Random Splendor (on Báthory utca)

Stunning murals and statuary on the corner of Vadász u. and Báthory utca.

Báthory utca runs from Kossuth Lajos (Parliament) Square to Bajcsy-Zsilininszky ut, and building after building yields stunning architectural treats.

Báthory utca is named after Stephen Báthory, Prince of Transylvania and King of Poland during the 16th century. As well as managing to stabilise the region by playing the Holy Roman and Ottoman empires off each other, he was also famed for his religious tolerance, issuing decrees that condemned any kind of religious violence and offering protection to Polish Jews.

Tormented-looking titans flank a doorway on Hold u.

From Classical murals, statuary and rose walls through ornate balconies and doorways to more rundown, pockmarked plaster... take a stroll along Báthory and revel in some of District V's random splendor.

Pockmarked but the grandeur still peeks through...

19th-century lions (and some more contemporary security systems) guard this balcony.

Nine Budapest bars with dazzling decor pt2: Apacuka - the sculpture park in a bar

Sculpture by Gergo Kovách, dominates Apacuka's main room

Apacuka (Nagymezo utca 54-56) is a bit like stepping into a hand of cards from the surreal boardgame Dixit. A geometric steel staircase; gigantic wine-bottle containing, micro-cosmically, more wine bottles; a huge statue of a bugle-playing cartoon lady, surrounded by a flock of geese. The sculptures are faux-naive, their child-like simplicity also suggesting hidden depths. The scale is off-kilter, but joyous rather than discomforting. In the street window, there's a sequin-covered mannequin - but she doesn't beckon or pose like a shop-window dummy, instead she looks like a confident bad-ass: you can join her club, if you're bold enough.

Adding an 18th century portraiture twist in the bar area

The bar and restaurant has a polish that sets it apart from the shabby-chic haunted-forest decor of Instant, just down the road. The overall design is by Balázs Csepregi, and the twirling lampshades, backlit glass scenes, and huge wall-spanning 17th-century portrait mark this place as a high class eaterie.

Winner of Best Beer Garden at Terasz Budapest 2016 awards

But then the sculpture installations - by Gergo Kovách and Norbert Kotormán - add an eccentric, beguiling twist. They also extend to the award-winning terrace where a giant pair of sunglasses and an abstract nude (by the same two sculptors) surround the tables in a peaceful courtyard that won the 2016 Best Beer Garden at the Terasz Budapest award; no easy task in this city.

The subtle innovation continues onto the menu (by chef Gabór Bacsa) which takes Hungarian and Mediterranean dishes and gives them a slight twist: like having black salsify and brick pasta as the vegetarian starter, or red snapper (instead of the standard pike perch or salmon) as the fish option for a main.

Clever but not over-fussy food and a beautiful sculpture garden vibe that continues indoors for these winter months.

Budapest's Random Splendor 1

Everywhere I walk in Budapest, ornate grandeur looms over me. Even the backstreets often surpass the most beautiful boulevards of Paris or Vienna. 'Random Splendor' is an ongoing photographic series capturing the architectural awesomeness I see as I wander around the city. All of the the below I spotted as I walked from my flat to the nearby Aldi, to do a food shop! Most of them just house private businesses or apartments.

Goblin head and basilisks on door arch on Báthori Utca.

Pyramidal spires on corner of Honvéd u. and Honvéd ter.

Architectural sculpture and clock on corner of Honvéd and Báthori utca.

Statues on door portico top on Kálmán Imre u.

Boar and wolf head ornamentation on Szemere u.

Window on Szemere u.

Corner of Báthori utca and Aulich u.

Window on Honvéd u.

Antique shop sign, corner of Falk Miksa and Honvéd tér.

Nine Budapest bars with dazzling decor pt1: Café Égoist - the Secessionist wet dream

The ornate interior of Café Égoist

Budapest is renowned for the beautiful design of its bars, cafes and restaurants; from the baroque kafé-ház to the eccentric and anarchic decor of its ruin bars. But here are nine places to drink that aren't in the guidebooks and are a little further from the beaten track. Starting with the Secession splendor of Cafe Égoist (Honvéd u., a few steps from Liberty Square). 

A Secessionist time capsule.

Café Égoist basically feels like you are having coffee inside Gustav Klimt's imagination. Art nouveau arcs, undulations and ovals crowd every space, from mirror frames to the wooden slats of the balconies above the café itself (the mezzanine houses a small museum). Even the characters and air balloons on the vintage posters seem to curve and bow in harmony with the organic shapes of the jugenstil. On a mantelpiece there's a statuette of a sylph-like flapper with a calligraphic figure - it is easy to imagine her reclining on one of the ornate sofas, sipping her tea then knocking back a palinka.

