The first thing I want to say is that it is my intention to create a language based site where students can come to read articles, correspond, ask and even answer* questions concerning usage of grammar and vocabulary. Because (!) English is a rapidly expanding language and is important in so many fields, not only business, I feel that an open mind is necessary to appreciate exactly what these changes mean. Forget what your teacher told you in school ten years ago, well not forget exactly, just keep in mind that things have moved on even in the last decade and that what was once true of the language may not now necessarily be so. With the advent of TV the influence of American English started to first creep back across the water, and now so much farther down the line, internet, SMS, for example, we find a truly blended usage of the living language, sometimes to the point that I, as an English teacher, am uncertain as to the original usage.**
*/** As a teacher I have come across questions which I have answered confidently only to learn later that what I’ve expressed is old-fashioned, or maybe even too colloquial. English has this capacity which is one of the reasons that makes it durable, as well as exciting. Come along with me and I’ll show you how.
Not a fan of this translation, kitchen, for what I’ve always used myself, cuisine, it has become harder and harder to ignore. Now as it goes for teaching you’ll never hear me use the cursed phrase ‘I like Hungarian kitchen’, not alluding I assure you to anything negative about the food itself, just that kitchen has always been the place in a house, not the dishes of a region or country.
Eg: My mother’s in the kitchen trying to cook some Italian dish. Good luck!
Cuisine is the word I use when it comes to expressing that collective, the food of, as I mentioned, some country or other.
Eg: I’m particularly fond of French cuisine.
Now speaking of French I’m well aware of the etymology, and furthermore realise that in some quarters at least there is that shift away from the French influence on English. And here I don’t mean in the US where English is particularly different with Spanish being, perhaps, an influencing factor there. I’m referring to Britain where more and more people are using napkin over serviette, for example. On this latter I’m not the stalwart but I’m staying put on cuisine
What plaudits have rained down on this mischievious fellow, Pingu by name. Now as to opening up the debate about whether or not children should watch TV, well that certainly is not herein my intention. That said, of course, I’d welcome any comments vying for such hearty discussion to begin. Anyway, Pingu has entered our lives as I’m sure it has many others before us, and certainly too, after us. And this little ‘huncut’, cheeky chap, whatever, has captured all our hearts, not least of all Tara’s, my nearly two year old daughter. She announces Pingu’s time like a set clock every afternoon and since downloading finding some episodes on-line things have only got more frantic. She now begs and pleads all day long but I’ve been trained, I grew up the way of the Gremlins time, ‘Never ever feed them after midnight’, and so I’ve applied this as best I can to our Pingu sessions, never ever before midday, though in truth the weekends, especially after a skype session home can be tricky. Tears can flow. As to what I do to avoid such heart-rendering, though I suspect well-rehearsed, moments is distraction the old fashioned way. I play with her! And when I’m knackered or she’s insistent, I just throw in the towel and credit my daughter with some integrity. It is afterall what SHE wants!
Situated in Northern Hungary, Eger is famous for its wines, baths and castle, among other things. The castle itself is central to the great historical story surrounding Eger as it is the site of a notable victory over the Turks. The Turkish armed forces, so dominant at the time, met with fierce resistance from within the walls of Eger and left with their tails between their legs. The minaret and baths, however, tell a further tale, the Hungarians finally succumbing to the Turkish might.
Well, apart from the above mentioned sights, there are many others to see within the town, the cathedral definitely vying for top spot in this respect, but any good guide book will tell you more.
My advice is to let the streets take you where they will, winding through the centre, climbing to the castle, and if in a moment, suddenly overwhelmed by a lack of direction, you should find yourself outside of the centre in The Valley of the Beautiful Woman don’t worry! You’ll not be lost at all. In fact you may just find yourself. Sample the wines from the myriad of wine cellars dotted about at the base of the rolling hills and with restaurants and other mobile eateries on hand you may just develop an urge to while away an afternoon lost among the Hobbiton-esque environs.
Eger is also the spot of one of my intensive English weekend courses. Arriving on a Friday evening the weekend has two four-hour slots for General English with the option of 2-4 more hours for activity work, games, conversations etc. Evenings are left open to the students whim. However, as the teacher I am available in this free period for anything from a chat to personal questions concerning the course material etc.
Szép Ilona Kisvendéglő, situated in the leafy suburb that is the second district of Budapest, has a lot to offer and if you’re willing to make the slight hike from the city centre it will certainly be worth it.
