Down the steps running in off Trinity Street, Cambridge, lies The Vaults Bar and Restaurant. I was a little unnerved to begin with. Whereas cellar bars are a norm in Budapest, in England, much like Ireland, I imagine such places to revolve around pain, torture, or pehaps even deviant sexual pleasure. Being with Tara meant I wasn’t up for that sort of exploration.
As it offered a chef’s special, 2 courses for a tenner, I was game, and with Tara weighing in my arms I had grown disinterested in prowling for a better place.
A bar to the left, restaurant to the right, at the bottom of the stairs, I chose the former being as there were cosy chairs for my sleepy beauty.
Though she fought heroically in resisting fatigue it is only because she is sleeping now that I’m managing this.
Right. Starters were varied and I chose a potted crayfish with toasted bread. I say toasted bread rather than toast because the bread itself is worth a mention to the good. The crayfish, however, set in a ramikan much like a goose liver paté, fat congealed on top – the disappointment came in the heavy handed approach towards the pickle mixed in. This struck me as a dish made by someone who delighted in the idea of fish while not wholly liking the taste. A whiskey-coke drinker comes to mind.
The main was a goat cheese salad with strips of red peppers, sun-dried tomato, rocket salad and that curious brown sauce which is not quite YR nor chocolate but could pass for both at a distance. It won back points for both simplicity and taste. Goat cheese and sun-dried tommy-toes…the job!
Served on tap was a cider I didn’t try and a bitter, Eagle, which I did.
The service was professional, experienced, and within the realm of friendliness which, considering my initial douts/fears about the establishment down the steps, is a positive.
In summary, in the way of bar-restaurant tradition which has come to signify the turn of the new millenium, it slots in unobtrusively, but perhaps would never stand out, not in my own imagination at any rate*.
Whether or which, Tara is still out for the count and I’m considering another pint while feeling the pressure of a full bladder. But unlike the beer, Martin isn’t bitter!
Location location location.
This is the place to be downtown on the edge of work, sun shining and the allsorts passing. If ever a backdrop seemed forced, much like Hollywood highway chase scenes did till I lived in Greece, this place will dispel all doubt. Sitting in the sun my arm scorched off and yet a stripey cardigan donned I write with no intention to compliment this place. It’s a drinking den nothing more but at that it’s perfect. C’est tous. C’est fini!
http://www.kakaspresszo.hu/
Up in the 12th, a climb if you’re on for it, is where to find the lovely Levendula. An owner that’s renowned for his alcohol intake, and an interior that’s black, and maybe because of paint, this is one of those places that’s not pretty but is nearly perfect. You don’t come here for fine dining or for beer served up in a clean glass but if you’re one of those let the heights deter you. For the atmosphere adventurers there is something about this place, accessible by either 112 or 102 bus from the city, the former runs right the way through Pest while the latter comes up from Széll Kálmán tér to its terminus hereabouts before continuing on its loop around, and both stop just outside the door.
Its point, beyond the characters than adorn the place all year round, is the garden. A balmy spot offering shade on the hillside it is also only a few stops short of a fabulous viewpoint if one continues up along the 112 bus route.
Not a place for run-of-the-mill connoiseurs, it is certainly a place for off-the-beaten-track troubadours, and when you find it remember to tell your doubts:
I told you so!
Ibolya at Ferencziek tere is retro in feel and seems quite tacky. Gaudy wallpaper mixed with pale yellow paints comprise the walls while lamp shades hang low just as Diana’s ‘V’ spaceships loomed large above the urban landscape, or perhaps even as a nod to Ed Wood in his more frenetic days.
Deeper into the darkness which resides away from the street there are the sofas, while upstairs too there is the gloom. The gloom in itself is the essence of an Irish bar but with funky American diner furniture it seems like an awkward union. In truth it’s borberline psychotic. However, don’t be deterred. Those of you naive enough might find it psychedelic, while those already in the vapours of madness might find yourselves right at home. For everybody else it’s an adventure but just in case I’ve built it up, really… it’s not all that much.
Being retro and maintaining the feel, air con seems to be window-wise but I could be wrong. A monstrosity above the bar sporting vents could actually be for real. Now where are the people operating that contraption? Holed up in a backroom being fed a staple diet of kifli, parizsi meat slices, and Kobanyai beer served luke warm?
