The Eighth Tribe, 1978 (5. évfolyam, 1-12. szám)
1978-05-01 / 5. szám
May, 1978 THE EIGHTH TRIBE Page 5 as I was growing up, and carrying, running after, or doing somersaults with a three-year-old in Central Park keeps one remarkably fit. The pictures showed riders wearing boots, breeches, gloves, and, in most cases, a hat; when I asked the travel agent about mode of dress she suggested jeans and said that the way of life was casual. Nevertheless, I checked the elastic band on my hat and bought two new pairs of drip-dry breeches, extra cotton shirts, and thin gloves and socks. In the heat my riding boots could take a half hour to get on and off. The bootmaker at Maxwell’s in London was not amused when I asked that they be let out so that I could get them on and off more easily. He said they were perfect but finally agreed, with a hurt look, to release them, although it was “not the policy of the house.” It turned out to have been a very necessary measure. At the Royal, a convenient hotel for itinerant travelers like ourselves, we ordered mineral water. It came in a much-recycled glass bottle with a china stopper and push-down metal coil that reminded me of the tops used on bottles when I was a child. The water itself was as good as one would expect in Budapest, renowned for its hydrothermal and mineral water sources. The next morning we were served the same fare for breakfast that we had had on the plane the night before—with the addition of fresh acacia honey. We had been warned that the coffee was not good; although it had a strange gray color and a lot of sediment, it was drinkable. We soon discovered that riders of previous tours drank tea or ordered espresso when it was available. After a day of sight-seeing in Budapest we met the six other members of the Danube Bend riding tour that evening. Sári (pronounced Sharrie), our guide, introduced us to five ladies and a gentleman from Germany and served us Puszta, a strong cocktail that quickly helped break the ice. The poignant music of the Gypsy orchestra greeted us as we entered the dining room; string instruments were being vigorously attacked, and the bone-vibrating rhythms of the cimbalom resonated as the strings were struck by hammers. Violin players drifted to our table and rendered, with truth, anguish, or mystery, the csárdás (folk songs). Some of the musicians today are not true Gypsies, but the sounds they make are a reminder of the enigmatic Oriental influence that the Gypsies have had on Hungarian music, food, and even the agrarian way of life. A four-course meal was served; I think they knew we would need energy for our ride the next day. We ate halkocsonyá, delicious lake fish in aspic. Hungary has no seacoast, but there is an excellent variety of freshwater fish —from the lakes, rivers, and streams— that are prepared in imaginative ways. We had Badacsonyi Kéknyelű again from the sun-warmed vineyard slopes overlooking Lake Balaton. We were to enjoy wines from this region many times. The locals say that “the true Balaton wine gets sunshine from below and above” (from the sky and from the water that reflects and strengthens the sunshine). Next came hideg meggyleves (cold sour cherry soup), served in a bowl set inside a bowl of cracked ice. I had tasted cherry soup before and it had been good, but it bore no relationship to this dish. The waiter told me the secret was freshly picked cherries. The soup was followed by a large platter of beef with rice, potatoes, cauliflower, and beans. The waiter did his job with charm, adroitness, and a flair that all Hungarians seem to possess. Our glasses were filled with Egri Bikavér, a full-bodied red wine; the black label bearing a bull’s head announces a heartiness that men seem to relish. Our dessert was boszorkányhab, apple snow or witches’ froth. To my delight I found another glass being filled with Tokay Tokaji, a wine with a fascinating history. It was held in high repute by the Crusaders, and later in the sixteenth century it gained international interest when Prince Francis Rákóczy II, the Lord of Tokay- Hegyalja, introduced it to Louis XIV. This great wine became not only the Sun King’s favorite but also that of such personages as Frederick the Great. At one time Tokay was saved almost exclusively for the Hapsburg court, and Czarina Catherine even sent a cossack detachment to guard the supply purchased by the Russian imperial household. Of the wine Voltaire wrote: “And the yellowish liqueur of Tokay, While caressing the fibers of the brain, Carries a fire that generates witticism As dazzling as the liqueur is light, Which rises and leaps and sparkles at the edge of the glass . . . .” The wine is grown on the extinct volcanic hills in the northeastern part of Hungary—the most magnificent product of weather, soil, and minerals. The harvest traditionally begins on October twenty-eighth—the feast day of Saint Jude—by which time the lingering summer heat caught between ranges of the Carpathian Mountains has usually allowed a slow drying of the grapes and the production of the so-called “noble rot.” Of the various types of Tokay produced I prefer a dry Tokay Szamorodni, of yellow-gold color, its bouquet of earth, autumn scents, and freshly baked bread. Fickle fashion has in recent decades favored dry white wines, but the pendulum is swinging, and neglected full-bodied dessert wines such as Tokay are again gracing dinner tables around the world. We drank another glass and then hastily retired before the euphoria left us. At seven-thirty the next morning our small bus headed toward Tata via the modern Budapest-Vienna highway. Along the verge a profusion of wild flowers bloomed, and rolling fields of ripening com waved in the breeze on either side of us. We enjoyed the view but were more interested in the qualities of the horses we were to ride. (We were disappointed to learn that nobody had ordered a carriage.) The members of the party looked quite different dressed in their riding clothes; some were wearing clogs, yet ready at their sides were boots and portable bootjacks. After an hour we turned off the main highway to the Diana Hotel, which had been built in 1879 as a hunting lodge for the Esterházy family. We were quickly shown the rooms, each with private bath, where we left our luggage before continuing on to the one-time ducal stables, now known as the Riding Club of the Agricultural Technical School. There we were introduced to our Master, Ernő Galkó, director of the riding school (a man from another era), after which we strolled through the stables to look at our mounts. Although the stables were brightly painted in the regal Maria Theresa yellow ochre, some of the paint had peeled to reveal old plaster. Yet loving hands had picked up the green trim of the doors, and the flower boxes were gay with red geraniums and white petunias. The stables were immaculate, tidy, and cool. On the walls hung riding prints, antique ironwork lamps dangled from the arches, and deer antlers decorated the mantel of an enormous carved stone fireplace beside which stood two comfortable captain’s chairs and a table. The interior was in fact more like that of the chieftain’s room in a Scottish castle than any stable I had been in. As our eyes became accustomed to the dimness we could see about thirty horses—all fifty to ninety percent Hungarian Thoroughbred—standing in their stalls. These were some of the five hun-