From outward appearances it has all the ingredients of something quite swanky and on entering the relative formality is abundant. The waiting staff are done up to the nines, well comparitively, and everything seems to have its place. But rather than let that become over-bearing a simple glance at the menu will afford you a chance to exhale again. While wines may push things up into the priceier range, for a restaurant, but not a kocsma, it can be assumed to be reasonable. Starters, mains and desserts all serve to leave you feeling loose, perhaps even venturing an after dinner digestif, or coffee, safe in the knowledge that there’s still enough money in the bank to afford a few pints, or what not, a little later on.
What was sampled:
An aubergine cream starter with a hint of ginger (perhaps only the minutest of hints or maybe just my palate is shot) seved with toast. A tasty beginning but could be enough for two unless you’re really really hungry.
A salmon salad with strips of salmon in breadcrumb with a smattering of the usual suspects, cucumber, tomato and yellow pepper. A mayonaise-ish sauce deemed quite watery by my companion, though such anonymity will probably get me hung later.
Quilted leg of venison with forest fruit sauce and potato donuts was how it was described on the menu and smothered is how I would have described it. Couldn’t see the food for the sauce spoiling any hope of tasting a simple mouthful unadorned, which was a shame because it was temptingly tender.
The desserts were without flaw, a chestnut purée with a kick of rum, and a somloi galushka, described as a Hungarian Sponge Cake (http://hungarianfoodrecipes.blogspot.com/2011/12/somloi-galuska-egyszeruen-hungarian.html), the twange of orange zest rendering any protests prior null and void.
The wine was a red, Imre Herceg Bora Kékfrankos, and I’ll leave that to the wine experts to consider. As the cheap choice it still wasn’t free and this accounts for my previous reference to the wine prices.
Overall a pleasant experience and accommodating waiters who did a professional job to the end. Even my smattering of Hungarian was taken on board with aplomb, a lesson some of the more touristy establishments downtown could do with learning. Nagyon szépen köszönöm
Well that’s what he could have been saying but seeing as he was muttering in some God-forsaken tongue he may just as likely have been telling me to shove all and sundry where the sun don’t shine. At this I was slightly taken aback. I had been reassured by the travel agent that everybody in this Eastern European country spoke English, at least to some degree. I guess the Russians won that war. Brr, chilly, chilly.
„Yes, yes! Do you speak English?”
He looked at me a little dumbfounded, poor Commie, so I chose to slow it down and raise my voice. This would surely help!
„DO…YOU…SPEAK…”
„Yes sir. A little.”
He gestured with his thumb and forefinger as he said this. Poor bastard, probably never had a proper education, certainly not under that fellow, Chew-Chess-Coup, or whatever.
I smiled to show that I appreciated his efforts. Christ, maybe I should have brought some treats along for the guy.
„How I may help you?”
I waited. Was it a dramatic pause, or a grammatically mixed-up question? I guessed the latter.
„Well my good man, I’d like a room.”
„Which room?”
„Which room!”
„Yes, which room? For strangers we have 2 room…”
„ For strangers?”
„Yes. You are stranger, yes?”
„Of course, but that’s only because we’ve just…oh, okay. I see what you mean. Stranger. Foreigner. Yes, yes. I am.”
I laughed at this. I couldn’t blame the young chap for that one. Just as well he didn’t ask me if I was an alien. Ho ho. An awkward silence, then:
„Oh yes, em where were we? Rooms. 2…only two!?”
The guide book said this particular area was crawling with tourist hotels. Maybe they just didn’t…ah well.
„I’m sorry…”
„Huh?”
„It seems today but 1.”
„One! Well okay. Is it good?”
„Excuse me sir?”
Good intonation by the way!
„I mean is it a nice room?”
He giggles a little. I mean at first I just want to reach over and punch his lights out, the condescending…but then I notice he seems a little embarrassed.
To hell with caution. Here I come. Captain Adventure!
„Okay I’ll take it.”
He looks at me a little oddly. I’d forgotten. The uneducated buffoon probably thinks I want to remove the room from the building!
Okay. Again. Nice and loud and slow.
„I’LL…TAKE…IT.”
„You want to go there now?”
„Yes, yes. I want to go there now.”
No, no…I’ve flown all this way so I could go there tomorrow, next week, next year. Jesus, this was surely a case of lost in translation.
„Alright. You go this corridor. Go on first right. Go straight down. Three door on left. Room 404.”
Well done. Thought he might crack for a second but no…his nerve held well.
„Okay. Thank you.”
I stand there for a moment and he smiles back. I shift my weight a little. Maybe he needs to be stimulated into movement, those directions having worn him out.
Nothing. I hold out a little more. Maybe its Ruskie etiquette. Nothing. The sliding doors at the front of the foyer shuffle open, then close, then open…
„Ah Jesus!”
„And my key?
„…”
He’s thinking. I can see the steam rising. And then that smile, half giggle again.
