Fishermen's Bastion on Castle Hill in Budapest

Budapest is the baby of Buda and Pest, two cities on either side of the Danube River that merged in 1873 to create today's Hungarian capital.

For tourists, the Buda side is essentially Castle Hill. This collection of attractions resides high above the Danube: the Royal Palace, the National Museum, the National Gallery, Matthias Church, and the Fishermen's Bastion.

Here is the Fishermen's Bastion, on the edge of the Buda side overlooking the Danube River. It's often mobbed with tourists, but here's a look during a quiet moment:

A bronze statue of St. Stephen's holds court in the middle of the Fishermen's Bastion terrace. 

Wind through the towers and steps to get nifty views of the river and the Pest side.

To the right, the Danube River. To the left — try to guess!

Above, the modern building on the left side of the photograph is actually a Hilton hotel. The first fancy (the New York Times called it "American-style") hotel to be built on Castle Hill, the Hilton incorporates part of a 13th century church. Odd, and controversial. 

We found the curiosity intriguing and opted to stay at the Hilton as part of an Expedia travel bundle. The Hilton itself is nice enough, but the location is fantastic. Looking across the Danube River, you can't miss the majestic Parliament Building. (Well, as we learned, unless the dreary fog descends.) 

Here's a view on our lone sunny morning:

A closer shot, just as the heavy fog was beginning to lift:

The view of Castle Hill from the Pest side — the more industrial, typical city-scape — is eye-catching during the day but stunning at night. Here you can see the Fishermen's Bastion lit up, the steeple of St. Matthias Church, and the box-like Hilton complex behind it.

A river cruise in frigid November? I'll wait till spring, thanks!

Bulletin: Winter has arrived in Southern Germany

Despite our heavy reluctance, we must accept the fact that winter is not skipping out this year. Late, like a foreigner unaccustomed to German efficiency, winter nonetheless has arrived. It has been knocking for days now, threatening to bring a potluck of snow, but we've pretended not to hear. Is that the door? Oh, no. It must be the radiators. The fridge. The TV upstairs.

The snow, predicted by weather.com, run by Atlanta-based meteorologists, was to begin at 02:00 this morning in Stuttgart, Germany.

When we awoke at 05:00, the streets were clear, the BMWs and Mercedes and Opals on the curbside faithfully metallic, not yet clocked in fuzzy snowflakes.

It seemed then, briefly, that we may yet be able to avoid this winter.

But by 06:00, flakes were fluttering downward. By 11:00, a film of white coated the rooftops and sidewalks. The white streets were decorated with black curves of tire tracks. Umbrellas appeared like sprouted mushrooms above the walkers' heads.

And then, it was official. The first snow of the year. Winter, inescapable winter, has arrived.

The snow drained all color from the cityscape. The buildings, already dull with dread, dialed back from glassy black and nondescript brown to variants of gray. The sky, endless gray. The clouds are but a gray gauze for the sky.

Even the traffic lights appear dull as they move from red to yellow to green to yellow to red. The brightest color is the motion of the mustard-yellow U-bahn trains, turning on their tracks. Keep moving. The trains always keep moving. The trains are always on time.

The rest of the landscape is still. The trees, long stripped of their lush leaves and autumn brights, are too resigned to even sway in the wind. People hurry about as if the sidewalk isn't slushy, the air isn't cold, the crosswalk isn't icy. They move as if this is how they have always moved and always will move. As if winter is normal, and normal is gray.

The best burger I've had in Europe ... so far

You can only have so many days of goulash.

So when we sat down at Paris-Budapest, a swanky hotel restaurant just over Budapest's Chain Bridge, after a long day of sight-seeing, I was craving familiar food.
 The menu didn't look all so Hungarian or Parisian.

More like ... American.

More like ... a burger.

Now, there's some caution to be had ordering a burger in Europe, just as you should think twice about ordering pizza abroad, especially anywhere near a famous bridge, castle, or leaning tower. Cooks catering to tourists will slap anything together that resembles our beloved American staples.

But I had a hunch this would be okay.

And: yes.

Best burger I've had in Europe, by far.  Cooked medium, with melted, heavenly cheese, and a real bun, and the whole nine yards. A taste of home in Hungary!

Chimney Cakes in Budapest

Hungarians are quite sophisticated bakers.

I didn't expect this, necessarily. Germany had rid me of the illusion that all European nations, by geographical definition, must spin out ethereal, other-worldly sweets. German cookies are stiff, ideal only for dunking or cracking a tooth. The croissants are hit-or-miss. The pastries are drenched with sugary icing and sticky fruit flavors. Each time I enter a Germany bakery (Bäckerei) my sweet tooth winces, pained by the lengthy glass case displaying 20 variations on bread.