The drinks menu itself is well endowed while the snacks remain old school: meleg szendvics and ropi plus some.
An overall assessment of the place would need to include purpose. This is certainly a place to water up before moving onto the tiles John and Olivia style, and, as it is in the centre of rejuvenation, it’s all about location, location, location.
There used to be a Casino here at one time; I know cos I sat on a stone bench opposite one night sipping beer and smoking cigarettes. In fact, I passed it many times when my friend had a flat in the area – the Soho of Budapest, or is it the Westend…Eastend. Now that I think of it, maybe it’s called the Broadway of Budapest. For alliterative purposes at least, this will here apply.
Nowadays it has turned itself into a cafe with the entrance located in the same spot, the windows merely peeled of the tacky white-out employed to allow the casino goers their privacy, or the casino owners theirs! Enough said.
At present the interior is a lot more visible but with its sparse decor it has all the feel of transition, something I didn’t expect from the street. With a mixture of low and high tables, and seating appropriate, everything is rather spacious. A more enterprising – greedy – businessman may have opted for more tables.
On entering, to the left, the short wing, runs four tables in across 2 windows adjacent to the sweet section. Off right the greater length of bar and floor space is set aside. Nestled in the back here is an open area which gives this, coupled with the light fixtures, a back stage feel. This is where the exhibition area is and if this sounds so matter-of-factly, note this.
Almost every bar in Budapest which has any aspirations beyond mere drinking den allots wall space to the greater endeavours in the pursuit of all that is arty. If the arts isn’t your cup of tea don’t be perturbed – the drink tastes the same, and sometimes better. The price impact on the pocket is still much less than in the ex-pat pubs which, in my opinion, do little more than encourage divisions between the locals and the foreigners, except, of course, where express financial status is on display. As an ex-worker in one particular bar I can say that it is odd to see locals with money blending with bousies over on a stag. Perhaps the former imagine this is merely the temperament of the aspirant classes elsewhere. The latter, it is sure, don’t give a _____!
In terms of location this is central and though the real centre is ever elusive as to whether to define it culturally, socially, gastronomically, or otherwise, this is A hub and with that one must note the importance of this cafe come bar come casual food-ery come exhibition spot. On the intersection with Nagymező, with all its splendour, and Mozsár utca, and Andrassy, the sort-of Champs Elysses of Budapest, in close proximity, this certainly is a contender for the place to be…but the competition is rife.
My advice is to find this spot and let its environs carry you beyond all expectations. A review, a guidebook, will tell you nothing as much as the streets themselves, but where time is of the essence then you would do yourself an injustice if you dared not venture into the heart of the sixth district and even perhaps in here.
Serving us well as it did last summer I’m back, alone, and sitting, waiting for a pint, listening to a blend of music and chatter. It is definitely more a place for the aspiring classes – accents on the verge of posh, and people’s demeanours suggesting similar. If I were to make comparisons with Budapest, The Bodega would be to the trendy pub what the Vicarstown* would be to the kocsmas. One difference I’d like to note is that in Ireland old and young blend better and in more locations, be they trendy or not; the super-pub pre-club atmosphere excepted, which is the same everywhere.
The Bodega, itself, is situated on Corn Market Street but the market itself, now face-lifted – probably from local government coffers – tells a tale that goes back hundreds of years. To Corkonians this area is the Coal Quay, pronounced Kay, or Coal Quay Market, alluding as much to a time when the river would come in as far as here. “The Venice of the North” or so some people say, referring to the many waterways which once riddled this city. They still do, mind you, but all beneath asphalt and concrete.
Set in an old stone building, the high ceilings and fine decoration of The Bodega’s interior may be off-putting but with a fine selection of food as well as drink one must remember that this is not just a pub – it’s a fine food establishment. With barbeques on weekends and a full smoking area this is definitely one of the gems. The walls abound with local artistic talent and though it may be above the pockets of the artistic equivalents in Budapest it is the class in which both countries’ artistic elite flourishes. The patrons come aplenty, but abegging, in the gutter! I’ve sometimes accused Budapest and Hungary of artistic snobbery, but nevertheless it seems somewhat more affordable than hereabouts. Folk – now that’s a different story.