Front doors of Café Égoist, designed by Attila Benkovish to resemble the fan of a peacock.

First built in 1903 by Emil Vidor for the Bédo family, the exterior and ground floor were restored between 2003 and 2007 by the architect Attila Benkovich, supervised by art historian János Gerle. (Click here to see their remarkable achievement). For most of its life the café and museum was a luxury furniture store and it looks like most of the pieces are still here. Every chair and bench is a perfectly formed work of art, you're almost scared to sit down on them. There's a wonderful air of hushed reverence for the majesty on display - this is not the place to bring a stag-do. The calm, confident eyes of the portraits (of the Bédo family and early 20th century acresses) stare down at you, daring you to break the calm. 

The emphasis is on coffee and cake (most gluten-free) but they also have a wine and palinka list. So if you want to take your tipple inside a Secessionist time machine, and indulge your ego's demands for "the best of everything" (the café's motto) then this is the place.

The restored front of the Bédo building in 2016.

Eger pt3 - Wine Valley of the Beautiful Ladies

Eger's 'Valley of the Beautiful Ladies' - where the wine literally runs down the streets!

The intoxicating aroma of fermented grapes wafts over as we start to descend the hill. Some burly men lifting a huge barrel emerge from one building, empty its deep burgundy contents and the scent intensifies. It's red wine - perhaps deemed unfit for customers - and it forms a carmine stream as it flows down the slope. This is the 'Valley of the Beautiful Ladies', a collection of over 40 wine cellars about 15 minutes walk from the centre of Eger.

The Valley, from afar.

Wine production in Hungary has had its ups and downs. The Romans introduced vineyards here and in the 10th century the first Christian monastries quickly turned their hand to viniculture. The influx of techniques and grape varieties from people fleeing the Ottoman empire in the following centuries - especially Serbs and Romanians - resulted in a diversity and quality of wine that peaked in the 19th century. This is when the Hapsburg empire sourced the tipples of the upper classes of Austria and Russia from Hungary. But then disaster struck: first the phylloxera aphid caused a wine blight that devastated European vineyards, and especially those in this area of Hungary. Then the First World War and the subsequent Trianon Treaty reduced Hungary's borders by over two thirds, meaning many of its chief vineyards were now officially in neighbouring states. The Second World War meant many vineyards were abandoned or destroyed, and when the Russians took over in 1947 they collectivised the wine industry. Every peasant received three hectares of land, but without the skill and knowledge of the large vineyards, these soon fell into disrepair. Wine production was forced to meet Soviet quotas and this had a disastrous effect on the quality. In Tibor Fischer's novel 'Under the Frog', set during this period, the quality of the Hungarian wine is reflected in a bar that is called 'You Can Even Make Wine From Grapes'. But the fall of the Iron Curtain and especially the entry to the European Union in 2004 reversed Hungarian wine's fortunes.

Cellar 20 - Greg Haz

Evidence of this is everywhere in Eger. Most restaurants only serve wine from the region, and the diversity comes from the array of vineyards (over 200) and the blends of grape varieties. The Valley itself (named after a fertility goddess and her followers) houses a huge range of cellars - some that exceed those of the Loire in terms of product, decor and the expertise of the staff. Others are a little more 'rustic' and unpolished. 

Kulacs Csárda Panzio - charming with excellent food and wine.

We begin by lining our stomachs for the vini-frenzy to come. Kulacs Csárda Panzio has variable reviews online, but I find it charming with some top-class wine and food. My partner exclaims that her catfish paprikash - a Hungarian staple - is the best she's ever tasted, and the cheese board starter outclasses Michelin-starred restaurants in Budapest with both quality and range of the cheeses included. The Bulls Blood wine that I have to accompany my goose leg is also one of the tastiest variations that I have over the rest of the afternoon's tastings.

Kulacs Csárda's interior.

