Chicken Paprikash with nokedli

Cut green pepper into 1/2 strips.
Chop onion and garlic.
Chop tomato and set aside.
Chop chicken.
Heat oil in skillet until hot.

Sautee onions until tender.
Sautee chicken on all sides, about 15 minutes.

Take pot from the heat then add sweet Hungarian paprika, stir until it dissolves in oil.

Reduce heat, add tomato, chicken broth, garlic, salt and pepper..
Cover and simmer 20 minutes.
Add green pepper; cover & cook 10 – 15 minutes.
Remove chicken to heated platter. Stir in sour cream.
Garnish with dumplings.

Prepare Dumplings.
Boil 8 cups water & 1 tsp salt in a dutch oven.
Mix eggs, 1/2 cup water, salt and flour.
Drop dough by teaspoon in to boiling water.
Cook uncovered for 10 minutes.
Drain dumplings.

Do You know The Spirit of the Hungarian Spirit?

Pálinka is a fruit based spirit distilled in Hungary for hundreds of years. The national spirit of the country is a Protected Designation of Origin recognized by the European Union

The production of palinka is regulated by strict specifications: only beverages made purely from Hungarian base-ingredients and fruit mashed, distilled and bottled in Hungary, prepared without any sugar or additives can be called palinka.

Any distillate which deviates in the slightest degree from this exceedingly high level of quality cannot be labeled with this protected name.

Palinka is not mass-produced in huge factories. The selection of the fruit, the lengthy preparation and the careful distillation and treatment can only be carried out in small quantities, and in easily inspected, family-based manufactories.

There is a wide range of wild crops and fruits with an unparalleled taste, suitable for fermentation. These are coupled with centuries of skilled knowledge, passed on for generations, which is now practically an art form.

Palinka is a refined, gastronomical delight: a magnificent harmony of tastes, colors and fragrances.

Drinking Pálinka

True pálinka only comes from Hungary and is made with fruits native to and harvested from the fertile Carpathian Basin region of Europe. The drink’s history can be traced back hundreds of years, and it’s no doubt that ancestors of today’s Hungarians were plucking sun-ripened fruit from trees to ferment and distill it into a drink with impressive powers. Pálinka is strong, with an alcohol content between 37% and 86%. Authentic pálinka should allow the fruit to stand on its own merit without the addition of sugars, flavors, or coloring.

Pálinka is made with sweet orchard fruits such as plums, apricots, and cherries. Though it’s a strong alcoholic beverage, it is typically served at room temperature

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because part of the joy of drinking pálinka is its fragrance and flavor, both which can be dulled if the brandy is served too cold. To enjoy the qualities of pálinka, the brandy is drunk out of a small, tulip-shaped glass, and the true pálinka lover may sip and savor the drink. It can be drunk before or after a meal, but some suggest enjoying it after a meal as a digestive.

Pálinka in Hungary

Palinka is so integral to Hungarian culture that it’s celebrated during festivals and ranked and rated at contests. Some people even take pálinka-judging courses so they can assess the fruit brandy professionally. Pálinka judges are skilled at discerning how brandies in a competition differ from one another and which ones best others when flavor and fragrance are compared.

In Budapest, festivals that celebrate pálinka include the Pálinka and Sausage Festival in October and the Pálinka Festival in May. These festivals offer an excellent opportunity to sample a variety of brandies from makers originating from all over Hungary.

People in Hungary take pride in their fruit brandy. Some even consider it a part of a healthy lifestyle and use it for wellness or medicinal purposes.

Pálinka-Making Process

Pálinka is made from harvest fruits, and in the past, making fruit brandy was a way to use up fruits that were not eaten at the end of the season. The fruits are collected and placed into a vessel or barrel then stirred to help the fermentation process happen. Fermentation takes place over the course of several weeks.

Then the fruit mash undergoes a distillation process. Though companies that make fruit brandy use large, modern distillers, some people make pálinka in their back yard with fire and a copper cauldron. Once the pálinka goes through initial distillation, it is distilled again.

Types of Pálinka

Pálinka is often sold in tall or round elegantly shaped bottles to show off their clarity or color. Some popular types of fruit brandy include apricot (barack) palinka from Kecskemét, plum (szilva ) palinka from the Körös Valley, and apple (alma) palinka from the Szabolcs region of Hungary.

Palinka is also given special names depending upon how it is distilled. For example, palinka is distinguished by the volume of the batch and how long it has aged. Some palinka is sold with fruit in the bottle. Other fruit brandies are intended to be after-meal digestives and are made with the grape flesh leftover from pressing out the juice.

