THE NEW HUNGARIAN VOICE FALL 2003 (Read-Only)

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NO ESCAPING FROM GASTRONOMIC GIGANTISM Growing up in a bilingual household, I'm fairly certain the first Hungarian word I learned was fakanál - the one for ‘wooden spoon’. This was exceptionally handy for those emotional moments when my mother discovered muddy footprints on the carpet and reached for her favourite kitchen implement: the Wooden Spoon of Retribution. The wooden spoon, so often my friend (such as when it required licking clean after stirring embryonic chocolate cake), also supplied an early lesson in power, treachery and the importance of not hauling half the garden into the house on the soles of my shoes. Timber cutlery aside, the other Hungarian words with early significance were the ones that equate to: “Eat! Eat! You're too skinny!” Mealtimes became daunting affairs that bore an uncanny resemblance to those scenes in nature documentaries where eagle parents stuff whole haddock down the throats of hapless eagle chicks. Many years later and despite my mother's valiant efforts, I have yet to balloon. But even though I am - according to the finest medical mind in my suburb - of ideal weight, she won't be swayed from her mission to make me a better upholstered individual. My mother's blindness to research showing her cooking habits are firmly entrenched in the realm of the notaltogether-healthy is matched only by her deafness: “Please, I can't eat any more”; “I think the table will break if you put any more food on it”; and “Call an ambulance” are all entreaties that slide off her like water off a Teflon-coated duck's back. It takes steely reserve to ignore such weak-kneed pleadings year in, year out, and yet somehow she does it. Whenever I trundle off to my mother's place, it is with a well-developed sense of trepidation. Don't get me wrong - it's heavenly food. I've grown up with Hungarian food on tap and I love it, all the way from stuffed cabbage and chicken paprikás to sour cherry soup and poppy seed strudel. It's just that Mum, in her zeal to plumpen the world, has abandoned any sense of proportion. I will arrive, feeling vaguely like the prodigal son while she's out the back killing the fatted calf, or more likely stuffing its enormous carcass into the oven. Operation ‘No More Skinny Bastard’ will, almost without variation, commence with soup. In some cultures this would be a mere appetizer, but not here. As the clouds of steam uncoil and disperse, they reveal what at first looks like a testing tank for large ocean-going vessels. Before me stretches a sea of noodles, carrots, cauliflower and half a chicken bobbing up and down in well-seasoned eddies. I will gaze across the liquid expanse armed only with a spoon, idly wondering whether the far side of the bowl is actually in a separate time zone. Mum will stand by, smiling beatifically, expressing her hope that my hunger is all powerful as the main course is nearly ready. Suggesting that this single bowl could feed me, my wife, my brother and both my sisters for the next fortnight gets short shrift from Mum: “It's only water!” Well, quite. Some time afterward, feeling a bit more like an oceanarium than I did before, it's time to tackle the main course. Wherever Mum goes shopping has not been blessed by health experts. Farm animals apparently raised on a sumo diet – hefty chickens, wobbly cows and pigs with almost translucent flesh - make it into the oven virtually intact. Goulash, dumplings, schnitzels, concoctions of cabbage, eggplant and cheese and, if we're lucky, lángos - basically bits of deep-fried dough. Utterly scrumptious, 6 even if you can feel your arteries quail with terror. It should go without saying that the portions are not on the stingy side. Later, as I walk gingerly towards the car, carefully avoiding sharp objects for fear of bursting and clutching an emergency pack of palacsinta (crepes) – “Just in case you get hungry tonight!” – Mum follows me out, eager to ascertain that I'm full. She's still half afraid of accidentally underfeeding me one night. Fat chance. And like someone who survives regular encounters with Darth Vader only to take a holiday on the Death Star, I travel to Hungary when I can and it's a destination I can't recommend strongly enough. But for me there is the added pleasure of catching up with my relatives. My aunt Joli, for example, is always overjoyed to see me, but her happiness is tempered by a vague sense of disappointment that I haven't become fatter in the interim. Operation No More Skinny Bastard Version 2.0 is launched with gusto. Unlike Mum, though, Joli seems to be gripped by the fear that I might faint from hunger at any moment and has subsequently grown adept at springing from nowhere with a tray-full of pastries. Sadly, my grandmother - the Great Gastronaut herself - is no longer with us. The combination of her, aunt Joli and Mum made for a daunting troika and the sight of all three carefully manoeuvring in the kitchen like aircraft carriers in a small harbour made us lesser mortals dangle our jaws in wonder. Which of course made it a whole lot easier to jam food down our gullets. Bon appetit. James Jeffrey
VANCOUVER HUNGARIAN BOYS AND GIRLS SCOUTS The Vancouver Hungarian Boys and Girls Scouts have been hiking and camping since 1960! Introduce your children to Hungarian culture, history and geography! Our activities include crafts and games too! Meetings are held on Thursday evenings at 1810 East 7th Avenue Vancouver, BC Please contact Suzanna Nagy at 604 230-0106 or e-mail at suzannan@slatervecchio.com for more information. ARNOLD MIKELSON MIND AND MATTER GALLERY KAFÉ EUROPA AUTHENTIC HUNGARIAN CUISINE 13743 - 16th Avenue White Rock, Surrey, BC V4A 1P7 604 536-6460 Regular Hours: Daily from 12 pm to 6 pm (or by appointment) www.mindandmatterart.com 7 We serve all of your favourites: lángos, gulyás soup, wiener schnitzel, cucumber salad, gypsy steak, chicken paprikás, palacsinta and much more! EVERY THURSDAY All schnitzel (we have 8 different kinds!) are 50% off! Open 6 days a week from 5pm to 10pm (closed on Mondays) 735 Denman Street Vancouver, BC 604 683-4982 Private parties for up to 50 people Parking at rear
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THE NEW HUNGARIAN VOICE FALL 2003 (Read-Only)

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