Hungarians understand better the full range of the sugar, butter, flour equation.

Hungarian cake slices are striped inside, multiple thin layers of sponge cake alternating with creamy filing, jam, or nut. The chocolates -- and the best chocolate bar I've had in my life -- are filled with marzipan. Nothing is overwrought with dough, even the doughiest treat.

Which may, in fact, be Kürtőskalács. We had been on the watch for this traditional dessert after hearing a travel-show host rave. Kürtőskalács (or "chimney cakes") is created from dough twirled around a rolling pin, sprinkled with sugar, and baked on a spit over an open fire or oven. A cinnamon roll on a wide stick, without the stick.

We ran across Kürtőskalács stands on Castle Hill, on the tourist path from Matthias Church to the Hungarian National Museum and the Hungarian National Gallery.

 

Check out the rolling pins to the left.  Strips of dough get wrapped around each one, then placed in the oven.

The choices included classic (sugar), coconut, chocolate, and cinnamon. (See photo of a similar  lineup.) We went for the cinnamon for 500Ft (forints), or about $2.

The tube of warm, doughy goodness comes tucked in a crinkly cellophane bag. You tear it apart much like a cinnamon roll, except the walls are thinner, more like an Aunt Annie's pretzel stick than a Cinnabon monster. The outside is encrusted with sugar, crisp and slightly crunchy. The cinnamon sugar glaze creates a light sand-papery feel that matches beautifully with the doughy, pliable interior walls.

Clearly, one was not enough for two people.

A few minutes later on our walk, we spied another stand. (Alas, the rules of supply-and-demand dictate that prices rise closer you are to tourist attractions. This one was 700Ft.) I picked the classic version, curious as to what the Hungarians themselves must like. (Coconut and chocolate just seemed to beam tourist promotion.) Shiny and slick, the classic version tasted more like a sweet bun.

Moral of the story: When in Germany, go for the bratwurst and the beer. When in Hungary, go for the sweets.

Thanksgiving in ... Budapest!

Thanksgiving in Germany isn't much of a holiday at all. With no giant turkeys in the supermarkets to remind us to cook and eat until we burst, we decided we'd use the long weekend to travel. But where to? Vienna? Prague? Paris? London?

We do have a wish list. But mostly, our method for travel planning involves poking at the Internet until magical anticipation begins to percolate in our brains, like fairy dust. (This can involve a rock-bottom flight bargain, or mouth-watering traditional cuisines, or simply a dazzling yarn about an unfamiliar place.)

Budapest started as a vague Eastern European idea, and quickly emerged as a fascinating destination with stately Castle Hill, bridges criss-crossing the Danube River, a postcard-worthy Parliament, goulash soup, Hungarian pancakes, and exquisite cakes. We booked our flights. We found a hotel on Castle Hill, near the main tourist sights, with a gorgeous across the river.

We thought we were all set.

What we didn't expect was the fog. Heavy, gloomy clouds settled over all over Europe. We flew through Paris, and it was a gray soup of a view. Budapest was no different.

The view from Castle Hill, high above the Danube, overlooking the "Pest" side of the city, was erased.

At times, all we could see was milky gray. At other times, we saw this:

You might be able to make out St. Stephen's Basilica on the left, poking out of the skyline.

Still, we had a marvelous time. More posts to come soon on two majestic churches, Buda Castle, the  Hungarian "chimney cakes," goulash soup, lunch at Onyx Restaurant, The National Gallery (and The National Museum), an absolutely awesome concert at the Palace of the Arts, and a hotel that also encompasses part of a 13th-century church! Check back soon!
 

Nutella for breakfast

 

In our new European life, this is an occasional breakfast: Nutella on a baguette.

(If you are skeptical, you aren't the only one. A parent actually sued Nutella's parent company, arguing that its marketing falsely portrays Nutella as a healthy breakfast. Slate analyzed Nutella's nutritional content and argues otherwise in its August article, "Go  Ahead, Eat Chocolate for Breakfast.")

We also like bookending the day with Nutella for dessert.

Mmmm. Please do not lick the screen.

The Ephemeral Strangeness

On the surface, Germany does not feel so very different from the States.

Like any first-world country, its residents don't ponder whether the electricity will stay on or if the shower water will be hot. The trains run on time, if not quite like the razor-precise clock we were promised.

The familiarity is further heightened by the steady hand of English, reaching out to reassure us in moments of alarmed uncertainty. (My panic, I should note abashedly, has so far been limited to not being able to order the pastry I desire. Life here is not difficult.)

