said Gloria. “Sometimes it’s better not to know what the cards say.” The subject was closed. “Have you eaten?” he asked.When told we hadn’t he took us down to the kitchen, where two frantic cooks were slaving to produce a tableful of exotic dishes. Gloria and Dodo vied to name for me the different dishes, and disputed the authentic recipes for them. I tried everything. Veal strips in sour cream, garlicky stewed beef cubes with rich red paprika. There were breadcrumbed fried chicken pieces, boiled pork with horseradish and river fish flavoured with garlic and ginger. It was not the food I’d ever encountered in modern Hungary, a country where cooks render meat stew completely tasteless and measure each portion with government-issued 100-gram ladles.“So you like Hungarian food, eh?” said Dodo. The only really good meal I’d eaten there was at a big country house near Lake Balaton. The food came from Kger in Munich, smuggled over the border. My host was a black-market dealer who had a security colonel as the guest of honour.
