Huh?

http://www.pestiside.hu/20110706/if-ronald-reagan-could-free-eastern-europe-can-his-statue-free-szabadsag-ter/

Elvis Presley I get, but this?

Gyümölcs Leves

  This delicious, powder puff pink concoction is gyümölcs leves (fruit soup), made with "meggy", Hungarian sour cherries.  The beauty of this simple recipe is that it can be made all summer long with whatever fruit happens to be overflowing at the local fruit and veg stands.  Here in Csillaghegy, we have several such stands to choose from daily (except Sunday, of course).  Please, Oregonians and Californians especially, you owe it to yourselves to whip up a batch of this stuff.  It's just the thang, trust me. I am posting the cherry version of this soup ... the cherries probably have to be sour, although Bings might work quite well.  I wouldn't try this with the blander Rainier cherries,  but, hey, who am I to stifle your creativity?  This recipe will work with strawberries, raspberries, peaches, nectarines, apricots, blueberries.....you get the idea.

                                                                MEGGYLEVES
6 cups water
1 cup sugar (you could experiment with honey, agave syrup, or stevia)
2T flour (or cornstarch for the gluten intolerant)
1 cup sour cream
1 pound fresh, pitted sour cherries
1/4 tsp. salt
1 tsp confectioner's sugar
(optional: tsp. cinnamon, 1/2 tsp. vanilla or almond extract, crushed almonds for garnish)

In a large saucepan, cook cherries and sugar in the water for about ten minutes...you should be able to smell the cherries.
  While the cherries cook, whisk together thoroughly the sour cream, flour or cornstarch, salt, and confectioners sugar.  If you want to add the extra spices, now would be the time to do it.
  When the cherries are dones, temper the sour cream mixture with a ladle full of the hot cherry liquid, whisking briskly. When this is well blended, add it to the cherries, and continue to whisk briskly. Bring to a gentle simmer and keep it there for about five minutes.
  Cool to room temperature in an ice bath....place plastic wrap directly on top of the soup to prevent a "skin" from forming. Refrigerate, then serve cold as a first course or as dessert.  Also makes a swell breakfast. Embellish with whipped cream and/or chopped, roasted almonds.
  A small aside...we do not have a blender, but if we did, I would have puréed a portion of the cherries before adding the sour cream mixture.  This would thicken the soup further and bring out even more of the tart cherry flavor. Again, most fruits will translate well here, except maybe apples, pears, and citrus fruits. x

                                       

Patti and V.S.

  Regardless of how we age and how jaded we inevitably become, we are always profoundly disappointed when the intellectually and expressively gifted among us spew hateful, idiotic, narcissistic blather. It is a blow to the psyche when the supremely talented (and successful) fail society in this way, behaving like ignorant jack-asses. We assume such conduct is beneath an artist's dignity and its expression is definitely too much for our tolerance.
  Recently, Nobel Prize winning author V.S. Naipaul stated in an interview with the Royal Geographic Society that, "Inevitably for a woman, she is not a complete master of a house, so that comes over in her writing too."
  He then spoke of his publisher who, when she crossed over into writing, produced nothing but "feminine tosh".
    That phrase is destined to return to bite ol' V.S. in his saggy ass, a simple but damning expression that illustrates both Naipaul's nasty gender bias as well as his clever way with words.
  Without pontificating, without ranting, I will let Naipaul's words stand on their own.  I don't know his work and it's too bad because these recent statements do not entice me to explore his venerable anthology.
  Instead I will issue a check mate to his statements by discussing my favorite new read, Just Kids by unapologetically sentimental female author, rock and roll pioneer Patti Smith.  The high priestess of punk poetry relays the achingly beautiful story of her relationship with photographer Robert Mapplethorpe.  This book is a last request at last fulfilled, the story having brewed, aged, and acquired a luminous patina within the memory of Patti Smith.  During one of their last conversations, before he died of AIDS in 1989, Mapplethorpe asked Smith to "write our story.  No one but you can write it".  Smith subsequently wrote Flowers and The Coral Sea in remembrance of Mapplethorpe but waited twenty years until she "found the right voice" with which to tell the tale.
  That voice is wistful and ageless...I was immediately drawn into her world from the beginning of the book.  Smith is unabashed and open in her retelling of her precious, unique relationship with Mapplethorpe.  That relationship, that deep love defied definition, and the two artists struggle to figure out how to define it themselves.  Classic soulmates, their love transcended mere sexuality and simple friendship.  I doubt there are many couples who are lucky enough to find that kind of life long devotion. Smith aptly describes their relationship as being similar to the siblings Elizabeth and Paul in Jean Cocteau's "Les Enfants Terrible", brother and sister who live and love in a world of their own invention.