Sitting here, 1p.m. –ish, there is a healthy lunchtime crowd with 50% of the floor’s tables full. For a place with a reputation to higher prices this is quite good, and with the turnover lunchtime a steady flow this is no money losing enterprise. You’d hope!
Evenings and weekends do find this place brimming with revellers because it’s then that it forsakes its eatery for full-on pub/club potential. But again this is evening-till-late so come in afternoon time and you can have the best of both worlds. In the back there is a restaurant area which allows one to recline in the intimacy of an evening romantic meal, if that’s one’s wish.
On the whole a spacious environment full of the clatter and bang of a busy establishment. If I were to imagine a comparison I would say the coffee houses of Vienna and Budapest turn of the 20th century, but with the savoury and beer that gives it its Irish twist.
Lunch menu:
Potato and Leek soup 4.90 euro;
Beef and Mi Daza** stew 10.90euro;
Pan-fried sea bass, crushed baby potatoes, dill and butter 13.50 euro
Opened just over 2 years ago I’ve personally witnessed this establishment’s progress from an oasis in a sea of construction to a flourishing business.
Where it lies, at the foot of Margit’s Bridge, Buda side, sets it off from the traffic that daily passes above.
A tram stop nearby means there is always a movement of people and with a generous outdoor area it must be one of the most promising places to settle back between here and there.
A selection of pastas and pizzas are on offer with the Margherita hitting all the marks and if this is anything to go by then the pizza here is most recommendable.
Perfect pizza outside of Italy! Well you could be pushed and pushed in the right direction you could end up here in Budapest, and this is definitely one to behold. Other places offer pizza and most sin on the side of greasy when it comes to the simple Margherita. Also some more local practitioners tend to the Trappista* cheese, which boasts a history but has been lost to the taste of mass production. Here at Híd Bistro there is still Mozzarella, and this has made all the difference.
Waiting in the rain, one bus missed, another five minutes off, darkness in full swing, the dirty yellow light no good for reading, the smoking habit knocked on the head some time ago, the bar too far away for a quick pint- shots not being his thing- Paul was forced to wait unaided. No desirable distractions.
In this biting cold there would be no parade of leggy ladies to while away the minutes. In fact, in the hollow that was this side street the only company was the occasional lumbering bus, none his, as they climbed around the corner above him and fell down onto the road below. Their engines strained, roared; their fumes filled his lungs.
Others waited too and all seemed to have that homogenous expression, perhaps a prerequisite stuck in this misery. He smiled as he wondered if every single person here was of the same opinion of each other as he was. He was no better, he knew this.
A couple arrived just then, that kind of couple. Not only are they in love but they want everybody to know it, and by tumbling about while in full embrace, bumping into those in close proximity, they were also trying to include innocent bystanders in their torrid love affair. An old man muttered a reproach,they sniggered, and continued to whisper, casting accusing glances at the reproacher. He eyed them with suspicion. Paul himself felt a pang of anger though he allowed that it could have been jealousy. He’d never been that free in love. Too cautious, much too cautious.
Another bus finally tumbled around the corner and pulled up to a halt before them, the waiters. Still minutes off deparute but nearly time, he thought. The driver would surely leave them on board to step in out of the drizzle, that persistent reminder that everything wasn’t alright. The engine suddenly died and the people dared not look around in wonder, for fear of seeing the same worry etched on the others’ faces as they could only imagine was blantantly apparent on theirs.
The driver climbed from his seat and manually opened the front door. Stepping out he closed the door again, and then, turning to Joe Public offered a conciliatory explanation. A groan rose. Paul didn’t understand what the driver had said but it was obvious. An old lady donned her reading glasses and checked the bus timetable. Another twenty minutes. Paul knew. The evening schedule had just begun. Time for that pint, he thought, and smiled. Finally sense prevailed.
