Dine and Die on the Danube Express

by Peter King

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  THE BANQUET ROOM WAS as spectacular as the other rooms in the Parliament building complex. Over the centuries, the rooms had clearly fulfilled a variety of functions. Some of them had probably been witness to scenes too terrible to record. A flamboyant but very appropriate touch came from banners hung around the walls proclaiming the famous restaurants of Budapest—the Alabardos, its name recalling the halberd, an ancient edged weapon; the Lou Lou, one of the most popular eating places for some years; the Muveszinas, medieval and romantic; the Vadrosza which means the “Wild Rose”; the Feszek, home of the Artist’s Club; and the Udvarhaz, the restaurant with the unrivaled hilltop view.

  They were resplendent with images of fruit, shanks of veal, vegetables, and wine bottles, and Renata reminded us that all those restaurants had combined to put on the banquet.

  “Isn’t that unusual?” asked Franz Reingold and Renata smiled.

  “Yes,” she agreed, “Hungarian restaurateurs are extremely competitive and rarely cooperate. Such an occasion as this was needed to persuade them to do so—as you can see.” She motioned to a huge multicolored banner that portrayed the Danube Express in all its power and majesty roaring out of a tunnel and into the Danube Valley with picturesque blue water and a white steamer. The latter, however, were small and the train enormous.

  My banquet attendance in Vienna had been brief and interrupted. I hoped this would be different. At the table with me were Herman Lydecker, Elisha Tabor, Dr. Stolz and Eva Zilinsky. A Hungarian guide—Renata in our case—was at each table to provide interpretation and information. So, with me, there were six at the table, and all the other tables had the same number.

  Drinks were served at the table. “You must all try the Hungarian aperitif, Palinka,” said Renata. “The most popular one is Barackpalinka—it is apricot schnapps.”

  “Evian water for me,” Elisha Tabor ordered. “I don’t take alcoholic drinks before dinner.”

  Lydecker and the doctor gave their assent to the apricot schnapps, and I joined them. “Scotch on the rocks,” said Eva Zilinsky peremptorily, “Famous Grouse.” Renata hesitated, then ordered the apricot schnapps, too. Perhaps the guides were expected to remain teetotal, and Renata was hoping she was not under observation.

  Violinists strolled around the edges of the table area, playing Hungarian folk music. They were audible but stayed far enough away that they did not intrude upon conversation. “Those are the famous Lakatos family,” Renata explained. “They are legendary in Hungary.”

  As we sipped the drinks, Eva Zilinsky was eyeing the adjoining table. “Magda Malescu appears to be in good form,” she said. “She’s our principal export after paprika, you know,” she added to me.

  We could not hear their conversation, but it was evident from the waving arms, the flashing eyes, and the animated faces, that Magda was entrancing her captive audience. Laughter burst out after one of her stories.

  “She must be talking about herself,” Herman Lydecker, and Elisha Tabor added tardy, “Who else?”

  “She made a remarkable recovery from her death,” commented Lydecker, and a few chuckles came from around the table. I was watching Magda Malescu at that moment, though, and I thought I detected a slightly hysterical exaggeration in her motions. Perhaps we were doing her an injustice—maybe she felt the death of her understudy more deeply than we realized.

  Waiters came, bringing menus. It seemed the meal was to be a compromise between a fixed menu and a wide choice. The participating restaurants were shown as offering three of their finest recommendations for each of the seven courses.

  “Seven courses!” commented Dr. Stolz.

  “Why not?” asked Eva Zilinsky gaily. “Do you advise dieting to your patients, Doctor?”

  “Only when it is strictly necessary,” he replied. “Hungarian meals are known to be—well, let us say, robust.”

  “Still,” I was obliged to point out, “these dishes appear to have been chosen very carefully, and I am sure that excessive fat, starch, and carbohydrate contents have been avoided.”

  “Oh dear,” said Elisha Tabor. “Have the abstemious ways of “Western dieting finally reached Hungary?”

  “I think that the world is now accepting the need for using dietary guidelines,” Dr. Stolz said. “It is possible to enjoy meals and be prudent too.”

