Budapest Takes the Cake
Alessandra Zecchini
Despite being rooted in the culture of Central Europe, Hungary has always seemed familiar to me, since it is so historically tied to the Italian north-east, and my roots. My mother cooks gulyás (goulash),for example – a recipe imported when the north of Italy was under Austro-Hungarian control. So I arrived in Budapest at the invitation of my good friends Bence and Judit, who live in the green hills of Buda (the city west of the Danube – the other side is Pest) feeling more like a visiting neighbour than a long-distance tourist.
For the occasion Judit had prepared several detailed maps marking the places I wanted to see. More maps contained precious inside information that no first-time visitor could hope to know, and these were updated every time I met another local. Everyone seemed to have their own views about what had to be seen and eaten.
I purposely avoided restaurants with gypsy violinists, yet invariably found myself in tourist areas, holding a menu written in three languages and often illustrated with photos. It seems the best places to eat in Budapest were created with tourists in mind. Locals willingly patronise these areas so, regardless of where you are, you always feel as though you’re in the best place.
 Like the charming Buda Castle district – a medieval village and World Heritage site that no longer has a castle, though the remains can be seen under the Royal Palace. Razed and restored many times over the centuries, most recently after World War II, the district is Hungary’s most significant historical centre – a quarter as popular with residents as it is with visitors.
Although Budapest is becoming more fashionable as a travel destination, the tourist presence is not as strong as it is in Paris or nearby Prague. What’s more, the city is so well planned that, were it not for the language, I would feel right at home. The pocket dictionary I was carrying proved almost useless, though. Generally after a few days in a new country I expect to grasp the language basics, but Hungarian is so different from anything I’ve heard before that I memorised only about six words, and with difficulty.
With the realisation that I was not going to learn a new language, I walked with my nose in the air trying at least to improve my appreciation of art nouveau, and I searched for cakes. The first stop was the celebrated Central Café (Centrál Kávéház), to meet the photographer, David. I checked out the cakes and knew exactly where to start: I would try the famous dobos torta, and my friend would have the eszterházy torta. That way I could try both cakes. According to my calculations, three pâtisserie visits per day should suffice to exhaust the long list of cakes I’d set myself to taste. I also ordered a coffee, as you do – I chose something called an árkádia from the coffee specialities menu.
 Mistake. The árkádia turned out to be an espresso with honey, cinnamon and whipped cream – basically a dessert in its own right. I looked at my delicious but half-eaten cake and felt sad – there was no way I could manage more than one of these multilayered calorie-rich slices per day. To add to my misery, the ever-enthusiastic David was adding more names to my dessert list, and the thought that I could not leave Hungary without eating the poppy-seed cake made me slightly nauseous.
Bence and Judit came to the rescue, knowing the best places to buy a tray full of choices to be shared, so I needed only to taste a little from each cake and without extra-sweet coffee. The “tray” was regularly filled with samples from different pâtisseries. This sight became particularly welcome in the morning after my half-asleep eyes and dormant stomach had been confronted by a long, light-green pepper on my white plate.
Like any self-respecting Italian, I had to decline pepper for breakfast, with the promise to try it a 
Photography by David Lukas
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