Budapest is the most overrated city in Europe. Indeed, the hilly Buda is a sight of monumental proportion. It looks like a cluster of mismatching fortresses grew out of some sleeping stone giant. From these bastions, a look over at the enormous parliament building in Pest reminds of some imposing stronghold of fairy-tale lore. Gellert Hill has a magnificent view down the Danube. But all of this is a façade. The majesty ends at the walls and roofs. Inside is the run-down result of perennial warring and suffering.
Parliament from a Danube boat cruise
Hooligans (1)
Run-down
A prevailing sense of sketchiness takes over. A hooligan stick his heads out of streetcars like a dog might as his amused spectators cheer him on; ticket control who barricade every subway entrance (in place of an automatic system used by any modern city) are fixated on an empty beer can rolling endlessly on an escalator; drunkenness is pervasive. The Czechs are known for their work-ethic; the Hungarians are not (a point brutally raised by a recent prime minister).
Buda is a land of hills and river. Such made it an ideal settling place and of military importance. It is a hot potato that was thrown between Romans, the Huns, Mongols, Turks, Hapsburgs, Nazis and Communists. Buda castle is said to have “withstood” over fifty invasions. The city was effectively destroyed at every hand off, making most “historical” sights the result of restoration. For this reason, it has no distinct culture and it starts feeling like a cheap copy of its constituent influences. Most notable copies are of Vienna, during the extensive period of Hapsburg rule.
Museums are pitiful. The Hungarian National Museum is cold, dark and dreary with nothing of any historical importance. At the Budapest History Museum, little pieces of stone are pasted on a picture of an arch, completing no more than five percent of the original. The Fine Arts museum advertises the famous Egon Schiele self-portrait that I saw at the Leopold in Vienna. At the hospital in the rock, a Hungarian diefenbunker of sorts, tours are done bilingually instead of split into two distinct ones. This all makes it seem as though the Hungarians have no artistic or historical significance.
After a failed revolution in 1848, Hungarian Count Gyula Andrássy had to sleep with the Empress of Austria, Elisabeth or Sissy, to be treated as equal in the empire. So in 1867, the Austro-Hungarian Empire was created, only to dissolve fifty years later. It ended up on the wrong side of both world wars. Hungarians were forced to sign a treaty of defeat (Trianon, 1920) instead of gaining independence respectably, as it would have had it stayed in the shadows. It then became a battle ground between Hitler, who ruled until 1945, and Stalin, whose regime ruled thereafter until 1989. Tragedy has left its mark. On the shores of the Pest side near the parliament, shoes commemorate the third worst faring Jewish population during the Holocaust. It would have been worse had it been a conquered nation (as Poland and Russia were) instead of an ally.
Shoes on the Danube
Parliament
Liszt's Apartment
The country is fixated on Franz Lizst, the virtuoso pianist who is really only known today for his “Hungarian Rhapsodies.” I prefer another Hungarian, Béla Bartok, a student of a student of Lizst and composer of such vivacious pieces as Poco a poco pui vivace, a song I have placed on repeat since hearing it at Paris’s Salle Pleyel. Devoid of performances at a legitimate hall over the weekend, I settled for an over-priced, touristy performance at St. Stephen’s Basilica (named the Hungarian King, not the religious figure of the superior Viennese church). The standard repertoire of Air (Bach), Rejoice (Handel), Four Seasons (Vivaldi), Ave Maria (Schubert) left something to be desired. And that it took place in a church with non-existent acoustics did not help.
The Market Hall looked like a local joint but the second floor was a tourist trap. On one occasion, a cabbage roll heated up was still cold in the middle. It broke apart in a most unbecoming manner. It was borderline disgusting. Unsatisfied, I tried a shop next door, which sold an equally unappetizing sausage, microwaved and plastic-like. But overall, the food was good. Oddly enough, it was the touristy locations that made the best impression. The Michelin starred restaurants cost $100+ for a meal, an indulgence too dear for me and for real Hungarians. But there are an extensive selection of $20-30 eats that fit the bill.
Borkonyha
Farm raised chicken oyster and breast with lentils and baby zucchini 3,150 Ft
Chocolate dessert 1,300 Ft
At Borkonyha. 6000 HUF ($27) gets you wine, dinner and dessert at a top gastronomical institution. The chicken breast was a juicy delight, sitting in a bed of lentils and al-dente zucchini so thin they resembled bamboo stalks. A few crunch falafel-esque pieces composed a rare interlude. Then, a playful dessert, fine to every little detail: the yellowy orange reflects off the bloody grapefruit; chocolate comes in crumbles or smoothly in the mouse or embedded as little rocks between the bread. It was truly a thoughtful creation unparalleled in its price range.
Later, at a gastronomical fair, 900 HUF ($4) gains admittance to a culinary wonderland. Cheese, goulash, wine, cold-cuts are sold at rock-bottom prices or are free. Needless to say, it was an efficient way to intoxicate oneself (wines were $1 a glass). For Brunch at Gundel, 6400 HUF ($30) gains admittance to an all-you-can-eat frequented by the Pope. A ridiculous line of regenerating food can cause the most severe excitement and later, self-flagellation from the clear inexistence of self-control.
But like the city, the cracks show through. Waiters are either stuck-up, as they are at a top-tier restaurant like Gundel, or overly participatory and tip-mongers at lesser establishments. At Menza, a restaurant I simultaneously traversed from the evening concert as did some of my fellow countrywomen, failed to caramelize the duck’s skin so it reminded of what hangs from the windowsills of Chinese butchers. At Café Kor, the Caprese Salad came with butter (why?) instead of with balsamic.
Despite its extensive history, the city is still immature. It tries to recover from the subjugation it was forced under. It is full of luxuries (the Four Seasons hotel or the architecturally important Gallert Hotel) but also full of misery in every corner. Desperate homeless people, often disfigured, hide in every corner. Streetcars, busses and subways are crowded, ramshackle locomotives that look about to fall apart at the seams. Garbage bins are perennially overflowing. The disparity between the rich and poor is troubling and manages to dampen any touristy pursuit. Indeed, restaurants advertise a “tourist-menu” like it is supposed to be a good thing. Budapest has nice hills, from which there are nice views but only until you take a closer look.