  “How boring!” Eva Zilinsky sighed.

  “Not at all,” said Lydecker, who seemed ready to shift his argument wherever he could find the opportunity to disagree. “It is easy for a good chef to serve food that satisfies the gourmet and yet is healthful.”

  I was ready to debate that—not the desirability of the achievement but the description of it as being easy. Chefs trained in the ways of preparing rich, traditional foods have had to work hard to find ways of reducing saturated fats, calories, and cholesterol. Instead of crossing swords with Herman Lydecker, however, I let the moment pass in the interest of harmony at the table.

  Eva Zilinsky ordered an apricot schnapps, and Elisha Tabor had another Evian water. The rest of us passed—in my case, the decision was made after looking at the list of wines we were to be offered. Most were Hungarian, and several vineyards were represented whose wares are rarely seen outside that corner of Europe. The banquet would be an unusual opportunity to sample some of them.

  Ordering the meal was an interesting study in tastes and attitudes. Soups have declined in popularity in the Western world—perhaps it is a class-conscious reaction, and soup is considered a peasant choice. In countries with Eastern connections, though, soups are still popular, and this is certainly true in Hungary.

  Lydecker and I both ordered Meggyleves to start. It is a cold soup made with sour cherries, a truly Hungarian specialty. Dr. Stolz ordered a soup, too, a hearty one consisting of beans and cabbage, laced with smoked pork, while Elisha Tabor went for a simple beef consommé. Eva Zilinsky chose the Oborka Salata, a salad of sliced and pickled cucumbers, and Renata took the mixed salad.

  The cherry soup was excellent, the cherries being sufficiently sour to give the dish a sharp edge that made it a true appetizer. Brandy and cinnamon rounded off the taste and concealed the sweetness of the sugar that must have been added. The doctor praised his soup, too. Elisha Tabor made no comment on her consommé but was the first to finish the course. Eva and Renata nodded approval of their salads.

  No attempt was made to offer wine. That was a good decision, for all the first course items would affect its taste—especially the sour cherry soup and the acidic salads.

  Next, we listened to the waiter describe the dishes to be offered for the second course. The Kehli restaurant in old Buda had contributed one of their famous dishes, he said. It is bone marrow on toast and very highly regarded since the renowned Hungarian novelist, Gyula Krudy, did a moonlighting stint there as a restaurant critic. He then highly praised the dish in his column in the Budapest Times. We listened impassively, but no one ordered it.

  The next item drew close attention though. The animal most beloved by Hungarian epicures, said the waiter, is the goose. All summer long, young girls and old crones feed corn to the geese until they become fat and their meat tender and sweet. They can be roasted or braised, and the cracklings made from the skin and the layer of fat beneath it are widely used as a flavoring in many dishes.

  However, it is the liver that is the most eagerly sought part of the goose. Large and unbelievably delicious, it can be eaten baked, smoked, or sautéed, but the culmination of the chef’s art comes when it is made into pâté, known as Libermaj in Hungarian. Paprika, pimientos, scallions, capers, hard-boiled eggs, and white wine are added, cooked, seasoned, and blended.

  The waiter ended his spiel and looked around the table. We all nodded approval. For a moment, I thought Lydecker was going to demur and demand chicken liver instead, but he went along with the rest of us.

  The pâté arrived on a shining silver platter and was placed in the middle of the table. Very thin sliced rye bread was re
commended with it, the waiter said, and brought a tray of it plus some black pumpernickel. Specially shaped silver knives were provided.

  We were served a light, dry white wine with this. It was from the district of Eger in the Northern Uplands of Hungary. It was labeled Leanyka, which means “Little Girl.” It was just tasty enough to be assertive but did not detract in any way from the magnificent goose pâté. Our table was silent as we all enjoyed this. Renata commented that, as a girl, she had often eaten goose liver pâté but never one as good.

  The noise level in the huge banquet room had dropped—presumably all the other tables were concentrating on enjoying the Hungarian specialty as much as we were. The tables were well separated, too, which is a consideration often overlooked even in the best restaurants.

