Social scientists today know that there is, of course, a modern approach to the national identity issue. From this point of view any national identity, rather than something God given is a social construct. It means something created (perhaps like goulash) as opposed to something God given (like paprika). Paprika is—well, paprika. But goulash changes constantly—as does national identity, composed of many more elements than a nationality, a language, a history, or a tradition. To such an extent that it is nowadays called a multiple identity. In the context of this cookbook, I myself would name it a sandwich identity! For example, I am of Hungarian origin, but I have dual citizenship, and my loyalties are never in conflict except during the World Cup in soccer, when I tend to root for the Hungarian team. My individual identity, my family identity as a Mangalitza pig—followed by my local, regional, national, and European identities—are not in conflict. Rather than only through national belonging (and national food), I define myself through my other interests—like my feminism, club membership, love of travel and swimming, and so on.
Therefore, in regard to the goulash-as-national-identity question, I think that it is important to stick to the basic recipe, but various additions are allowed, although (again!) the question can be raised: How far can one go and still be able to call it a goulash? But according to my friend, to my astonishment and amusement, this dilemma has already been solved on the Internet. There every mixture remotely similar to our kind of goulash is a goulash nevertheless. At least the name remains, and I hope that it is never going to be confused with gulag. Isn’t that something to be proud of?
As any reader of this introduction will surely understand by now, the most important ingredient of any goulash—as well as goulash communism—is tolerance. Even though this particular ingredient is never mentioned in any Hungarian cookbook. And this is why my cookbook, in the end, is inevitably political. This is why it stands for the freedom to interpret basic recipes while still preserving the identity, the Magyarness, of the dishes, of Tokay wine, of PIK salami, and all what we call Hungarica.
I like to think of my cookbook as promoting a Hungarian nouvelle cuisine of a sort. I also like to think—perhaps this reveals my vanity!—that understanding the difference between a goulash and a gulag could contribute to understanding why it is so hard, and why it takes such a long time, to change the mentality of people who for decades were haunted by this difference.
At the end, dear patient reader, I am aware that I started this long but necessary introduction in a light tone and ended up embroiled in politics, history, and identity—just like a typical East European intellectual—and I don’t apologize for that.
As for the recipes that follow, I can only wish you enjoy them regardless of how original they are! Jó étvádyat!
VII
AN INTERVIEW WITH THE OLDEST DOG IN BUCHAREST
So, my dear friend, you’ve come all the way from Vienna to ask why there are so many dogs on the streets of Bucharest, even in the very center? You tell me that “there are an estimated three hundred thousand stray dogs in Bucharest, a city of more than two million people, and there are up to fifty incidents of biting per day”—figures you found in the news.
Striking statistics, and true, indeed.
Forgive me for saying so, but you must be a foreigner who is here for the first time to ask about dogs. I wouldn’t say that you’re naive, just that this is what foreign visitors like you notice first: the impossible traffic situation and the stray dogs. At this time of day I bet it took you two hours to get from the airport to my home, although it shouldn’t have taken more than thirty minutes? Am I right? Of course, but Romanians are used to it. They prefer to drive their cars, even if they have to drive at the pace of a snail. Our local humans don’t notice us dogs any longer—and if they do, unlike you they seem not to consider us a problem. You see, one gets used to everything with time, even thousands of dogs in the streets of, shall we say, one of the European Union’s capitals.
I agree when you say that we cani are cohabitants with humans as long as we don’t bite them. I also agree when you say that one doesn’t see thousands of dogs roaming the streets of, say, Berlin, Paris, or, God forbid, Vienna. By the way, I hear that Vienna is a kind of paradise for dogs. Not only are its citizens not bothered by dog—forgive my expression—droppings being spread all over the pavements of that beautiful city, but ladies take them along to fine coffeehouses, and waiters bring them water. Moreover, dogs are seen sitting in ladies’ laps and eating cakes from small plates of their own—if one can believe that kind of rumor. But you’re nodding! You’ve seen it yourself? Oh, it warms my heart that such a place exists in this cruel world! However, not even there do packs of dogs roam free.
I want to say that I understand your curiosity about this subject, my dear friend. It seems that canine freedom to move in this city somehow indicates primitivism in the local humans. Seriously, though, my opinion is that the dog question does not have a simple answer. Maybe I’m too old; maybe you should ask another dog. We dogs are just like you: Some of us don’t remember; some simply don’t care; and, most certainly, we have different opinions among ourselves. You happen to be interviewing a very old dog (that is me, Karl, called Charlie) who remembers that the beginning of the whole dog story in Bucharest started during the ancien régime, and who happens to think that the displacement of dogs was the consequence of a political decision. In former times, what you habitually call Communism (although there was communism and Communism), politics used to rule our lives in a more obvious way. I mean, both our and our human cohabitants’ lives, since our destinies are intertwined.
Without wanting to be pathetic, I could say that we dogs were also victims of the totalitarian regime. I’ll tell you how.
But I am running ahead of myself. I am prone to digressions, you know. It’s my age. On the other hand, I was recommended to you precisely because of my age or, rather, for my memory, eh? How old am I, you ask? I was born during historic times, in 1990, just before the “revolution,” which makes me extremely old in dog years. Or roughly 120 in human years. No wonder my mind wanders sometimes…
Where was I? Oh yes, that we dogs in Romania were victims of Communism. I am afraid that we are no less victims of the postrevolutionary period as well—as you can witness yourself today. My people—or should I say my kind, for the sake of what is nowadays called political correctness?—tell me that life on the streets is getting bloody tough. As if I don’t see that myself, just because I don’t go out for long walks anymore. Ah, my rheumatic legs! But I see, believe you me. Just yesterday I accompanied my friend (you understand, I can’t call him “master”)—Martin is his name—to the nearby grocery. Mind you, not one of these fancy chains sporting Dutch tomatoes that don’t smell or taste of anything, like Billa or Spar, that we have everywhere now. It’s a small state-owned Alimentari that hasn’t changed for some reason. Yet. It is selling locally grown cabbage heads and half-rotten onions. And there she was, lying in front of the store, an example of our misery for all to see: a beautiful Labrador bitch waiting for someone to take pity on her and give her a piece of bread. Waiting, I say, not begging, because you could tell that she was too fine to lower herself to that level. She had sad velvet eyes that reminded me of my motherʹs… Anyway, there was another dog on a leash, tied to a fence. Although just an ugly creature of a mix breed (and I’m not being racist here, merely expressing my indignation), he looked down upon the Labrador bitch as if proud of the status indicated by the presence of his leash. A dog on a leash is in possession of something very precious nowadays: a master. For any dog in Bucharest this is no small matter, since it means he’s fed regularly, which most can’t claim. So he looked at the bitch, at her hungry expression, at the infected wound on her ear, and at her dirty golden coat, and I saw his look. It was full not of empathy but of malice. I was disgusted at his behavior. “Wait here,” I told her, and she looked at me with gratitude. Of course my friend Martin gave her a few morsels; he’s that kind of person. But that’s not a solution for stray dogs; charity never is a solution for social problems.