The intention of this is merely to supply an appreciation of a book I’ve read only recently. Actually as I write this I have yet to finish it but as I intend this piece to be slightly longer than the few thoughts I write here tonight I am sure that the story will conclude before I do. So it is with caution that I go in search of references, links, by way of a route to take, as tomorrow I plan to walk the streets, feel the vibe, and perhaps take a few photos. A written record will also be deployed, hopefully, and if I am brave enough to chatter into my dictaphone this too may come in handy. Not that babbling away to oneself, or apparently so, is unusual these days what with the number of hands free devices on the market, and more and more of them are becoming less and less conspicuous. It’s getting harder and harder to tell the loons from the rest but perhaps the former are more pointedly recognisable these days by their satisfied silence. We’ll see.
http://members.virtualtourist.com/m/tt/8ecfa/
25/5/2012
It was a Friday and after a week of mulling over the prospect, book in tow to every class, questions asked of every student, a picture began to form. To some it was a mere child’s book though a pride, perhaps a sentimentality, shone behind those eyes, in those expressed words. To others it meant nothing; it was school and all the hardship that that period entailed. Being a mandatory read unfortunately allows in the element of bitterness that comes with the set curriculum of our youth. Some, however, tend to reminisce though this too brings with it a naivety no less tainted than the anger. Neither is the full picture but in setting out along the streets of the story, the places where it all took place, I endeavoured to find at least an element of the truth, if not in the story itself, at minimum in the very life which still reverberates in the heartland of the eighth and ninth districts.
My journey began on emerging from the Kalvin ter metro and, following along the Vámhoz Korut towards the river the big market is the first great landmark though the church in Kalvin ter was a surprise, and therefore new to my appreciation, especially since it has been somewhat obscured for the last few years due to the Metro 4 hoardings.
As the red brick of the market building comes into view so also does a little left turn and it’s here that the first street mentioned in the book is encountered, Pipa utca (Pipe street). With phone camera and dictaphone the points of interest would from now on be noted, [using either original phone photos and audio files or a revised photo shoot with Andi and excerpts from the book], any chance to write too inhibiting to the overall progress. This writing, in fact, is taking place in IF café on Raday utca.
A moment was needed to stop and collect my first thoughts/impressions; some pictures and sound comments to boot. At this pace a healthy estimate is to finish stage one of the three stage projected walk today.
14:00
Well a burst of energy carried my little legs farther than I had imagined, or for that matter, dared hope. I found myself on Koztelek, a very familiar street but couldn’t find the fabled ‘smoking’ pub, or eternal house party as the legal loophole requires,
while the City Gate office complex on one side and park/ playground on the other were looking altogether other than what I’d imagined in light of the novel. The tobacco warehouse was certainly gone but standing resplendent, was the Jazz School (http://www.lfze.hu/kapcsolat ).
Crossing Ulloi and the first the Semmelweiss complexes I was soon at the corner of Maria utca. Road works spoiled the feeling but some of the ramshackle spelt of the wear and tear which probably traversed the period that Nemecsek and co. wandered these same streets.
On Maria there are clinics, the eye clinic telling a tale of two halves, for left of the door lay a building dilapidated, windows broken, brickwork crumbling, while above the door and to the right things seemed to be somewhat in order. Could people see this, well you would hope they could, afterall! Was it a sign of the times? With construction sites littered all across the eighth on the far side of the Korut; as in other districts, the old is often forsaken in favour of the new. Like Boka’s shock at the final realization of the fate of the Grund to upward development, maybe here, and now, it’s become about the knock and rebuild, though where there are derelict areas, maybe there is a greater history of war here than I first realized. By here I mean the eighth district, not the city of course.
A glance up Pál utca told me that nothing special resided there so I strolled to the junction of Maria and Baross. Looking further along Maria I noticed signs, and lights, and things, but that would be for another day.
Today I took Baross to the Korut only to find myself, at the corner of Baross and Jozsef Korut, looking at Stex ( http://www.stexhaz.hu ). I’d taught a student in there once on a lunchtime hour. A good food choice if the walk to this first significant juncture has made one peckish. It, also, has to be noted that on both sides of the Korut running back to Ulloi there are cheaps eats, gyros shops and things while across the street moving into the Corvin area one can find oneself in the newly renovated environs with cafes, cinema and bars abounding.
But, for now I wandered back, passing Csepreghy utca, before arriving again at Pál utca. The former has a few offers but Pál utca, except for a sign, and only that, for wine, holds only a Karate club (https://www.facebook.com/gojukaihungary ). The notion that the building that houses this club could have been the one erected… “…come Monday…” …gave it a significance. Wars were, and may still be, fought here.