In many ways I was predominantly drawn into the story as it speaks of life as a burgeoning artist in NewYork City at the beginning of the 1970s. That life, as wrought with sickness, hunger, and desperation it was, was still golden, wonderfully simple, and endlessly creative. A single hot dog from Nathan's was, to them at the time, a luxury to be cherished and savored.  Second hand trinkets and imported baubles, traded between them as tokens of their unique bond, became auspicious talismans. These bits and pieces of their creative lives together tell of a lifestyle that no longer enjoys the respect it should.  Simple joys, humble treasures, bestowed with profound meaning then passed along. And art, the creation of art, by people who literally, outspokenly, dedicated their lives to that muse. It is a long lost national treasure, that way of living, that set of values...it would be nearly impossible to pull off in this day and age, when more is more.
  Smith and Mapplethorpe occupied crumbling residences and historic hotels.  They were showered with glitter tossed upon them by the deliciously kooky drag troupe from the West Coast, the Cockettes, during their infamous visit to New York City. They were personally touched by the tragic rise and fall of Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix, they skirted the edges of the whole Warhol/Max's Kansas City crowd without becoming jaded victims of its influence. They were witness to the alpha and omega of many an artistic legend. Smith discusses how beloved Warhol transgender stars Candy Darling and Jackie Curtis were brilliant, loaded with talent, but so far ahead of their time they would not live to experience the veneration they deserved.  All of this time was spent in a microcosm of their own special planet, where Smith and Mapplethorpe wrote, drew, created, critiqued, and supported one another faithfully.
  Back to V.S. Naipaul and his hatred of feminine "sentimentality"... the literary world is a far richer place because of this (and so many other) woman, Patti Smith's, sentimentality, which never spills over into the cheap or maudlin.  As if longing and cherished memories have no place in exquisite writing.  With her tender memories, Smith has given readers a threefold gift. One is the  history of a distinguished artistic scene, one whose echos reverberate still within popular culture. The second is the story of a life long friendship that defies definition, one that gave birth to so much beauty and creativity, some of it too remarkable to understand.  The third is a lesson, almost an opportunity, to examine that history and that friendship and hopefully glean for ourselves a better understanding of life and how to live it.

Romkocsma is a Ruin

                                                                        oh!!! I can't sleep!


     My dear friend Dean Volker left town a couple of weeks ago after a lovely visit.  I miss him and, as usual, he left behind some fantastic music and magazines as well as some brand new knowledge.
  Dean is the kind of tourist that does his homework, really researches a place and gets to know it, indirectly, as best he can.  I'm not sure if, during his stateside research, he came across his knowledge of romkocsmak, or ruin pubs, but I am quite sure I may never have been introduced to this phenomenon, which is distinctly "Budapesti", had it not been for Dean's pre-voyage curiosity.
  The concept behind the ruin pub is simple as well as being a squatter's/DIY enthusiast's wet dream. At the turn of the 21st century, many of the derelict buildings inspired the creation of ad hoc gathering spaces, overflowing with art, ideas, beer, booze and loud music.  These buildings were furnished with cast off furniture and decoration and henceforth, became known as ruin pubs.

                                                                        Szimpla Kertmozi
  
  Romkocsmak represent the evolution of the speak easy...sometime after the rave phenomenon started getting weary, romkocsmak began appearing and disappearing all over Budapest. A sort of hundreth monkey effect took over, devoid of rules and how-tos.  Some romkocsmak are seasonal, some change venue from time to time, some remain within the buildings in which they began.  Since necessity is the mother of invention, these ruin pubs maintain a DIY aesthetic, the kind that calls for clever themes and commentary when establishing the mood of a place.
 So far, in Budapest, I've only been to Szimpla Kertmozi (Simple Garden) and then only for an hour or so.  It was Saturday night and the buildings nooks and crannies were filled with conversationalists, seductors, and thrill seekers.  We strolled a pass or two around the third floor foyer, spied an empty table, and quickly nabbed it before anyone else did.

                                                             third floor, Szimpla Kertmozi

                                                                    um.... a little irony

                                                                             Dean and Esther, fun and fellowship


   
  A few weeks ago, my family and I took the train down to Pécs, to enjoy the mediterranean climate and ogle the architechture left by the Turks.  We loved the mid-sized college town for many reasons, but were particularly charmed by Cool Tour Café, a charming little ruin pub just off the cobblestone promenade. The aesthetic of Cool Tour was much less frenetic, much more soothing (at least during the day), and when we were there, we got to watch this work in progress...folks were adding space to the outside bar as well as doing a bit of landscaping.

                                                   soothing colors, comfy but spare furnishings

                                                                  Cool Tour al fresco bar

                                                               outside seating,  Cool Tour  

                                                                                 colorful corner at the Cool Tour

                                                        Boone, enjoying feher bor at Cool Tour


    The concept of ruin bars is one that I think could go over quite well in certain parts of the United States, namely the West Coast, specifically Portland, San Francisco, Seattle and most college towns tucked in between the urban areas.  Dean brought up the point that property costs as well as stringent building code regulations might doom the possibility of any ruin pub phenomena in the U.S.  Which is too bad....the romkocsma represent the kind of individualism and self- sufficiency the country supposedly regales.  Of course money would be the main obstacle to something like the ruin pubs flourishing....and they say monetary incentive is the best way to get ideas flowing.  Bullshit.  Exibit A:  the romkocsma of Budapest, a fairly poor city still trying to throw off the shade of the Iron Curtain. x
                                        
  

Squares and Ters

The often bizarre and ever evolving legacy of Elvis Presley just took a load off  here in Budapest.  

