Simply put – Szimpla Kert is a tourist trap.
It may be “authentic” in that it was apparently the first bar sprung from a ruined building. The idea was to make a cheap place to drink, thus transforming an abandoned space with minimal renovation other than to make it relatively safe and to decorate the walls with all the flare that might be at Office Space’s Chotchkie’s. This is a thing in Budapest — nooks and crannies of a dilapidated “ruin” morphed into a local watering hole. It’s a cottage industry at the moment, and has been for years. There’s been a lot of press coverage on this particular “ruin bar,” and it is listed in all the guidebooks and featured in all the sightseeing documentaries. But it feels as fake as any novelty “hook” bar/restaurant I’ve ever been to. I can see the appeal but not the execution.
People seem to love it, though. The dim lights, the wandering about to mini-bars in each room, the Christmas lights strung from the peeling, crumbling walls and exposed ceilings. The live music is in one alleyway and not overpowering so you can still talk to your friends without feeling like you’re shouting. The drinks are relatively reasonably priced. But it all felt like a show, a put-on, a phony sham. Travel articles claim they aren’t so much chic and trendy as a place to gather, grab a drink and then go to a club later if you want, or not, as you wish.
I was wandering alone, a ghost with a glass of cheap, terrible red wine. Maybe I should’ve gone for a beer but I actually am not a big beer drinker. Floating through the Escher-ian layout, I snapped some photos, sipped a bit more of the house red that I swear was the “house turpentine” and shook my head in puzzlement. Perhaps I never was one for socializing, for donning the mask of reveler be it in Vegas, the club, or a ruined bar in Hungary. My free walking your guide, Regi, said though this is the tourist trappiest ruin bar, it remains one of the best.
I have thus far been underwhelmed in the culinary/potent potable Hungarian aspects.
I had been told the Paprikás Csirke or Chicken Paprikash would be spicy yet the one I had was bland as bland can be. Maybe I went to the wrong place.
Ex-pat Hungarians, I’ve been told, miss the Túró Rudi most of all when they’re away from their homeland. Locals swear by them — a creamy filling surrounded by a thin layer of chocolate. You can find them near the milk in a refrigerated section of almost every supermarket and they’re the size of a roll of life savers. There are multiple varieties and flavors but the classic, first produced in the 1960s, is a dark chocolate covered cream cheese curd. Regi claimed studies have shown the average Hungarian has 34 of them per month; she had two that morning already. She said once we tried it we would be addicted. I went with the classic… at least I think I did. It’s got a bit of a Hostess cupcake vibe, the curd filling reminiscent of a mascarpone gelato I’ve had in the past that I loved. However in this bite-size form I found the treat more meh than marvelous. It was ok. It was 80 HFT or 30 cents. It was… at least for me… non-habit forming.
If Russians are traditionally/stereotypically known to favor vodka, Hungarians are all about the unicum. Regi says it’s about 50% alcohol (100 proof), done in shots of varying flavors, and that if you want to speak Hungarian it’s the fastest way to do so. After three shots, you’ll think you’re speaking it perfectly. After the 4th shot, you won’t remember your name so stop at three. I haven’t had it yet. Much like my take on beer, I’m not a big shot drinker. But I have passed many a pub’s outdoor tables with trayfuls of empty shot glasses amidst groups, as if they were squaring off against Marion Ravenwood in the highlands of Nepal.
Perhaps I’m a spoilsport, a party pooper, a Debbie Downer. When I checked into this subpar airbnb I find myself staying at, I was asked if I was traveling with anybody or meeting anybody in town. When I said it was just me, the reply was, “Ah, a lonely wolf! You have this saying in English? Lonely wolf?” I said we usually call it a lone wolf but lonely wolf works too. Maybe if I were clinking glasses or sharing the bites of food I’d be more forgiving of the so far ho-hum Hungarian experience.
Speaking of my airbnb, this is the first time I’ve ever really complained to the host about the accommodations… and I’m used to staying in murder hotels and subpar places the world over. This is what I finally wrote to them last night, a straw on my back finally breaking it:
Hey, Zoltan. I’ve tried contacting twice today but I don’t know if it went through. The place is really cold. I’ve tried the space heater and I don’t know if I’m doing something wrong but it’s not helping. It’s warm outside but frigid in the courtyard of your place and in the apartment itself. Is there a trick to the heating I’m not getting?
Secondly the keys and locks are troubling. I am unable to lock the iron gate and given the courtyard front door has been propped open all day and your mother warned me about security I’m a little concerned. The front door lock is very tricky as well. I’ve cut my palm twice trying to get it locked. Eventually I can get it after a minute or two but do you have a lock lubricant to try and get that thing to engage? In the US we’d have wd-40 or graphite but I don’t know what it would be called here.
I have to be honest here. This has been a rough start to my stay. I don’t know if it’s me or if there are problems or what. Your help would be appreciated. I’m headed out to dinner (and to try and get warm).
I’m headed to the Memento Park via an over-priced direct shuttle today. It’s an outdoor museum that gathers and collects the monuments and statues erected during Hungary’s Communist Iron Curtain days. Mainly I’m interested to see how a country could both acknowledge and contextualize a historical thing that should not be glorified yet also should not be forgotten. I should think there are lessons to be learned on that for Confederate monuments in the USA.