May 2022
It’s almost unreal to walk into the New York Cafe, mostly because it’s the most unexpected place to find in Budapest.
Iron Curtain severity co-mingles uneasily with pre-war splendour, as ornate palaces tower over retro box-car trams trundling across Soviet bridges made of iron. Everywhere the old and the older stand with the new Budapest. All I dream about is Count Almasy, the English Patient: how suave and romantic he was.
I have finally made it here, after much plotting and planning, to explore this famous city.
The Austrian influence is tremendous and I see signs of Queen Sisi everywhere, Sisi of the long black tresses and diamond flower pins.
The language is different. The people are different. I am reminded of stamps I had from Magyar Polska, Hungary, as a child. And I am reminded of my now Romanian friend Tofi, who swears he is a full blooded Hungarian but they drew the border before his village begins, and so he was forced to be Romanian due to this oversight. His goulash is authentic though and his love for his Hungarian heritage is loud. I do have an authentic goulash to taste on my list of must-do.
While I wander streets, as the old trams trundle past, and as I ride these gorgeous old ochre carriages, I follow my own advice, and look UP. There is a whole different story upstairs. Buildings retain their history, their flavour and character when not converted into fancy street fronts. There are elegant sconces and balconies and wrought iron curlicues, turrets and windows to gaze at. I look up and see what you don’t see at street level, people and homes and life being lived. And remnants of days gone by.
I marvel at old buildings and stories of the past, as I travel the entire route on my hop-on hop-off bus tour.
I do have some places I must go to but eschew the grand parliament building. I am too numb some days to see yet another grand edifice or war memorial. I have been given strict instructions by my beloved friend, Dani from Vienna, not to be confused with Dani from Innsbruck, as they are both Dani from Poona -Austria:I must go to the New York cafe.
The most beautiful cafe in the world.
And I do.
And it is.
And here I am after scoring a table unexpectedly, looking up and gawping at the interiors.
I might be in Versailles, so glorious and gilded is the interior. So extremely elegant. The hush of clinking cutlery, long glass carafes of water, bottles of wine being poured expertly- they all murmur gently in the background.
Of course there is a grand piano with a pianist, tinkling elegant notes. I half expect to run into Bertie Wooster, so old fashioned and utterly charming is this beautiful, beautiful place.
I am seated at a table and handed a chic, modern and minimalist menu. Nothing shabby about this chic! I count how much I plan to spend.
I stand up and I wander around and gaping openly at the hand-painted ceiling, the frescoes like a renaissance painting.
Chandeliers gleam in the afternoon light. This is more beautiful than I imagined.
There are glorious mouldings and cherubs, the gilt and paint melding into one beautiful work of art. Marble floors, ornate arches, elegant balustrades and red velvet chairs, silk drapes and large windows are poised against modern coffee machines and white crockery. The wait staff cut dashing figures in their uniforms and are so very kind and helpful. The lady who serves me is impressive with her blonde pony tail and trim figure, as she advises me on what I should choose from the über modern entremets and courses. I manage a salad, a dessert and a special, the Palinka, a Hungarian liqueur drink, without breaking the bank, although it would be well worth it in this place, at this very moment. CARPE DIEM!
Despite the beauty around me, my heart is particularly melancholic this afternoon. These days, I have been wandering around on autopilot some times, lost in my own head, the weight of my dissolving marriage crushing my joy. I find myself weeping in streets, lost and unable to navigate, so I just keep on walking.
Today I am determined to enjoy the New York Cafe and not let my sadness spill into the beauty of this place but I am unable to help myself, and find tears trickling unbidden down my face as I sniff my way through dessert.
A lone gentleman sipping wine at the next table looks at me in concern and finally decides to approach me. He is older than me, a tourist like myself, a Belgian named Koen. I am happy for his company. I soon discover that we are both sailing in the same boat of heartbreak and sorrow. His wife of thirty years abandoned the family. And now Koen travels anywhere he can during his work breaks as a hospital tech, in an attempt to find some meaning and break the monotony and loneliness of his existence.
We drink wine and talk, a lot: all evening and into the early night, until we are forced to vacate our table. The wine is mellow and delicious in its beautiful goblet. I am sitting in the New York Cafe and weeping with Koen as he shares his journey with me. Soon, we are both weeping in the comfort of one another. We pour our hearts out, and never have we felt more solidarity. We are not alone. Shit happens. Koen gives me the best advice that summer. It’s something I still practise.
He says somedays it’s so hard to wake up and get though the day. So, every morning he looks at himself in the mirror and says:
“You are beautiful.
The sun is shining,
It is beautiful outside,”
And he steps out.
Koen and I hung out the next few days, exploring the streets of Budapest. He was as lost as I was, but somehow made me find beauty where I had stopped looking, so wrapped up in my own misery. I was at the point where the dissonance of what I felt inside vs the beauty of what I was absorbing from outside messed my head up more. The only way I could deal with it was weep or blank out. And just maybe sometimes briefly not be a zombie and actually feel the world around me.
The beauty of the New York Cafe was achingly more poignant with the memories of my evening there with Koen. We hear about chance meetings in bars, this was nothing as exciting, but Koen with his simple advice and shared sadness helped me turn a corner.
I looked at myself in the hostel mirror the next morning and tried out his monologue.
And couldn’t do it.
I couldn’t look at myself and find any beauty.
I was hideous and ugly and unworthy. That’s why my marriage was over. That’s why this had happened. How could I be beautiful?
I sat and cried deep heartbroken sobs on my bunk bed, finally stepping out in the sunshine for another zombie day walking the streets of beautiful Budapest.
It took me weeks to look at myself in the mirror and tell myself I was beautiful and that the day was too, that I was resilient and strong and could face the day ahead.
I remember Koen every morning, I think of how brave he is, and how he accepted his wife’s choice and I tell myself I am beautiful every day. Only now I believe it.
And I will never forget the New York Cafe.
https://edition.cnn.com/travel/article/budapest-new-york-cafe/index.html
Thewanderingindiangourmet 