Hungarian rhapsody

Jean and I trudged along the dark, wet sidewalk, wondering if we'd missed the restaurant, or if it had closed down. We squinted at corner street signs and building numbers. "This place had better be good," I said as it started to rain. Jean quickened her pace, and I hurried to keep up with my friend's long-legged stride.

We were in Vancouver, British Columbia, on business, and she'd heard of an authentic Hungarian restaurant near the waterfront. I imagined pasty goulash, gray mystery meat and sauces choked with paprika, but I didn't want to disappoint her by seeming too conservative.

This was not my first culinary adventure with Jean. We had traveled through China together, devouring roasted duck and spicy tofu. We had also popped dozens of antacid tablets. Pork dumplings in Xian produced one particularly memorable night hunched over the toilet. But now we were in Canada, the epitome of safety and civility. I told myself -- with the slightest swagger -- I can take anything this city dishes out.

Nestled between offramps and dead-end streets, with a cluttered view of shipyard booms, a tiny whitewashed house emerged from the damp mist. Compared to nearby high-rises, the cottage looked like a mushroom among redwoods. A hand-painted "open" sign beckoned. I followed Jean through an arched wooden gate and bounded up the steps. A few yellowed, framed restaurant reviews hung on the cramped vestibule's walls, but we didn't stop to read them.

A man in his mid-50s sat at a desk near the entrance, slouched over a battered hardcover book. He wore dark pants, a white shirt and a vividly embroidered blue and red vest, which I imagined was Hungarian. He looked up when we said hello.

"Do you want to eat?" he asked, his pale blue eyes measuring us from under his wispy eyebrows and wire-framed glasses. He didn't ask "How many?" or "Smoking or non?" His only question was whether we wanted food.

When we said yes, he stood up, straightened his shoulders and led us to a table for two near the front window. His slight pot belly was supported by a small white apron tied around his hips. He gave us menus and vanished into the kitchen.

Jean and I noticed that we were the only patrons, though it was just past 7:30 on a Friday night. The dining room was long and narrow. Brightly colored crockery and linens adorned the clean white walls. A large, slightly disturbing oil painting depicted rural women with vacant bovine eyes. I shuddered and concentrated on the canned folk music emanating from the ceiling.

The menu looked intriguing, with Hungarian names and English descriptions in an ancient typeface. There was plenty of meat, as I expected, which suited me but wouldn't have pleased my vegetarian husband. As a faint aroma of hot oil wafted from the distant, silent kitchen, I settled in to select a meaty indulgence.

Our maitre d' reappeared -- apparently he would be our waiter, too. Jean told him we were new to Hungarian food. What would be a good introduction?

He sighed heavily. "What a problem. What a terrible problem," he repeated over and over.

He asked what we knew about Hungarian food. I confessed my ignorance, though Jean piped up and asked if they used a lot of chili. She meant chili powder similar to paprika, but a vision of Texas chili must have sprung into his mind, and he recoiled as if she had burned him.

"No! Chili is very bad! A Hungarian restaurant serving chili would not be Hungarian! How could you ask that? Never, never eat chili!" Even after she explained herself, our host still huffed and paced with displeasure.

He launched into a story about a culinary competition. The finalists were Hungary, England and the United States. The Hungarians made a wonderful dish. But they lost! The English placed second with fish and chips, and the Americans won with a hot dog. He banged his palm on a nearby table, rattling the silverware. "Can you believe it? A lousy hot dog could beat the finest Hungarian dish?" Unsure whether to believe him, we cooed our sympathies.

He leaned against another table, crossed his arms and declared an introduction couldn't be done. We would have to jump in.

Bravely, Jean asked for the sour cherry soup. Perhaps still stinging from her chili question, he gruffly asked her if she knew the soup was chilled and very sweet. She said that it would be all right and his eyes narrowed. Then she ordered the trout.

"That's the least Hungarian thing on the menu," he muttered. She started to change her mind and he interrupted her. "It's the best trout you will ever eat. In Hungary, it's the only fish we make." How could she argue with him? She asked for langos (fried bread) for us and he grunted approval.

I pointed to the lamb chops, asking if they were good. He practically flew into the rafters again. "Of course they're good! Everything here is good!"

"But are they a good way to try something Hungarian?" I quickly amended.

Edging closer, a little placated, he assured me they were quite Hungarian. He shot another disapproving look at Jean. I said I wasn't sure which soup I wanted, and he quickly solved that for me. "You want today's soup," he announced.

"What is today's soup?" I asked, handing him my menu.

"It's the best soup you will ever eat." He turned and strode back to the kitchen.

Jean and I looked at each other, eyebrows raised. The deserted restaurant, the dark windows, all alone with a touchy Hungarian -- anything could happen. A band of gypsies could magically emerge from the bathroom, twirling like ghosts. Horsemen shouting commands in Magyar could charge from the kitchen, their dark steeds wheeling in a spangle of color. The doors and windows could sprout bolts and noisily lock us in the restaurant forever.