Egri Bikavér (Bull's Blood) is the most famous wine from the Eger region. It's made from a mix of grapes, so every cellar and every bottle could be completely different to the one you last tried. The name is mythically associated with the famous battle against the Ottomans. It is said that during the siege, Dobó poured all the wine the defenders had stored into one vat (hence the mixing of grapes) and then fed it to his soldiers to 'inspire' them to ride out and take on the Turkish hordes. The (sober) Ottomans saw the Magyars bearing down on them with red-stained beards and spread the rumour that their foes were drinking bulls' blood to give them strength for the battle. Whatever the truth in this, the name has persisted. And the wine is delicious - at least in the first three or four cellars we visit. Magister (Cellar 39, named after the university dean who co-owns the vineyard) and Kiss Kristina (Cellar 37) are particularly lovely with friendly, knowledgeable staff. Here, they explain exactly what grapes have been used in their Bikavér blend, and there is plenty of fruit and spice to swirl around the palate. In terms of white wines, the Egri Csillagok ('Star of Eger' - same as the famous novel about the siege) is a sauvignon-style white, while the Cserszegi fuzszeres (literally 'spiced wine') lives up to its name, dry with a spicy aroma, a bit similar to Gewurtztraminer.

Glug-glug-glug... at Cellar 37 Kiss Krisztina.

But wine tasting here is not like in other wine areas across the world where the portions are small and where tasters are even encouraged to spit not swallow. Many of the cellars will give you a (paid-for) full deciliter, so our mini-tour of the various cellars soon becomes an afternoon pub-crawl, all the blends of Bikavér starting to mix in both tummy and head. When I tell a Hungarian friend I am here, she texts me to warn that it is one of the "Black holes of Hungary!". I later ask her what she meant, and she says she was referring to her pre-EU experience where the 'wine' was often little more than meths mixed with grape juice and you really would awake with no memory of the previous few days! The present Valley is far from this, but glass after glass does take its toll.

The hostess of Cellar 2 shows off her decanting skills.

Early evening, we finish at the now infamous Cellar 2, where a very jolly Hungarian lady does a fantastic routine of decanting tastings from a long, blown-glass pourer: she pours an arc of wine that nearly spans the narrow room. Obviously well-practised, she doesn't spill a drop.

The 'Beautiful Lady' herself bids us farewell.

Then, glowing with wine-generated warmth against the cold evening, we walk back to town, past the stained red tarmac of the carmine river that first greeted us.

Eger pt2: Minaret (of Doom) and beautiful baths

The Minaret of Eger (seen from a safe distance!)

I'm climbing steadily, back wedged against the curved wall, hands pulling me up the tiny, worn-smooth steps that spiral above me. This is terrifying. I'm inside the Minaret of Eger, a survivor from the Ottoman occupation of the city in the 17th century. It's basically a 40 metre-high sandstone tube, the diameter barely enough to fit through. There's 97 steps to the top, but it seems like more when the windows are thin slits and the electric lights are sparse. Both ascent and descent are a nerve-shredding experience. I'm promised stunning views out of over the city. When I reach the viewing platform, it is a flimsy-seeming balcony of rusty metal that I hardly dare step onto, let alone walk around. The panorama is impressive, but the vertiginous drop to the street below sort of eclipses that. (To be fair, their website does warn the visitor of all of the above... but I failed to read it beforehand!)

The view from the minaret balcony. Just don't look down.

I'm not superstitious, but there is something almost supernaturally intimidating about the minaret. Despite defeating the Turks in 1552, Eger pretty much surrendered in 1596 when the Ottomans returned. Mosques and baths were built across the city, but when the Hungarians retook this strategic outpost in 1687, most of these buildings were destroyed. The minaret is the resilient exception. Apparently, 400 oxen were employed to pull down the tower, but still it endured, aided by its rare tetradecadon base. The Christians assuaged their defeat by placing a cross on the pinnacle. It is now the northernmost minaret in Europe.

The lady who sells me the entrance tickets asks for my visit to be 15 minutes maximum. I have no problem with this, spending just a few minutes at the top before the vertiginous clamber down. Later, talking to a local, I say that the minaret - though architecturally and historically impressive - manages to combine an array of phobias: claustrophobia on the staircase, agoraphobia when you reach the balcony and stare out over the city, and vertigo as you dare to glance down. "And arachnaphobia!" he adds. "In summer, the staircase is full of huge spiders!"  Eek.

Macok's wine wall - a more soothing spectacle.

Fortunately, to ease my fear-tensed muscles, not far from the minaret there is the wonderful restaurant of Macok. Widely regarded as the best restaurant in Eger, it more than lives up to its reputation (booking is definitely advised - we arrived at 12 when it opened, and it was full within 20 mins). Many restaurants aim for the 'Hungarian classics with nouvelle twist' but Macok more than succeeds. The decor is beautiful (check out the 'wine wall'), the service attentive and the food is gorgeously presented, delicious and well-balanced. I have a starter of trout roulade, my partner a cheese fondue that begs to be shared. My main of toasted rabbit with potato dumplings is perfectly tender and dodges the stringy quality of many a lapin dish.

