Just One Story From Budapest

It is now nearly midnight of our last night here in Budapest and the entire trip, including the horribleness I had left you with in the last blog, was amazing. All those things which we had worried over and bickered a little about all got settled. I made it to Vienna, got my long-term Visa (I will not be deported), and almost right when I stepped off the train in Budapest I met up with Andrea. Her trip, also, went as smoothly as traveling in a land you are not familiar with can go.
The first day, which was mostly traveling, and not sleeping, was interesting and fun. Not to mention, we had a great time spending the day in Prague before our departure. We got help getting everything squared away for our trip from Lada and Michal. Michal was able to fix Andrea’s computer so the Internet has been working perfectly for this entire trip. Plus, after doing a little shopping around Prague in places we had never been I cooked bacon-cheeseburgers for Lada, Michal, Andrea, and I. Not to brag too much, but everyone said they were delicious, the best burgers they had ever tasted in their entire lives. Okay, maybe, I made that last line up, but they did say they liked them. Served with a side of asparagus and potatoes, a meal fit for kings and queens. And I made sure to smoke up their entire apartment. Gotta’ love greasy American food.
I have to tell one of our many Budapest stories right now because I am on topic. I am pretty sure the hamburger is an American delicacy; correct me if I am wrong? However, I forget what day it was but we were eating lunch at some restaurant here and I had the craving for another bacon-cheeseburger, it was on the menu and mine had been so good I just couldn’t get enough. So, I get my bacon-cheeseburger, it looked great, it has all the traditional topping on it, lettuce, un-cooked onions (It is important I mention that the onions I saw were un-cooked), and a tomato. Plate, also, had a huge helping of deep-fried, nicely seasoned potatoes. Well, like I usually do, I took the tomato, the onions, and placed them on Andrea’s plate. I tried to ask for steak sauce for the burger, but that didn’t quite work. So, I used the ketchup the, at that point, friendly waitress had placed on the table. She spoke fine English, not great, but the point; she understood what an onion was. I was excited, I picked up my burger and took a huge bite, and I was hungry. Admittedly after my first chew I begin to feel nauseous, that is what the taste of onions does to me, the ground beef was mixed with onions. I politely, as I nearly gagged, called over the waitress and explained I could not eat onions. I know it is lie and I should not do it, but it works easier then telling wait staff I just don’t like onions, they make me nauseous.
The waitress picked up my plate without saying word; she was no longer her friendly self. She did not tell me what she was doing, only turned her back, walked up to what looked like the owner or manager of the restaurant, who in turn looked over at our table with a glare then pointed for the waitress to go into the kitchen. So, I thought they understood no onions. The waitress returned nearly ten minutes later with another burger. This time the topping did not include the uncooked onions, just the tomato and lettuce. They did understand, or I thought.
To make sure I quickly grabbed my fork and dug lightly into the burger, I wasn’t going to take another bite without checking. Sure enough, as you probably guessed, still finely-chopped, cooked onions mixed throughout the ground beef. I figured something was getting lost in translation, maybe she nor her owner or manager didn’t know exactly what an onion was and they were just giving me them on accident.
After finding the onions for the second time, I skipped the waitress and went straight up to whoever the man she had been speaking with was, owner, manager; I did not care at that point. The waitress had gone from friendly to rude and obviously they had no clue what I wanted. I know in this story I sound like the obnoxious American who will not just be satisfied, but I cannot eat onions. The menu did not say ground beef mixed with onions. I was not going to pay for a meal I would not eat.
As I approached the man he gave me that, “Oh, god,” look. At this point I was not mad, I just wanted to eat, and Andrea had already pretty much finished her meal. I had insisted she not wait for me. When I reached the man and asked if he spoke English he said he did. So, why was the whole concept of me not wanting onions with my burger being so difficult?
His explanation, “Everywhere in the world, they always mix the ground beef with onions,” and gave me a look like I was stupid.
I told him in response, “That is not true. In America, normally the burgers are not made with onions mixed in the ground beef.”
He then shoved a menu in my hands said, “Fine, what do you want?”
I was furious, I felt like saying, “You have to be the stupidest man in the world to tell an American how all hamburgers are made, hamburgers are an American delicacy, you asshole.” (Sorry, about the language Mom.)
Instead, I apologized again, and asked for the Caesar Salad on the menu.
I am sure it was a spit-filled, or something even worse, Caesar Salad delivered to me about another ten minutes later, but I ate it as fast as I could before I would let any anger show. I wanted to leave the restaurant and be done with the situation.
Anyway, the salad wasn’t bad with its store bought dressing and we paid and I went to a coffee house down the street to write while Andrea went into some famous church here in Budapest. At the coffee house I had a gigantic, mouth-watering piece of chocolate cake. The world was at peace again.
And I really do promise this trip to Budapest has been unbelievable, in a good way, I just had to share that story well it was on my mind after bringing up the story of how good I make a burger. I promise on the six hour bus ride home I will write plenty of good, fun stories to share. Remember that lunch was only maybe one hour of our seventy-two hour trip to this beautiful city I will sorely miss. Andrea and I have even been debating on the idea of whether we may even like it better than Prague. Until tomorrow, I have to be up for a Seven A.M. seven hour bus ride back to Prague.