Coffee, Cake & Cookies in Budapest
The coffee-houses of Budapest are reminders of a grand, and often times, tragic past of the Hungarian twin-cities. Once, a part of the mighty Austro-Hungarian Empire, the Buda hills and the flatlands of Pest across the Danube, are now a faint reflection of that glory. Nevertheless, efforts are now on to refurbish the past, for the present.
After a hectic bout of sightseeing, sitting out your tiredness at one of many classic coffee-houses in Budapest, sipping a hot cuppa with a slice of some delicious cake is just what the doctor ordered for relaxation. Allow your mind to wander back to the 19th century when artists and writers created their works at these tables as they could ill-afford to heat up their homes. (Not much seems to have changed for their modern-day ilk either). Fearing underground communication, the Communist regime closed down every coffee-house there was in 1948.
Restored to its former glory, the Ruszwurm located in the Castle District in Buda is the 
oldest such coffee house. Small, but cosy, you just cannot have enough of their coffee and a finger-licking treat the owner reportedly invented. It is called the Linzer biscuit and is a sandwich of shortcake slices glued together with apricot jam. I was given to believe that their cakes and pastries were a must at the breakfast table of Elizabeth, Empress of Austria.
Across the Danube standing in the heart of Pest is the Café Gerbeaud, another one of the oldest, and also the most famous. In fact, it was recommended as a must-visit by practically everyone I met in some of the other countries of the European Union. Once I got there, I could see why. The café’s three shops and a terrace opening out at the Vorosmarty Square exude tradition and style. Named after Emile Gerbeaud, the Swiss pastry chef who bought it in 1884, his tongue-twisting creation, the konyakos meggy is to die for. Or die of. This bonbon is in effect sour cherry soaked in cognac and covered in dark chocolate.
Another sinful concoction is their flagship home-made cake called, simply, the Gerbeaud 
cake: layers of sponge filled with ground walnut and jam, and coated in chocolate. However, I went back more than once to dig into another of their sweet delights, a chestnut puree with whipped cream called Gesztenye puree. They served a variety of strudels, too, but I must be true to the poppy seed ones prepared by my hostess. If you are a lover of ice-cream, they do some mean servings throughout the summer months.
Then there’s the New York Café, now re-opened along with a luxury hotel of the same name. It was the most elegant café at the turn of the 20th century and hosted some of the greatest writers and poets of the time. One of them apparently wanted the café to remain open around the clock and threw its key into the Danube!
The fashionable Andrassy Avenue, likened to the Champs Elysee, is home to another much loved café, especially by the elderly. A bit like our Indian Coffee House, the Muvesz Kavehaz leaves you with an impression of a past well-spent, minus the original grandeur. A place for quiet moments, mulling over the bittersweet history of the proud Magyars, all but silenced by the goose-step.
There was no point whinging with the help, as they took their instructions from the lady of the house; who allowed her children the privilege of pickle and paronthas only on their days off from school. The irony of it all was that there was always an amazing array of home-made pickles and chutneys to choose from. The advent of winters found large traditional martbaans, tied at the mouth with muslin, lined up like soldiers to soak in the sun. Mango, lime, ginger, chillies, mixed vegetables—the whole hog, actually.
Tsering is the loquacious half of the duo that owns and runs the Phuntsok Garden Café on the left bank of the Beas, located at a hard to miss stretch on the road leading to Rohtang. It is their reputation as conjurers of a breakfast par excellence that brings you to a screeching halt here. Her husband, the extremely shy Jamyang, labours away at the kitchen counter to sustain that reputation; it is a labour of love, you tell yourself, as you bite into a fluffy spinach and mushroom omelette alongside a chicken rosti. Tsering’s home-made muesli is an instant hit as a healthy start to a strenuous day, and so are Jamyang’s spongy pancakes with sliced bananas and hot chocolate sauce.
they can somehow tell that you may have been a tad greedy (possibly by the porcine manners displayed while eating), but fret not, an antidote is at hand: a piping hot ginger and lemon tea. Works magically, and brings you back repeatedly for more of the same, or their freshly baked cakes and breads. The momos, too, take on an entirely new flavour when relished outdoors in their tiny backyard, with the lights of Old Manali twinkling at you as you slurp away at your soup.
