Notes from the Field
The superspreader with the extended belly said, "Well, these Americans aren’t too friendly are they?" It was September 2020, and Covid was spreading rapidly around Hungary; I had made Alex swear that he wouldn't shake any hands, regardless of how many were offered up in his direction. It was this promise that led to his stern refusal to shake the superspreader's hand, awkwardly waving and nodding and grinning instead. It started the evening with a healthy dose of confusion and some hurt feelings among the colorful countryside folk.
We were sitting at a weathered wooden table with Géza and friends in the village of Mád. Géza was having a small party at his winery, and some locals had wandered in. The handshaking man looked like someone whose diet was exclusively meat, tanned and slightly drunk. Sisi tried to explain, they just don't want to give you Covid, man! But the superspreader was dumbfounded. A 2017 dry Tokaji blend helped improve his mood, and within the hour he was joyfully fist-bumping to the music. His t-shirt said “CALIFORNIA - EST. 1972".
Sisi danced maniacally, robotically, ecstatically on the spontaneous square of cement he had deemed the “danc flar.” Lenkey emerged from the cellar with two cloudy bottles of pet-nat, shocking us all. Four little old ladies poked their heads into the courtyard, wondering where the drum-n-bass was coming from (and hoping to get a glimpse of the handsome Géza). Tart red apples hung on the trees, and Gábor swatted mosquitoes away. The backdrop of vineyards emerged in view from beyond the orchard. I witnessed dance moves that looked like someone had been electrocuted - lots of abrupt shouting - “Nothing But Trouble” was written down the side of one man’s shorts. Sisi’s glass was filled to the top with a cellar-aged Furmint - the same one that had been poured in Michelin-starred restaurants around New York City - and a splash of club soda. “Evening, ladies” said Géza to the crinkled old women. They giggled and swooned with shining eyes at the statuesque winemaker.
In Eger we visited Titi and Marci. We’re all the same age. "How goes it with the baby?" Titi asked Marci. We've grown up a lot since 2013. Now I know who I am: a wine importer, a business owner, a brand manager, a person with my particular ideas and principles. They know who they are too. Winemakers with their own ideas and principles. Alex and I dined at the well-respected Macok, eating trotters and duck leg with sour cherries. I explained Hungarians' penchant for pairing meats with fruit compote. I realized that I had finally relaxed.
I had booked one night at the intriguingly-named HerbStyle Minihotel. The proprietor of HerbStyle offered to pick us up from the station. I looked around, disqualifying the fancy looking older dude with wavy salt-colored hair and a plaid shirt with skinny jeans as our ride. But he waived us over and said hello, come on in, opening the doors to his brand new electric Porsche. The hotel was tiny but stylish, which I suppose earned it the designation of Minihotel. It was located on Szunyog köz, or “Mosquito Court”, near the medieval city walls of Eger. Alex and I navigated our way through a carnival and a race car rally near the river, with the Hungarian equivalent of unmasked Nascar moms crowding the street. Flower pots decorated the narrow alleys leading up to the ancient castle.
An experience full of imperfections and contradictions. An elegant dinner at Szölöhegy was casually interrupted by the emergence of amphetamine-propelled electro-polka music suddenly playing on the terrace. Playing at a low volume, which I’m sure someone thought would translate to a sort of elevator muzak feel. Not so much. So we sat there, the wildly manic beats softly annihiliating our neurotransmitters by the second. Quite a backdrop to that gorgeous pastel-colored sky with gingerbread houses dotting the hills, surrounded by vineyards.
Over breakfast at the HerbStyle Minihotel we watched “Guess the Year” on MTV. We learned about the Ketchup Song and an artist named Anastacia, allegedly from Chicago. Pop stars before Botox were so emotive. Mr. and Mrs. HerbStyle brought us endless courses of mild and semi-mild cheeses, soft potato breads, butter and homemade jams, yogurt, müsli, coffee, tea, and pastry.
Picking Pinot Noir today. Lots of bees. Sweltering in the vineyards after a freezing cold night. Big, healthy bunches of Pinot wrapped themselves around the wires. We sat with sandwiches in the shade. The cutest picker - the only cute one, actually - was Rozsi-Néni, wearing a long, sunflower-patterned grandma sack. Alex said that he always imagined wine to be this fancy thing, but standing between the rows of grapes, bent over with his clippers, sneezing violently from the paragfü, he realized that it's actually not that glamorous.
That evening in Köveskál was lovely, with dinner among the roses.
These were the notes, quickly scribbled in my diary, from a three day segment from my 2020 trip to Hungary.