw phone directory.) “That’s Poland, you idiot,” She expleted . . .

"and get your head out of that thesaurus long enough to order dessert.” Strange how homemade ice cream defies the laws of physiology. You think you are satiated, see it on the menu, and miraculously the stomach begs for more. So skipping past the mousse and chocolate torte, I went for the Cseresnye Fagylayt (pronounced “That one”) at $6: black cherry ice cream served in a tall glass.

She chose something equally unpronounceable —- Dios Fagylayt Baracklikorrel. ($6) — swimming in apricot liqueur and walnuts.

Feeling fulsome and totally delighted with an excellent meal, we ordered Bailey’s and Irish coffees to close ($4 each).

The total price for the evening as $72.55.