And if anything were to bring you to the Chowk or The Mall (although I can’t come up with a single reason beyond the mutton momos at Mountview and the eggplant preparations at Chopsticks) it would be a good respite to stop by at the Café Amigos for some carrot cake and coffee. Further up on the Club House Road and towards the Log Huts, another Chinese eatery is a favourite with vegetarians. Called the Green Forest Café and approached through a narrow alley, it definitely does not score on ambience but will give you your money’s worth in a large bowl of soup and a takeaway order of vegetable momos. In case you missed the point, Manali is big on Tibetan cuisine.
The Vanity Fair at 
Celebrations on the personal front (which, pointless to add, always include eating out) will find me at my most preferred destination: Whispering Willows just outside of Chandigarh. A multi-restaurant option, attempting to offer authentic dishes from a multitude of cuisines (as opposed to a multi-cuisine restaurant) coupled with personalised service and an equally elegant ambience combine to provide you a complete fine dining experience. An experience, sadly, found wanting in most other stand-alone establishments excepting the odd family-owned one.
centuries as its own. A derivative of the Portuguese term Vinha de Alhos meaning a dish made with wine and garlic, it was once a watery meat stew, till it was re-invented with chillies and spices as essential ingredients. It is now ranked as the spiciest and most popular curry dish all around the globe.
bag of mixed feelings within. Past its glory, but proudly holding up a faded reflection for all to see, Srinagar is a hospitable and charming place. Once the initial discomfort, at the palpable signs of a contrived security, vanished, the traveller in me took over. Then, it was easy enough to notice the starry-leaved chinars (some just turning an autumnal shade), the poplar-lined avenues (also lightening their hues), the clean broad boulevards; the once fashionable river-front shops, the grand old mansions and the hustle-bustle of life as usual.
And life as usual includes food. Crisp, crunchy apples, walnut kernels, apricots and gallons of qahwa notwithstanding, my trip would have been incomplete without a go at the famed wazwaan. Being the middle of the month of Ramadan, as it was, there was minimal activity at restaurants. Still, the Grand Hotel on Residency Road was offering a limited course experience, one I was more than willing to take.
methi korma arrived wafting the varied aromas of its contents. A salad of grated radish and red chilly powder with walnuts served as the perfect accompaniment. The rishta, rogan josh, yakhni followed in quick succession while the gushtaba, the piece de resistance of a wazwaan meal, made its way to our table at an expectedly kingly pace. Traditionally, the oldest member around a trambee gets to divide the gushtaba, equally or otherwise, amongst the foursome. Fortunately, for me, the oldest member with us was vegetarian, so was another, by virtue of which, I ended up with a lion’s share of palatable heaven. This wonderful meal was rounded off with phirni and qahwa.
fare at one of the dhabas on Durganag Road. Naturally, I dragged my feet all of the hundred yards it took to cross the road from their hotel to the Krishna Vaishno dhaba. We waited a good twenty minutes for a table, a sign that woke me up to the extent of its popularity. The wait was spent noting the freshly prepared items in shiny brass containers, the turnover of rotis and paranthas at the tandoor, and the quick service. Once seated, we ordered stuffed paranthas, rajmah-chawal, kadhi, daal and baingan bhartha. Delicious is definitely an understatement. And naturally, I was now the last to leave the table.
Another experience deserves a mention entirely because of the incredible hospitality displayed by jawans minding an army post at thirteen thousand feet. Trust me, tea has never tasted so incredibly sweet, nor pakoras so heart-warming.
Mahima and I were led to our lunch table way, way back in the cavernous cafe by the charming and friendly owner Mr Boman Kohinoor: avuncular figure in pic above. With table seating at a premium, he was none to pleased to learn that we required a table for three, as we were being joined by Mahima’s husband shortly. That seemed to get his goat even more, chiding us ‘girls’ for arriving unescorted and before the gentleman in question. Flattering as his old-world manner was, I didn’t have the heart to tell him that that kind of a gentleman was way past his sell-by date. And DV, when he did finally manage to get away from work, got himself a good natured earful on etiquette from the old man. Yet another, for eating his food cold and hence losing, in the bargain, the true essence of wholesome Parsi food.
Feted for their large portions of Berry Pulaos – the mutton won hands down – Sali Boti (Mutton with potato crisps served with Parsi Roti), Patra ni Machchi (steamed pomfret wrapped in banana leaf), Dhansak (lentil preparation) and Chicken Cutlets with gravy. Got to try them all over the couple of weeks I was devouring Mumbai cuisine. That day we ordered a vegetarian and mutton berry pulao (tiny and tart, the deep-red barberries garnishing the pulaos are imported from Iran, a throwback to ancestral roots), sali boti with chapati and the very English of all puddings: caramel custard.