And if the fine foods and wines of Macok don't completely erase my minaret-terror, a visit to Eger's thermal baths certainly do. With a Turkish bath and newer indoor and outdoor pools, the architectural highlight is the domed, contemporary poolhouse designed by 'organic architect' Imre Makovecz. He defied the brutalist, blocky style of Soviet Hungary to create what he termed 'building beings', curving arches that resemble tree boughs, oval windows that look like owl-eyes. Lazing back in 37 degree spring water, his Eger poolhouse harmonises perfectly with the trees in the park around us. A great counterpoint to the more intimidating architectural feat of my morning.

Imre Makovezc's Eger poolhouse. (Photo courtesy of Helen Betts)

Eger - venturing beyond Budapest (pt1)

Eger Clock Tower, designed by 'organic architect' Imre Makovecz.

"I have to go to Eger! Since my heart cannot surmount this much sweet temptation!"
- Sandor Petofi

Petofi, one of Hungary's most famous poets had good reason for this urge: Eger is a beautiful city, about 137km east of Budapest, and it combines four of my favourite things: castles, fine dining, thermal baths and wine. Lots and lots of wine... but more on that in pt3.
First: the castle!

The walls that withstood the might of the Ottoman army in 1552.

Whilst relatively small in population, Eger holds a special place in Hungarian national identity as the site of a heroic victory in the 16th century. In 1552, having conquered a huge chunk of Hungary (including Buda), the Ottoman army attempted to take Eger, a key strategic position with valuable mines nearby. The Turks thought it would be an easy target: they merged two armies to create a force of 40,000 troops, with considerable firepower in the form of 16 zarbuzans (giant cannons) and 150 smaller guns. Yet the comparatively tiny group of 2,300 Hungarian defenders managed to repel the invaders. After 39 days, the Ottomans had run out of gunpowder and cannoballs, rations were low, winter had come early, and the leaders of the two armies began to blame each other for their situation. The Turkish army withdrew, humiliated, and the defenders of Eger won a significant victory for Magyar morale. To this day the event is a source of huge patriotic pride to Hungarians, and Egri Csillagok (Stars of Eger) by Géza Gárdonyi is still on the national curriculum in Hungary's schools.

Frieze at the castle entrance, depicting the 1552 siege of Eger.

The defenders, led by István Dobó, had one advantage: a large store of gunpowder. Unfortunately, they only had 6 cannons - which were too small to actually reach the enemy until they attempted to storm the fortress. However, an officer called Gergely Bornemissza innovated with their explosive resources, creating primitive hand grenades and larger powder kegs bombs. He even packed a converted mill wheel with gunpowder and flints, then rolled it into the Turkish ranks where it exploded like a huge nail bomb. Dobó showed further daring when at one point a unit of Janissaries (the Ottoman elite infantry) managed to breach and occupy one of the castle gatehouses. In a risky strategy, Dobó turned his cannons on his own fortress and took out not just his own fortifications but also some of the fiercest and most respected of his enemy's army, another huge blow to the Turkish morale.

What is also impressive is that a proportion of those who fought were not professional soldiers: many were peasants sheltering in the castle, rallied by Dobó into an effective fighting force. The Siege of Eger is also one of the only battles where the role of women as combatants is so clearly celebrated. The female defenders are honoured in a statue in the city's main Dobó square - not tending the wounded as is often the case with historical monuments, but as fierce equals to the male soldiers. They are also celebrated in a famous painting that hangs in the Hungarian National Museum.

Monument to Istvan Dobó (and both male and female fighters) in Eger's main square.

The castle has all the battlements, informative museum and dungeons you would expect, but it also houses one of the city's best restaurants: 1552. This is no cheap and cheerful museum café. The decor is sumptuous, the wine list extensive and the food a superb contemporary twist on Hungarian favourites. I ate garlic pork neck (deliciously succculent) with pearl barley, bacon and ewe cheese (lighter and tastier than expected), washed down with refreshing Napbor (sunwine) from the nearby St Andrea winery. My partner chose an aubergine 'pie' that turned out to be a number of juicy vegetable fritters. This latter choice came from the 'Turkish' section of the menu - proof that 500 years after the siege, there's no hard feelings between the former enemies.

The sumptuous 1552 restaurant inside Eger castle. Photo courtesy of 1552.