  For the third course, we were offered a range of fish dishes. The waiter spoke highly of the Fogas, which comes only from Lake Balaton and is highly prized. In some countries, they are known as the ‘Zander’. Their meat is white and delicious, and they resemble a small trout, although many liken them to perch. Fogas was being prepared in three ways that night—Kalocsa style with lecso, which is a mixture of stewed onions, tomatoes, and paprika; or à la Gundel, a light spinach-and-cheese sauce; or simply grilled as fillets.

  The women at our table decided on the plain grilled and the men on Kalocsa style. With it we drank a white wine from Badacsony, a volcanic area that rises from the northwest shores of Lake Balaton. The waiter suggested the unique wine known as Blue Stalk. Many of the wines from this region are of the Riesling type, but the Blue Stalk, “Keknyelu” in Hungarian, has a distinctive mineral taste from the volcanic soil yet retains its basic wine flavors. “This one is from the Szeremley vineyard,” said the waiter proudly, “one of the finest in Hungary.”

  To continue, we were told that the Hungarian staple dishes of goulash and porkolt were available at all the local restaurants. For such a special occasion as this, though, the chefs were determined to uphold their reputations and offer the finest in their repertoire. Duck is a very popular in the country and Hacsa is prized as the best way to prepare it. At our table, it was universally agreed that to be the best choice.

  When it arrived, it was superb. The duck is stuffed with quince and roasted until very crispy. The chefs had felt that they should be traditionally Hungarian in the serving of accompaniments, however, and Toltott Kaposzta, stuffed cabbage, was served with it, along with noodles with poppy seeds. The stuffed cabbage, the waiter explained, was an elaborate dish and elevated above the simpler version found in country taverns. Ground pork, rice, garlic, onions, and sour cream are in the stuffing that fills each carefully rolled cabbage leaf, which is then placed in the sauerkraut seasoned with paprika, chopped bacon, and caraway seeds.

  The country version of the dish may contain a mixture of beef and pork and can be considered a main course. In our case, we were served a modest portion, and an excellent adjunct to the crispy duck.

  A choice of wines came with that course. In addition to a white from the renowned Thummerer vineyard, the chefs wanted to be sure that we tasted some Hungarian reds. A Kadarka, a late-ripening red, was described as being the wine that Franz Schubert drank while composing his Trout Quintet. The waiter suggested that we try tasting several reds, and we did so, this one being from the Ferenc Takler vineyard. Almost as much praise was heaped upon a wine from the Vesztergombi vineyard and it was the wine variety known as Bikaver.

  Drinking different wines in succession is not considered a good idea by wine aficionados. That is why, at a wine tasting, the wine is not swallowed. The spitting out that is necessary would, of course, be frowned on during a meal, so it is only on rare occasions that different wines are consumed, and the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Danube Express fell into that category. Still, the morning-after effects can be unpleasant, and I wondered if all at the table—and indeed at the other tables also—were prepared for that. But I didn’t want to be a spoilsport and tried to rationalize that at least the Hungarian red wines we were drinking here were from approximately the same varietal, and so the effects might be minimal.

  Everyone at the table was in a happy mood, and even Lydecker was mellow. We were being allowed plenty of time to sample as many wines as we wished, and the atmosphere was jovial. Renata was smiling, in contrast to her previously prim manner, and Eva Zilinsky was pushing her glass forward for another serving of Attila Gere’s unusually complex-flavored Cabernet Sauvignon when Elisha Tabor unexpectedly turned to Dr. Stolz.

  “So, Doctor, tell us how the murders occurred.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  IT WAS A CONVERSATION-STOPPING remark, and our table was an oasis of silence in a vast room vibrating with chatter. Eva Zilinsky looked at Elisha Tabor with a half-amused, half-admiring expression that suggested she wished she had said it.

  Herman Lydecker paused with a wineglass partway to his mouth. Renata looked interested in hearing the answer but was understandably less involved than the passengers. All eyes were on the doctor.

  Dr. Stolz completed a sip of his wine, and I thought he savored it longer than usual. He dabbed his mouth gently with his napkin, and said, “Murders? I know of one death only, and it is that of Fraulein Talia Svarovina.” He gave Elisha Tabor a direct look. “Do you have reason to believe she was murdered?”

