The veal was falling apart, just like me in essay marking season, but luckily it was falling into a rich creamy garlicky sauce laced with paprika. Why did that never happen to me? When the dish arrived, I thought to myself, ho hum, more noodles than stew, that’d be right, that's the price of an English language menu. The noodles deserved better than such dismissal. Sturdy yet soft, stern yet tender, the potato noodles wallowed decadent in their dish of hot egg, carbonara style. You could market these noodles as an edible alternative to mattresses. I’d never get out of bed. Hearty Hungarian was a success, such a success that I didn’t have it in me to order the tricolor strudel for dessert, even though I’d walked all around Budapest during the day, even to the top of the castle.
No, I took the sensible option, a really quite sizeable glass of tokay. Under normal circumstances, this much sweet wine would have made me waft home. Post hearty meal, however, I was unable to move in any way akin to the waft, the drift, or the float. Readers dear, like an errant pilot, like a starling with a broken wing, like a well-adjusted Oprah viewer, I was grounded.
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