 

'A House in Asia' at Trafó

9/11 reframed as videogame - the shocking opening to 'A House in Asia' 

On a huge screen behind the Trafó stage, an airplane simulator plays. We fly over banal, almost-pixelated towns and fields. Then it crosses a wide river and angles up towards its iconic destination: twin slabs of white tower. We've seen the planes hitting the World Trade Centre a thousand times, but never in this first-person videogame format. As the whine of the engines grows deafening, we actually brace for impact.

What follows is the story of the hunt for Osama Bin Laden, played out using tiny models and toy figures. The 'performers' are video camera operators, moving deftly around the 'set' to focus on a range of scenarios that are then broadcast on to the screen. Toy cowboys and 'indians' massacre each other, soldier/cowboys rehearse their attack on a compound, a drive-in with a lone jeep is lit by a small flashing red light. And the eponymous house, a model of Bin Laden's compound, unfolds to become a range of other locations, from the Oval Office to a 'Risk' board that explains the history of the the West's battles with the East. Later, it more literally becomes the hideout of the 'World's Number One Most Wanted'. Or is it?

"Reflections... I see reflections... They come and go... Who am I? Just a warrior. That's all."

'A House in Asia' is about reflections and echoes, multiplying to dazzle us. Our narrator is Matt Bisonette, the man who shot Bin Laden. On stage, he is embodied by a lone actor in a cowboy hat. The first reflection is the figure we see on the screen: a toy cowboy in a toy car, at the drive-in, watching a Western. "I've seen things you wouldn't believe. Attack tanks on fire off the shoreline of Kabul..." It's Roy Batty's final, tragic soliloquy from 'Blade Runner', the sci-fi poetry appropriated to lend reality to one man's unreal experience. 

This is the genius of theatre company Agrupácion Senor Serrano. They sample familiar pop culture - 'cowboys and indians', 'Moby Dick', the Marx Brothers, even Take That - and use these disparate elements to tell a tale that still defies belief: the most powerful country in the world seemingly at war with one man.

Human performers pose like their plastic miniature counterparts, blown-up to enormity on the screen. This is the simplest level of reflection. The company's narrative is far more ambitious. At one point, toy figure/actors playing Navy SEALs discuss their eagerness for the strike on bin Laden's compound to begin. Talk to turns to who would play them in a movie of their impending mission. Abruptly, the model backdrop is pulled away to reveal a film set (including a tiny Kathryn Bigelow toy), with the same figures now playing Hollywood actors, reflecting on their role in 'Zero Dark Thirty'... who then muse on how their lot is better than theatre actors. Another toy set is whipped away and we see a miniature model of the theatre we ourselves are sat in, watching the figures who are playing us. The effect is moving, dazzlingly inventive, and also very funny.



There are not just reflections, but also echoes. Bushes Snr and Jnr - and later Obama - give speeches mimed by a sampled clip of Captain Ahab from 'Moby Dick'. He is labelled, in his screened social media exhortations, as The Sheriff. He is played on the stage by a crude plastic cowboy toy. Bin Laden tweets encouragement to his 'Apaches' (playing al-Qaeda): he is personified, in toy and movie-form, as 'Geronimo' (the genuine codename American forces used). It's a straightforward point, well-made: America falling back on their oldest mythology to make sense of contemporary events. But then the references (and doubles) multiply further to reveal a more complex portrayal. If Bush is Ahab, then Bin Laden is the Whale; so how co-dependent are they? Many have said Bush's presidency was completely unremarkable until the planes hit New York. From that point on, it became mythic. What would one be without the other? 

'The Sheriff' celebrates the assassination of his target: Geronimo AKA Osama bin Laden AKA The Whale, as echoes and reflections collide.

This theme is explored later when Bin Laden's assassination is heralded by a full-on, stetson-twitching line dancing routine... to Take That's "I Want You Back". This isn't an amusing digression, it's another double, another layer of meaning. 'Mark Owen' is the both the name of one member of the boy-band, and the pen-name used by Bisonnette to write his controversial memoir. 

Paradoxically, the amalgamation of these echoes offers us an insight into the 'reality' of the story. And this is the startling cumulative effect of what we see. Each movie reference or musical cue or incredibly detailed toy diorama does not distract us from the subject matter. Instead, it seems like this is the only way it can be told (as Bisonnette's narration repeatedly tells us): as layer upon layer upon layer of reflections.

'A House in Asia' is part of the CAFeBudapest festival.