  The cool rebuttal might have slowed some women, but Elisha Tabor replied, “Two deaths. Magda Malescu was described as being dead, wasn’t she?”

  “Erroneously as it happened,” said the doctor.

  “That was strange, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” the doctor agreed equably, but Elisha Tabor was persistent.

  “I mean, to be declared dead and then to be found very much alive.”

  “Which we were all very glad to find was the case,” the doctor said.

  “So Malescu wasn’t dead, but her understudy was.”

  “Are you suggesting that there was a connection between the two?” Eva Zilinsky had joined the conversation now. Elisha Tabor gave her a look as if she were about to tell her to mind her own business, but Zilinsky was not likely to be receptive to that kind of advice, and Tabor must have realized it.

  “I don’t believe in coincidences,” said Tabor. “It’s too much to believe that the two events are unrelated.”

  “How do you think they are related?” asked Zilinsky.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What about you, Doctor? How do you think they are related?”

  The doctor was busy attracting the attention of the waiter so that he could get another glass of wine. Then he turned to Zilinsky. “I am a doctor, not a detective. It would be better if you spoke with Head of Security, Herr Kramer.”

  “But we have a detective right here with us,” Lydecker said slyly. “A detective from Scotland Yard. Why don’t we ask him?” All eyes switched toward me.

  The waiter had left, so I was not able to use the doctor’s delaying tactic. I decided on the aloof, we-know-a-lot-that-we-can’t-reveal attitude. I drummed fingers on the pristine white tablecloth in lieu of twisting a wine glass stem.

  “I am skeptical of coincidences, too,” I said. “It seems likely that there is a connection between the two events, and we are investigating that connection very closely.”

  Zilinsky didn’t intend to let go. “Svarovina was, after all, Malescu’s understudy. Malescu was known to be jealous of her.”

  “Is that so?” murmured Tabor, leading her on.

  “Yes, it certainly is so.” Zilinsky was warming to her role now. “There was an incident in Belgrade last year when Malescu was late for a performance. Svarovina was dressed and ready to go on as her understudy when Malescu arrived. She insisted on holding the curtain until she was ready despite a very restless audience. She was furious at Svarovina. The Budapest Times had a great time with that story, had it going for days.”

  “In the column of Mikhel Czerny?” I asked.

  “Of course,” said Zilinsky.

&nb
sp; “But is that motive for murder?”

  “It could be,” Zilinsky said. “There was a case in Prague last year of a man who killed his wife because she smoked in bed. There is no limit to the acts that are trivial to one person but desperately important to another.” She regarded Dr. Stolz. “Tell me, Doctor, Svarovina was poisoned, was she not?”

  “She had ingested a poisonous substance.”

  “What about Malescu?” Elisha Tabor wanted to know. “Did she take the same medications?”

  “If she did, they did not affect her in any lasting way.”

  “Or did Malescu take something else?” asked Lydecker.

  I recalled the strong smell of cyanide when I had first entered Malescu’s compartment. It had been bothering me ever since, and I was still perplexed. Malescu could not have taken—or been given cyanide—or she would be dead. I waited for the doctor’s answer.

  “I have asked her that,” the doctor said. “She does not recall taking anything potentially dangerous.”

  “Oh, well,” said Elisha Tabor, the woman who had started it all. She fluttered one hand in a very feminine gesture. “I just thought I’d ask.”

  Eva Zilinsky looked disappointed. Dr. Stolz was probably relieved but didn’t show it. Lydecker appeared indifferent, and Renata had had her interest piqued and looked eager to hear more. I tried to keep up my there’s-a-lot-I’d-like-to-tell-you-but-I-can’t front.

  The waiter came, timing impeccable. “Hungary is famous for its desserts. I urge you to try one even if you are not usually a dessert-eater.”

  We probably had two or three of those, but everybody decided to be a sport and have a dessert. Palacsintas, flambéed pancakes, thin enough to be called crepes, were high on the list and the Muveszinas restaurant in downtown Pest had prepared them. “They are a specialty there,” the waiter explained. “They are famous for them.”