Gerzsi

When the leaves started turning, the river carried us to a village where every porch had strings of red peppers drying in the sun. It smelled exactly like the smell that used to drift up to our lodge in the evenings. I’d found where it came from.

“Chef,” I said, very excited, “teach me the goulash recipe!”

Chef Tamás put down his spoon. “In Hungary, goulash is a soup. What you’re thinking of is pörkölt.”

I wrote that down and underlined it twice. Then we cooked. Smoky bacon first, then onions, slowly, until they were soft and golden. Garlic, a little tomato paste toasted in the fat. Beef seared separately until it was dark brown, then tipped into the pot.

Then came the paprika, a whole bowl of it, and I reached for the pot. “Off the heat!” said the chef, and pulled it back just in time. “Burnt paprika turns bitter. Always off the heat.”

The pörkölt bubbled very gently for four hours. Never boiling. I wanted to taste it every ten minutes. I was allowed to taste it every hour. At the end it was deep red, thick and so good that an old village grandmother asked who had taught the beaver to cook.

I have been correcting people about goulash ever since. Politely. Mostly.

Gerzsi and the village are made up. Chef Tamás and his recipe are real.