THE GREAT MARKET OF BUDAPEST
………from paprika to politics.
Zolton pinches a spike of a long, brilliant, shiny red paprika plant hanging above his counter. He twirls the piece between his fingers, plucks it off, breaks it open, smells it and touches the open end to his tongue. His eyes water and he smiles.
“This is ready!”, he says. “You like this very, very much! Here, you smell!” I tell him I believe him and ask what I do with it.
“In stew or soup, no chop. This way!”, and he holds the whole piece to show me. How long to cook, I ask. He shrugs.
“You taste stew, you cry. It’s ready!”, he says and laughs.
I am at a spice shop in the main aisle of the Great Market Hall in Budapest, Hungary. I thank him, take my bag of fresh paprika and go off to explore. The Great Market is the soul and spirit of the city, the eternal equalizer, where everyone, rich and poor, comes to get the best foods, meet friends, and shop with relatives. This thumping heart of the town is a living organism. It does well in good times, less well in lean times, but it survives. The market is the indomitable spirit of Budapest.
The ground floor of the Great Market is an enormous cathedral of food. It is so huge it resembles a train station from the 1890s with its high cantilevered roof, arched entrances, side halls and crowds of people. All it needs is train tracks.
The next stall stops me. The tangerines, oranges and grapefruit glisten. The sign above is in Hungarian which I cannot decipher but don’t need to. A pile of tangerines, pungent and deep orange, is arranged in a pyramid. The shop lady picks up one, slices it open and hands me a quarter to taste. The juice dribbles down my chin and I use my other hand to catch it before it drips off. The taste is the freshest of tropical juice. If you close your eyes and savor the taste and aroma, you’re in the Caribbean on some island, relaxing on a sandy, warm beach. It’s that magical.
A few shops down is a wine stall but not just any Cabernet or Sauvignon. This is Tokaji, a specialty of Hungary. Tokaji comes only from the Tokaji region of Hungary near the Slovak border and takes 4-5 years to ferment. The wine intrigues me so when the stall keeper, a well-dressed lady of mid 50s, hands me a tiny sip in a tiny cup, I nod my head, say thanks in Hungarian (one of only two words I know in Hungarian, the other is ‘please’; those two words and a smile seem to work wonders in most places), I take the liquid as a shot. The taste is like alcohol laden Karo syrup. I’m not sure if I can swallow it because it is so sweet. I can’t spit it out so gulp it down, and say ‘thanks’ but it is too sweet for me. The shop keeper looks puzzled but the fellow who has just come to the stall translates for her. She nods but wants to hand me a bottle. I shake my head because I don’t know the word for ‘no’, and walk on, thinking ‘no’ would be a good word to learn.
I look up to the arched ceiling several stories above me to the girders and pylons. The place is enormous. The entire ground floor is a spotless collection of private shops and stalls, each separate from one another, something like an American mall but exclusively with food stalls. The Great Hall was built in the 1890s as a fresh food market for everyone from royalty to commoner and thrived until it was damaged in World War II. Under Soviet occupation after the war, much of the market was left in ruin. The communists were never fans of rebuilding places of private enterprise. Yet, even under Soviet occupation and heavy handed communism, the spirit of the market, like Budapest, survived. In the 1990s, after the fall of the Soviet Union and the return of freedom in Hungary, the market was restored.
On my way to the escalators, I pass stalls of goose livers, olive oil, dangling sausages, great slabs of meat, acres of cheese, candies, nuts, brilliant yellow and green vegetables, truffles, more wines, breads and luscious pastries, honeys and coffees from all over the world. Prices are displayed on placards in Hungarian forints. 370 forints equals an American dollar so it takes a bit of figuring to calculate how much items cost. I figured 1000 forints is about 3 dollars and that’s close enough.
The second floor is filled with souvenir shops crowded with tourists. Stalls with brassware, pewter, and mens and women’s clothing are less busy. A few places to eat are scattered around the edges up here. It’s time for lunch so I go to Fakanal Etterem, the Fakanal Restaurant on the second floor of the market, pick up a beer and sausage in the cafeteria line, and find a bench seat at a table with a red-and-white checkered cloth. The place fills and soon 3 Hungarian men motion they would like to sit with me. Each has two or three bottles of beer and a small sandwich. I say ‘welcome’ in English, point to the open bench seats and they switch to a kind of English. Each man owns a shop in the Great Market Hall below us. They want to know where I’m from and how I like Budapest. I tell them I have been in the city several times and enjoy Budapest, the food and beer, very much. I ask them about their shops.
“For me, market is good,” says Timo as he gulps his beer. “Good. I have meat shop,” and he points down to the ground floor. “Sometimes sausage not come from Germany or France. A problem,” and he shakes his head. “Hungarian sausage good but cow not so good as German.” I figure he means the quality of beef is not as good.
Adrenko says, “Ya, same with fruit. Monday I wait for new shipment but sometimes I wait to Wednesday.” I ask Adrenko why.
He takes some gulps of his beer and says, “Problem is money, banks. Problem is Forints, our money. Hard to change to Euros. You have dollars, no problem. With dollars, Monday fruit come Monday!” And they all laugh. I ask why it’s hard to trade forints for euros. They lean in closer to talk.
“Forint worth less and less,” says Milos. “Today 1 euro is 500 forints, tomorrow is 600 to euro. Banks lose money.” He looks around and sees only tourists so continues. He says something in Hungarian to the others, one answers, and to me he says, “President is problem. Big business leave Budapest. President is not president. President is dictator.” Light streams in from the skylights but huddled together now, like a pack of thieves, our space darkened. Victor Orban, the president of Hungary, has become more of a dictator than an elected president.
“He has newspapers and radio,” says Milos.
“Ya, and tv.”, says Adrenko, and adds, “so we believe nothing!”
“My Ma and Papa say it was same with Soviets. All not true what we hear,” says Milos, “like fairy tale,” and laughs. I tell them maybe in the next election Orban loses. Now they all laugh so hard they have tears.
“Not possible,” says Timo. “President forever.” I ask if Orban has locked up people, enemies. The men are silent, look at each other and Timo holds up his hand. A sign to stop.
“Beer makes me talk,” says Adrenko. “Not so good. But maybe things get better!”
I hold up my hand, fingers crossed and they do the same. One looks at his watch and they rise to return to their shops for the afternoon customers. We shake hands, Timo says life is still good, pats his belly and crosses his fingers one more time. I pick up my package of paprika and smell it till my eyes water. Adrenko turns and puts a fist into the air , shakes it, and smiles. The fist is the spirit of the market and the people. Leaders come and go, but the soul of the city, the market, and the people of Budapest endure.
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