„No key. You needn’t key! Just go there!”
Wait a sec. That time there was definitely a slightly patronising tone. The little…
„No key!?”
He shifts his eyebrows. Is he holding back? Is he actually suppressing a laugh? Why that little…
„No key? Interesting. Well, See YA later!”
I shove my joviality in his face. We saved ye monkeys from the gulags. You can’t rise me that easily.
Incredulous, I march off in the direction he had indicated, expletives abounding under breath.
No key, I kept thinking.
What? Was it voice or retina activated? Fingerprint ID? Ridiculous. They didn’t have that info. Hey, and they didn’t have my passport…That’s IT! They must have some kickass new technology. Maybe this is some swanky experimental place like I’d seen on Discovery. All connected up so even your own personal bank card could drive the rental car, operate the penthouse lift…
Well judging by his directions I was very much ground floor. Room 404. Odd number for the ground floor. Still maybe it was a code for foreigners.
Jesus only two rooms for foreigners. Really hush hush stuff. Maybe it’s an ex-KGB building.
Anyway. Room 404
I try the door. It opens easily in front of me.
What the……
… „It’s okay Martin, it’s okay.”
A consoling arm reaches over and around the old man in the corner.
„You can finish it tonight, I know you can.”
Others in the room shout encouragement but the man named Martin is inconsolable.
Minutes pass by. Then John, or Joe, the leader, or organiser, or whatever turns to me.
„Jim isn’t it?”
„Yes.”
„So could you…”
„I’m sorry to interrupt…” but I am curious „how long has he been coming here?” I point to the man, the haggard old man, named Martin.
„Oh Martin, he’s been with us for 5 years now.”
„5 years…and he doesn’t seem to be getting any better.”
Martin tries to interject, sniffles, snorts, clears his throat and tries again. As he looks up I realise he’s not as old as I’d first imagined. 40 at best, but the gaunt features and thinning grey hair make him look older.
„I’m getting better,” he manages doggedly. I nod. Jesus, he’s a mess.
„So Jim…”
I return to John, or Joe, or whatever.
„Uh huh” Still in a daze after what I’ve just seen.
„So would you like to tell us what it was like for you the first time you went to the APEH (tax) office?”
Being a father was always something I’d dreamt about…in the deepest realms of a quirky notion. It never breached the surface of my conciousness, not on anything bar a romantic level. Someone to continue the family name and if not he, then at least to carry on the family genes! Is this what it is ultimately reduced to, some primordial urge to survive, exist, perhaps, postmortem/posthumously.
I would have, in my most cynical, single man days, surmised that all there was to babies was neurotic mothers and hapless fathers, the latter forever tormented because they could never understand what it’s REALLY LIKE!
Well, as for the torment there certainly is some of that to consider. Kicking back after a day’s work with a beer and football doesn’t quite wash with a sleep deprived mother – the father’s lack of sleep doesn’t matter – but really there’s little you can do (right) with a breastfeeding mother other than F-Off (out from under her feet).
A finely scented pipe, by that I mean tobacco, ornate in its design
The drift of smoke, the owner’s look, all the ingredients for conspiracy/ intrigue.
With a sun set reflecting off the windows on the far-side the sunlight, in rebounds, trickles across to where I am, but then suddenly, perhaps a moment, a cloud or a passing minute, it’s gone.
I’m left instead in the veil of a bright bank walk evening, the benches are filling up.
The joggers are sweating, while the cyclists glide arrogantly by.
On the river a tour boat moves southwards, the snap happy tourists confined; perhaps not, perhaps they’re just weary,
And at Batthyany they’ll be ready to dock.
The cars down below, they stop and they flow,
now and then I gain a new neighbour
But high perched on this wall maybe they can’t see me at all,
Or maybe they just never notice.
Again I look up for ideas, inspiration is fading it seems
The treelined ‘rakpart’ calls me onwards…
and downwards to the city beneath.
Ah yes…the pubs where i would have frequented
the cellars, the smoke and the beers…
A tourist boat, another now passing distracts me,
A new life it seems.
I hear the squeak of an unoiled bicycle, the rubber on tarmac below,
a bird I heard earlier is silenced as the traffic’s beginning to grow.
She stirs, she rubs her eyes; her nose it itches, maybe.
She snorts, and shuffles, and settles back.
She’s a babe in wraps, encased as she is within the atmosphere of this Irish, this Cork pub.
She sleeps while the atmosphere resonates. I wonder if she dreams in Cork, the Corkonian lure fluttering at the veils of her subconscious.
The notion that she is among people, their chattering, the clink and clatter of dishes, the voice of the barman querying, and here the words fall torrential on this page racing from back to front to meet a centre…