  Back in 1956, Elvis, performing on the Ed Sullivan Show, dedicated the hymn "Peace In The Valley" to the revolution here in Hungary, urging viewers to donate to the passionate but short lived Hungarian cause. 

  Fifty-odd years later, mayor of Budapest, Tárlos István, has declared that Presley will become a "posthumous, honorary citizen" of the city, and will heretofore christen, in the name of the King of Rock n Roll, a new, if postage stamp sized, city park.

  One of the sites which may be chosen is at the western foot of the Margit Bridge, right next to The Hid (a popular, centralized rendezvous site favored by a pod of American and British expats I kind of know), where the magical Number 17 tram takes on a Hogwart's Express persona at its end of the line, right in front of The Hid (and perhaps, soonish, right in front of the future Elvis Presley Ter).  The 17 looks as if it should be entering a wormhole at the point of its termination...every time I see it I half expect the serpentine cars to get swallowed up by a vortex of unknown origin,  a secret tram passage to Quantum Budapest (wait, maybe I am in Quantum Budapest).   It never does, though, sadly.  After a five or ten minute smoke break, the conductor simply walks up to the other end of the tram, hops back aboard,  the yellow trolley slithers, squeaking, back through the second and third district.

  My tutoring student, Bénce, declared the other day, however, that the likelihood of that particular site  becoming Elvis Presley Tér is quite slim, as there are existing, unnamed térs all over the city which are much more, um, deserving of such an honor.
  The decision for the site will be put to a vote and the Hungarians who bother to cast a ballot will follow their hearts as opposed to their heads, much as they do on the very popular X Faktor, a show on which the biggest sob story paired with the most saccharine of voices will win hands down over genuine talent.
Because of this, the chances for Elvis Presley Tér manifesting in front of The Hid might be quite good.
  I would like to think that the confluence of the 17's terminus and the spirit of Elvis Presley could conjure up some excellent mojo, maybe unplugging that wormhole to a secret Budapest that I just know is hovering there, somewhere, beneath the Margit Bridge.  x
 
  

"We Have Lied By Night...."

I've discovered the Hungarian prince of the absurd, one Örkény István. There he was, featured on the back page of my well worn issue of Time Out Budapest, staring at me with a face worn by the kind of experience only a Hungarian of a certain age could withstand.  Boone mentioned reading about him a while ago...his name slipped my mind.  Dean spoke briefly of his One Minute Stories....briefly intrigued, I forgot him once again.  I rediscovered him and became obsessed in a bathtub full of coconut bubbles. I guess that's just my way.
  It has been said that if one wishes to understand what it means to be Hungarian, to come close to understanding the Hungarian experience, one need only to read the works of Mr. Örkény. Through his writing, and I have yet to delve in as deeply as I want to, I feel as if I am beginning to understand certain cultural quirks...what seems to be numbing slackerdom might really be inertia  as a result of an abyssmal fear of the Next, Big, Devastating Change. And one does feel more change is indeed a comin'.  What seems to be pointless and ineffective bureaucracy might truly be a residual attempt to hold on tightly to some kind of progressive order.  I dunno.  But I'm seeing things in a bit of a different light, one which helps me relate to the Hungarians more than I have these past eight months.
  If reading the absurdly, darkly delightful works of Örkény István effectively describes what it is to be Hungarian, then this flies in the face of the Fidesz party's recent rewriting of the Hungarian constitution, which now proclaims the country a Christian one, whose symbol is the "Holy Crown of St. István" (no relation to Mr. Örkény).  The author/playwright/philospher/pharmacist/military officer/prisoner of war was Jewish, socialist, and remains a national treasure, with a namesake theatre in the seventh district of Pest (my current favorite).
  Do read a bit of Örkény for yourself....his works, translated into English, read like a thrilling, disturbing harmony of Franz Kafka and Flannery O' Connor.
  Remember to "Stand with your legs apart.  Bend forward all the way.  Look back between your legs.  Thank you."

http://orkenyistvan.hu/the_grotesque

Sweet Thangs

Howling girls at the cukraszda....smirking everytime I or my boys come in for meggyes rétes or malna fogylalt, ....then begrudgingly taking our time and money....you are not the best your country has to offer.  It seems those folks lie mainly east of the river.
  Instead, you are too much like the worst my country has to offer.
Simple and elegant lesson learned:  do not judge a country by its lowest common denominator.  Also, those who have very little power over their lives wield that power like a spiked mace, when they can. x