Drinking in the last saloon

The Budapest Sun's columnist, Paul M. James pays a flying visit to a Kocsma, only to find that some Hungarians can drink even more than most Englishmen do. He, too, finds the key of his revelation: pork fat.


What do you think of when Hungary comes into your mind? Puskás and the Magical Magyars; beautiful women; being woken up by early morning renovation; walking on Margaret Island in the Spring; the IMF; the fantastic transport system in the Capital (surely one of the biggest areas of disagreement; we think it’s wonderful whereas most Hungarians regard it as something you wipe off your foot!); incessant moaning; long, lazy summers, or, just maybe, that awe inspiring institution known as the Kocsma.
It’s difficult to find an exact English translation, but “drinking den” or “spit and sawdust bar” seems rather apt. They can be found in any locality in almost every single street. Indeed, I would imagine that there are more of them than grocery stores.
One of my first memories of living in Hungary is looking out of a train window around seven in the morning and seeing these places packed to the rafters with punters; many of them three sheets to the wind.
A number of pertinent questions logically follow. What time did they start drinking? What do they do afterwards? Do they go to work? How much is their daily consumption? Where do they get their money from? Do they have families waiting for them?
No one seems to know the answers to those questions. In a similar vein to the Freemasons, the clientele is very much a closed fraternity; hostile to deviant, non-Kocsma, trendy outsiders with their easy come, easy go attitude to drinking.
Whereas the good, old British pub often acts as the focal point of the community and is a place to socialise and engage in convivial banter, frivolous forms of conversation are frowned upon in the Kocsma.
I remember cycling with a Hungarian friend in the hills near Nagymaros (45 km north of Budapest) during the summer and stopping at one to get some much needed refreshment, and to ask directions. The attempt to strike up a conversation with the first patron elicited an incomprehensible grunt. The second encounter produced a look of complete and utter bewilderment. An interesting contradiction to this, though, is that states of absolute drunkenness miraculously induce previously unseen bouts of inspiration, and solutions to both Hungary’s and the world’s problems are blithely and fulsomely articulated.
Now far be it from me, as an Englishman, to talk about the benefits of moderate drinking but, looking at the boiled red faces of the punters, it’s clear they are not paying too much attention to the recommended weekly unit guide.
Oh yes, the Kocsma boys are cut from an altogether different cloth; the Olympians of the drinking world.
As regards female regulars, they do exist, albeit heavily outnumbered, and the phrase ‘fisherman’s wife” somehow springs to mind. One also wonders if, when the no smoking law in closed public places eventually comes to Hungary, an exception will be made for the Kocsma. Along with decadent imbibing, furious cigaretting is a characteristic of the clientele. In the dark, slightly sinister, basement ones, it is actually quite difficult to see your way through the thick wades of smoke.
When it comes to the drinks on offer, let it not be said that there is no creativity in the Kocsma.
In some places, wine is available which has amazingly never seen a grape (tablettás bor). This is particularly helpful in years of poor harvest. Furthermore, the wine is not poured unimaginatively out of a bottle as in grander establishments but extravagantly scooped into your glass “ice-cream style” from large plastic containers beneath the bar.
In terms of food, unlike the wide selection of “pub grub” available in British institutions, a range of dishes are proffered consisting of pork fat and, er, well, pork fat.
I think most readers have experienced that sinking feeling when they accepted a piece of bread with, what they thought was, some kind of creamy cheese spread topped with pink onion only to later find out it was actually pork dripping (zsíros kenyér).
With recession looming, many more sophisticated bars and pubs will soon start to feel the pinch. In contrast to their cousins, however, the Kocsma industry has little or no fear of the future. A somewhat sad indictment of their clientele is that, despite the credit crunch, the great majority would rather forgo food and other basic necessities than give up their copious daily dose of the demon drink in their favourite watering-hole.

Paul M. James

21.11.2008