Initially I had the thought with time constraints (I had a class in just over an hour) to finish with a stroll down Kinizsi, left at Knezich and end up where Nemecesk ended up, at number 3 Rákos utca, a name which doesn’t exist anymore (http://members.virtualtourist.com/m/tt/8ecfa/ ). It’s now named Hogyes Endre utca, but there is a building there at No. 3, the sign Unitarius Templom above the door merely suggesting, as does the traffic in and out, that some part of the interior is taken over to prayer, and contributions to renovations of the façade, perhaps. One may even stretch it to a prayer for the soul of a warrior, eternally dying till that page is turned, till his hand runs cold and his skin pale. Eternally living within our hope because for every word Molnar emits, till he finally states it, we, too , search for light like the hapless boys, but, perhaps, in truth the grim reality is more apparent in Nemecsek’s own words, but certainly also in the walk so far. This, time and decay, is the way of things, replacement too, and lest we forget where Boka and his squad had their day with Nemecsek’s heroic contributions, no less honourably in the way of war, and no matter how desperately they were depicted, Feri Ats, his Pásztor boys, and the rest of the Red Shirts, didn’t have theirs. Loss, then, as Nemecsek seems, only, able to see is as a part of this victory, this life, as all else.
With a somewhat melancholic disposition I did, in truth, find myself leaving Hogyes Endre utca, though at the time it was a mere emptiness. Now some hours later over notes I have found these words but, one must take into account the fact that it was not until sometime after this first excursion that I finished the book and so it is with a retrospective licence that I complete the gaps of my afternoon’s musings. And gladly.
Sauntering back up onto the Korut through the little park area which is at the corner of Hogyes Endre utca and Ulloi I found myself dashing across at the zebras which led me the far side of Jozsef Korut. It still wasn’t too late so I could probably risk rushing up Ulloi towards the Botanical Gardens. The rain which was forecast hadn’t yet come and didn’t seem threatening and therefore I, unlike Nemecsek, would not be suffering for my troubles. In fact, the oppressive state of the atmosphere of late had somewhat dissipated. The sun burned brightly, which was bearable, and with this I was accompanied up past various side streets, past Klinikák metro till finally I veered left at Korányi Sándor utca and along the side of the university, the grounds of which before, would all have constituted the area of the Botanical Gardens.
Passing what I roughly translated as the Natural Museum (proper name forthcoming*) on my right I noticed the grounds of the university becoming more and more wooded, almost tropical. I was in the right area, this I knew, but where could I go to collect a photo, a true souvenir, a testimony to the occasion. The boys, Boka, Cso’nakos and Nemecsek had first scaled the perimeters of this place on a side street but looking at the map I wondered if that acacia tree may not be on Szigony utca, not Korányi. It didn’t matter. It would, another time.
I spotted a sign, passed a flower garden, and was suddenly at the gate. My wonder, even confusion, was precipitated by the realisation that it was almost an anti-climax. The fact that I had neither the time nor the volition to spend my money on entrance at this point helped alleviate any doubts. I would be back, and that was enough for today. I took my photo, noted a bar on the corner facing the garden entrance, and made my waydown Ille’s utca. As I passed Tomo utca I realized I was straying slightly inwards from the parallel with Ulloi and while this was, in truth, exciting I did have a class in what was now 45 minutes. I headed onwards, however, Práter utca having caught my attention.
Turning onto this street I was taken aback by the street life. This place, even if negatively aligned in most people’s minds, still holds an allure born of the very fact that its street corners are teeming with life, at least a lot more so than the residential districts of Buda.
Heading back then, down along Práter, I found myself almost wandering past Molnár Ferenc te’r. It didn’t happen, however, and I managed to get the last shot out of my camera phone. Across the street nestled at the bottom of the newer high rises there was a bar full with revelers and I wondered if I could sit among them, and if I’d go unmolested. No reason not to except that here more than any other place in Budapest I felt that thorough sense of community! Today was also a work day and so I could legitimately avoid the beckoning to prowess and so it was that I wandered off down Práter my dictaphone sucking from my soul all that I dared reveal. With the Korut back in sight I noticed a few statues clustered and suddenly I became astounded. Here, more than any other place that I had imagined, a sign of the whole episode appeared. There was Nemecsek and his buddies playing marbles and just off two other characters of infamy looked on. There would be an Einstand and there would be a reckoning but at this moment I could prevent neither. I could but look on, impotent in the knowledge that what would transpire had all but spawned from this first distaste. If only I could tell them all, the Pasztor’s too, that this was merely a piece of land, no more, but it wasn’t my place, and I didn’t have time. I rushed on while those figures stood in preparation of what was to come next. What would they have done if they had known I wonder.