Almost any clerk will automatically switch over to English upon request ("Sprechen Sie Englisch bitte?" fumbles off my tongue a dozen times daily) and some even sense it before the phrase hits the air.

Much of the noticeable difference is slight. The beer is still bubbly, golden, frothy — but it's better. The flavor is richer, deeper, simply delicious. The grocery is still stocked and bustling — but the cilantro is missing, the labels are only half decipherable, the bags cost 10 cents apiece. (You learn quickly to bring your own.) The trash cans are still behind the apartment — but the bottles go back to the supermarket, or to a city receptacle on a random block, and all the plastic packaging goes into translucent yellow bags (where does one get those yellow bags??) every few weeks.

Just yesterday, I passed row upon row of those yellow bags learning up against buildings, bulging with milk cartons, clear trays that once held vegetables, crumbled sippy drinks. They looked like a haphazard row of fat bowling pins, about to teeter over. And I thought to myself, slightly helplessly: How does this odd system work? What exactly can go in those bags? Where do you get them? How do you know when to put them out?

I was confessing my periodic bewilderment to a new acquaintance recently, and commenting that in a dream world I would write all of these confoundments up in essays.

"Why a dream world?" she asked. "Why not now? Nothing ever will be as strange as it is now."

And so it's true. And here I go.

Heavenly French Onion Soup

This autumn, we're told by the Stuttgarters, has been unseasonably mild. Each time this marvel pops up — in church, from a new acquaintance, at a social event — I wince. Outfitted in new boots and a heavy coat, I have endured the German fall just fine. Please don't tell me this isn't normal! It feels bearable so far!

It only makes me dread winter more.

So when Ron brought up French Onion Soup during a solicitation for dinner suggestions, I embraced the idea. Soup embodies all that is good about winter. Like flannel pajamas and a dusting of snowflakes, simmering soup is the fairy-tale version of the dreaded dark season. And what better source to turn to than Smitten Kitchen (a delightful NYC-based food blogger) and Julia Child (who needs no introduction).

Adapted from Smitten Kitchen's adaptation of Julia Child's classic:

• 5-6 cups of sliced onions (the more uniformly thin, the better, or else you'll be waiting like me for the bigger pieces to catch up with the slivers!)
  
• 3 tablespoons butter
• 1 tablespoon olive oil
• salt
• pepper
• sugar
• 2 tablespoons of flour
• 1/2 cup dry vermouth (or dry white wine, or skip altogether)
  
• 1 to 2 quarts beef stock, plus any necessary water to make it 2 quarts total
• 3 tablespoons cognac
• baguette
• 2 cups grated Emmentaler cheese (or Swiss, Parmesan, gruyere, even mozzarella in a pinch)
  

In a Dutch oven or other big pot (preferably nonstick), let the butter melt over low heat. Add the oil and onions. Cover, and let hang out on low for about 15 minutes.

Uncover and add a sprinkle of salt and sugar (about 1/4 teaspoon each). It's easy to add more salt later, but rather difficult to un-salt a dish! (Warning: I do like less salt than most, so salt to your own tastes as you go.)

Raise the heat until the onions are sizzling lightly but not at the risk of burning at all. Let them cook for 30-45 minutes, stirring often. I waited until minute 31 or so before I finally saw the deep brown color emerging. Patience, Brianne!

You are looking for a uniform deep brown. I confess I gave up toward the end, and some pale soft onions made their way into the soup. And it was still divine.

Then add the flour and stir for a few minutes so it all absorbs. Add the dry vermouth (or use dry white wine) and then the stock/water. I add a few cups, raise the heat, wait until the simmering catches up, then add a few more cups, until the whole 2 quarts are added and the pot is simmering happily away. Add pepper (a bunch of grinding for me) and salt (another sprinkle or two).

Let it simmer for another 30-40 minutes, though if you must, you can dive in earlier.

This is a good time to toast the slices of baguette. We just put slices under the broiler and wait until they are nicely browned at the edges. Remove them from the oven. They can join you in the wait for the soup. Tick, tock, tick, tock.

Whenever you are too eager to wait any longer, add the cognac to the soup. (Mom, you can skip this part, and even the wine/vermouth step earlier.)

Now ladle soup into oven-proof bowls. (We use these.) Add a slice or two of toast on top. Sprinkle with grated cheese, or cheese slices stretched across the bowl, lip to lip, forming a sort of blanket. Slip the bowls under the broil, and wait until the cheese is beautifully bubbly and melted.

Sip and savor! Winter, bring it on!