I can hear Gabriella snoring. She asked me earlier: ‘Do you snore?’
‘Not as far as I know’, I replied.
‘I’ve been told I do. Sometimes.’
I hear her now, a soft background noise, like Ninja when he purrs in his sleep. I can live with that.
She was waiting at the airport, and it was great to see her there and hug her, even if she makes me feel overgrown and clumsy, worried that I will crush this dainty little doll.
‘My friend Istvan is here. He will take your bags. He will take us where we need to go.’
Here’s Istvan. First impression? Hmmm, he’s a lot better looking than the one she brought to Vienna three years ago. A LOT better looking.
We drive through the suburbs of Budapest. Gabriella thrusts a map into my hands.
‘We are HERE. It’s not so nice, but the suburbs never are, are they, whatever the city. Where I live is THERE, so we are quite close. But we are going up THERE.’ She points to a location along the river, north of the city.
Istvan’s phone rings – hands free. The ring tone is like an old fashioned phone from an American 60s TV show, very loud and persistent. He answers.
‘He is working’ says Gabriella. ‘His business. He’s a... I’ll ask him to tell you in English.
We cross the Danube. I remember the last time I saw it, in Vienna – and the first time I met Gabriella.
‘Soon we will be passing the parliament buildings. And do you remember my photo of the train? The one I circulated for the project? It was taken on that bridge there’.
‘Tram’, says Istvan. His English, I’m beginning to realise, is better than hers – or maybe he is just more confident.
‘Yes, tram'.
‘And the cyclists?’ I ask. She nods. The one I thought looked like the Bulgarian Boy Babe. And then he sent me a message saying he preferred motor bikes, and attaching a photo of himself in leathers. Oh yes, I remember 
.
I watch the river pass by, and remember the last time I was here, taking the bus to Visegrad, without a clue of where I was going.
Suddenly, Gabriella turns round in the seat.
‘Do you like to eat cakes?’ she asks, then adds: ‘Very delicious ones?’
How can one possibly answer a question like that?
‘There is a… not a sweet shop… I don’t know how you say it in English.’
‘Cake shop?’ No. ‘Café?’ No, no.
We settle on patisserie. I launch into my anecdote about conversations with the Crazy Frog, when he would say, ‘I don’t know how you say this in English’ and the answer would invariably be some French word that we’d nicked.
The patisserie is perfect.
‘We always go here. It’s tradition.’
I ask her to recommend something typically Hungarian. Some of the items on offer look familiar, but still vaguely exotic, like the Swiss roll with coconut. They all look delicious.
On the counter are several plates of what look like tiny scones, called, apparently, pigi-pogi. They look just like scones to me.
Gabriella looks thoughtful, then has a sudden flash of inspiration. ‘Esterhazy torte!’ Certainly sounds Hungarian, but by this stage I’ve latched on to one on the shelf above that looks like mille-feuilles with raspberries – translates as ‘Dutch cake’ apparently, probably about as Dutch as Swiss roll is Swiss.
‘I will have the Esterhazy’ announces Gabriella. Then I’ll have the Dutch cake and a taste of Esterhazy.
The long-suffering Istvan pays for the cakes and cappuccinos, and carries them to an outside table in the sun, while Gabriella lights a cigarette, and I just enjoy being here.
The phone rings. Istvan puts down the tray and walks away from our chatter and Gabriella’s smoke.
We share the cakes, half and half. The Dutch cake is a little disappointing, the filling is mainly custard with only a hint of cream. The Esterhazy is sublime. Tastes like… could it be hazelnuts? ‘Istvan will tell you’.
He returns, and the question is put. Chestnuts, he thinks.
‘Do you know langos? [pronounced ‘langosh’]. Istvan, what is it in English?’
‘The English word, I think it starts with F. Or maybe it is scone’.
‘Scones are the little round things on the counter. I think they were called ‘pigi-pogi?’
‘No, no, langos are made from bread dough and fried’.
‘Sounds like doughnuts’.
‘Not doughnuts, they are not sweet. We eat them with garlic sauce, but you can eat them with cheese or cream or ham or other sauces, but we just have garlic and salt. Only the Germans eat them with sweet stuff’.
‘They don’t sound like anything I know’.
Istvan is on the phone again.
‘When we get to Szentendre, we eat Langos. It’s tradition’.
‘It’s scones’ says Istvan when he gets off the phone.
‘Were you just ringing someone to ask them about Langos? I thought you were working!’ I laugh. It definitely doesn’t sound like scones.
‘I don’t think there is an English equivalent’.
‘Yes, yes, there is, there must be’.
When we reach Szentendre, the mystery is solved. No, there is no English equivalent. It looks something like naan bread, but deep friend, and is delicious with garlic and salt.
Sure enough, the sign over the shop says (among several other languages), ‘Scones’.
Definitely not!