30/5/2012
Just now I’d like to return to the beginnings of all things and why for one did I chose to go on this pilgrimage to Pál street. It wasn’t actually because of a deep love for Ferenc Molnar, I hadn’t read any of him before, nor had I ever heard about that particular book. What drew me to this adventure was by no means connected in any way, or at least that appeared to be the case.
It all started with a Russian style breakfast which included blini (pancakes), caviar, sour cream and lilac onions.
We had champagne, pezsgo actually but I’m not about to differentiate here, and strawberries which were deftly introduced to the alcohol at some point. There was fresh strawberry jam and homemade scones. Okay I must empahsise Russian ‘style’ here! It was a veritable feast, a taste sensation, a joy to behold… and the fact that it was a breakfast meant it really set us up for the day. Perhaps the pezsgo had us feeling ever so heady, lulling us as is a prerequisite to lazing on a Sunday afternoon.
Now how does this relate to Pál street or its environs? It doesn’t but it was there at breakfast, invited as we were by our friends Borcsa and Doma, that I was presented with a book. This book, ” Paddy Clarke ha ha ha” by the Irish writer Roddy Doyle had thus far in life eluded me and in truth I took it somewhat politely. I never expected it to amount ot much, but it worked. It played with my own schoolboy experiences, it reminded me of times and beliefs long left unvisited and, as my girlfriend would later point out, it probably awoke in me some need to revisit and reconsider the impact of that period upon who I am.
While reading it I was reminded of a book I had recently bought as a present for my brother, The Paul Street Boys, and I thought that it might complement Doyle’s book as a comparitive of not only two countries, Hungary and Ireland, but also childhood in turn of the century Budapest and sixties suburban Dublin. It was at this juncture that the Pál street saga was truly born.
15/7/12
A typical summer’s day…rain and a little bit of sunshine. It didn’t use to be this way, or at least that is what our selective memories want to claim. Personally I do remember more possibilities to get out and about, on adventures not unlike The Paul Street Boys.
Growing up on Cork’s Southside in a neighbourhood which falls within the city limits, and which used to be on the extreme peripheries, I experienced all that gang warfare as a child could throw at us. I’ve also witnessed change over the years which has me now on this return home for the summer trying to pick out the familiar on a landscape which is forever morphing. Not that that’s difficult from my family home inwards into the city centre. It’s going outwards through the areas that used to be the bog, the woods, the fields, the countryside; these are the areas I find less recognisible. There are, of course, contours which hint at a bygone familiarity but these are being slowly eroded over time. I say slowly but think back to my father’s memories and the changes he must have witnessed and believe, with a degree of certainty, that my own life has seen progress that would have been multi-generational in any other era. Now change is endemic – in modern society it is a feature. Perhaps it’s this lack of stability, even in our surroundings, that I would like to explore here, and it’s perhaps with both the Paul Street Boys and Roddy Doyle’s Paddy Clark Ha Ha Ha that I can find it, being that both hint at the despair which change can bring. I may never achieve more than a rudimentary commentary on the whole affair but nevertheless I’m still entitled to my endeavour. Forthwith I shall continue unabated, or at minimum undeterred by doubts about this project, a project which still lacks its own clear definition. For a traveller who doesn’t get the opportunity to do so as much as he once did I’m intrigued by the possibility than a literary exploration may find me rambling the highways and byeways of an as of yet relatively unexplored domain…a spontaneous journey into the academic. How utterly uncertain; how bad!
21/7/12
Ready steady...Lead onKeep an eye openPipe Dreams
9/8/12
Tragedy struck in the way of downloading my photos from my phone to the laptop. Lost most of the Pál utca tour shots, though never mind cos the streets are still there and are ready to be revisited. I’m wondering as to how I can approach anything concerning this project now without stealing from other things important to me. The family and my work projects taking precedence I’ll still visit here and my project file which I hope is still extant on my C drive. Ode to the techology dinosaur, that he may find his footing in the age of re-enlightenment.
