T A B L E_T A L K Is Colombia the Yugoslavia of Latin America? Join a conversation in Table Talk's International Issues area   How-to, why-not and what-for -- find it all at barnesandnoble.com Search by:  Keyword Title Author     R E C E N T L Y Honeymoon turbulence By Rosemary Berkeley For really getting to know someone, there's nothing like a 10-hour flight where everything that can go wrong, does (03/31/99) Going without at Ramadan By Emily Zuzik At the beginning of the Muslim fast, a traveler decides to do as the Marrakeshans do (03/30/99) Mediterranean reverie By Anne Dowie Nestled in the rugged mountains overlooking the Ligurian Sea, Cinque Terre is the source of endless scenic and culinary delights (03/28/99) Ring in the loser By Mark Schatzker What you do on New Year's Eve 1999 says more about your economic -- and social -- status than anything else (03/26/99) Night of the living kava By Eric Hansen A traveler trips out on a magical root in the South Pacific (03/25/99) Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives Wanderlust's Official Travel Book Partner		HUNGARIAN RHAPSODY | PAGE 1, 2 - - - - - - - - - - Our host returned, walking through the echoing dining room, and asked us where we were from. "Seattle," I said, and Jean mentioned Los Angeles. He wasn't sure where Los Angeles was. However, he knew Seattle, and described an American customs official searching his car at the Canada-United States border. "I kept asking that obnoxious man, 'What are you looking for? Maybe I can help you find it. I know this car quite well.'" He set a hand on his hip and confided, "I'm not afraid of authority. Police and officials don't bother me. Still, that man searched and searched. "Finally I told him, 'I have little money, but I will not spend it in your country with this sort of treatment.' So I left and went back to Canada, and I haven't gone to America since." He strutted back to the kitchen. Jean leaned toward me. "I'm so sorry I suggested this place!" she whispered. "No, it's all right," I whispered back. "We wanted to try something different, and this certainly fits the bill. You can apologize if the food stinks, how about that?" Our host reappeared with two large, oblong pieces of fried bread, and our moods lightened. He placed a small glass dish filled with minced garlic between Jean and me, and advised us to ladle on plenty of garlic and salt. "Be sure to eat while it's hot," he said. Escaping steam scorched my fingers as I tore off a puffy piece. The combination of garlic, salt and hot bread eased my anxiety. The soup arrived during my second mouthful, and I incoherently mumbled my appreciation. Jean simply nodded, her mouth also full. Having finished the fast-cooling langos, I turned my attention to the nameless soup. A shallow bowl held small flour dumplings, French-cut string beans and carrots in a clear, pungent broth, with herbs and spices floating on top. A thin band of paprika rimmed the bowl's edge, like ocean foam after a receding wave. With the first few spoonfuls, I understood how food critics could describe a dish as "assertive." Decoying me with an initial impression of dill, the soup's paprika aftertaste snuck up quietly and then leapt onto center stage, loud and boisterous. Entertained, I happily finished my bowl. Jean's soup was more like a dessert. Tart cherries hid in the creamy pink sauce. After she found all the cherries, she sighed. "This is way too sweet," she said. I peered across the table into her half-empty bowl. "You don't have to finish it." "What? And admit he was right? I'm not giving him the satisfaction." She gripped her spoon tighter. Our entrees arrived, and the fragrant, soothing aromas began to convince me that our host was merely an interesting character, not someone afflicted with a personality disorder. Yet I felt compelled to finish every bite or risk his wrath. My first bite boded well for cleaning my plate -- the tender lamb fell apart in my mouth before I could chew it. The best way to describe Hungarian food is to compare it to music. My lamb chops proudly trumpeted their complex blend of flavors with strength and determination, like a high school band's Sousa march. They were tasty and they knew it. Jean let me sample her trout, which was more subtle. It reminded me of soft classical music played by a flute quartet, smooth and elegant. Toward the end of my meal, though my stomach was about to burst, I was tempted to pick up my lamb bones and chew off the last flavorful shreds of meat. When our host came to collect our plates, I asked him if it's OK in Hungary to chew on the bones. "What is rude," he said, "is to leave the bones. You should eat them." I chuckled and looked up. The skin around his eyes hardened -- he meant it. He took my plate. "We do. We eat the bones. It's not hard, you break them open and eat them. In Hungary you eat everything." He sniffed and turned back to the kitchen. Jean shrugged. "You should have tried it," she said, though her smile gave her away. We paid -- the first time I ever tipped generously out of fear -- and waddled toward the door. "I'm glad you two girls came tonight," our host announced to our backs. "Otherwise I would have closed early and killed myself." We brushed off his parting remark, certain he was joking. Yet as I laid awake that night, my stomach packed as tight and heavy as a medicine ball, his comment didn't seem so unlikely. I rose from my lumpy hotel mattress and rummaged through my bags. "Jean," I asked, "did you bring any antacids?" SALON | April 1, 1999 Julie Jindal has written for Seattle Weekly and Seattle Sidewalk.com.     _________________________________ For more information: _________________________________