Hungary’s divine Tokaj wines

Thursday, March 26, 2015 — Nick Robertson
Like a gigantic quilt of randomly shaped corduroy patches draped over a vast expanse of pillows, the hills of Hungary’s globally revered Tokaj wine region are crisscrossed with premier vineyards cultivated for centuries – this is the source of goldenly sweet Aszú, long esteemed as one of the world’s most desirable libations. Blessed with an absolutely unique combination of geological and geographical conditions, this terrific terroir is the only place where Aszú can be made, but the area now flourishes anew as its innovative vintners also produce several other extraordinary wine varieties.
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Sited amid the countryside’s northeastern corner where foothills of the Carpathian Mountains first rise from the Great Hungarian Plain, Tokaj bears remarkably mineral-rich soils originally formed by volcanic eruptions of 15 million years ago, and enhanced much later when the entire region was submerged under what is now the Mediterranean Sea and imparted with profuse clay deposits; subsequent volcanic activity added valuable loess to the mix. Coinciding with this potent geological blend,Tokaj is home to the confluence of Hungary’s Tisza and Bodrog rivers, and the area’s latitude generally delivers ample sunshine from early spring through late fall.

This fortunate fusion of nature sets the stage for one of the world’s most singular viticultural situations. Every autumn, the Great Hungarian Plain’s accumulated summertime warmth floats above the cool Tisza and Bodrog waters and their surrounding marshes, resulting in thick morning mists. The low-lying fog creeps up the sunshiny south-facing hillsides and envelops the grapevines growing there, and this combination of warmth and humidity is ideal for fostering “noble rot” (botrytis cinerea) on ripe grapes; the fruit reacts to the fungus by emitting aromatic elements that later ameliorate the wine with a distinctive citrus taste.

The Tokaj miracle is completed when these ripe grapes stretch their skin thin enough so that tiny holes form, allowing moisture to seep out more easily with the autumn sun and wind; thus the concentrated flesh of the berry develops more intense flavors. The raisin-like grapes are carefully handpicked and gently pressed under their own weight; the resulting extract has about five times as much natural sugar as ordinary grape juice, balanced by the fine organic acids derived from the soil’s volcanic minerals. This painstaking process provides the raw materials for honey-golden Tokaji Aszú wine, featuring a mild alcohol content but a fine sweetness that was highly cherished during bygone centuries when sugar was an expensive luxury in Europe. The most treasured variety of Aszú – the pure botrytized-grape juice, called Essencia – can contain up to about 900 grams of residual sugar per liter, and can be aged for many decades so that its taste gradually refines.
Because only a relatively small percentage of grapes can be used for Aszú with every harvest, a limited amount of this wine can be produced annually, adding to its value; for centuries, high-quality Aszú was primarily enjoyed by monarchs.
According to legend, it was France’s Louis XV of who gave it the nickname “Wine of Kings, King of Wines”; other royals who cherished Aszú included Russia’s Catherine the Great, Sweden’s King Gustav III, and Britain’s Queen Victoria. Since the valuation of Aszú was so high, in 1700 Tokaj’s vintners were the first winemakers in the world to classify their vineyards by terroir, determined by which plots consistently produced well-botrytized grapes.

Tokaji Aszú was Hungary’s finest export from that point through the early 20th century, but the region’s output of quality grapes was severely diminished following a devastating phylloxera root-louse outbreak and the World Wars. During Hungary’s communist era after WWII, quantity was emphasized over quality, so the historic vineyards’ bad conditions were exacerbated by mass-farming techniques. It was only after Hungary’s regime change in 1989 that local winemakers could again properly nurture their vineyards and resume selective handpicking of appropriately botrytized grapes, and with considerable foreign investment the Tokaj region’s wine industry enjoyed a comprehensive renaissance that continues to this day, aided by the entire area’s designation as a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 2002.

The primary grape varieties used to make Tokaji Aszú are Furmint, Hárslevelű, andSárga Muskotály (Yellow Muscat) – however, in recent years the flavorful unbotrytized berries are also increasingly used to produce excellent dry whites as well, with vintages from Tokaj’s most renowned vineyards earning glowing praise from international oenophiles. Although Aszú remains the most prized product of Tokajand is exported around the planet by major wine traders, dry Furmint andHárslevelű are both quickly gaining recognition as unique Hungarian products ideal for pairing with meals or drinking with friends on a sunny afternoon.

As Tokaj’s wines continually improve over recent decades, Tokaj itself is also growing in sophistication as a naturally beautiful travel destination – many wineries welcome the public to taste their range and tour the cellars, while different towns of the region now feature comfortable accommodations (like the Mádi Kúria Hotel or Tokaj’s Huli Panzió) and high-quality restaurants, including Mád’s charming Gusteau in a renovated stone villa, the Első Mádi Borház bistro attached to the new Szent Tamás winery, and the Sárga Borház Restaurant on the Disznókő estate grounds.

Every year, the region’s winemakers gather for the cheerful Tokaj Spring festivities and the Great Tokaj Wine Auction, happening April 24-26 in 2015. However, the following Tokaj wineries are worth checking out anytime, either with a visit or the purchase of a glass or bottle.

Andrássy: A relatively new winery housed in a stylishly understated building on a Tarcal hillside; highlights include the zesty Yellow Muscat Essencia 2006, the full-bodied dry Furmint 2012, and the five-star wellness hotel attached to the estate.

Balassa: As a leader of Tokaj’s renaissance, István Balassa approaches winemaking with deep appreciation for each vineyard; try his light Nyulászó dry Furmint 2011 or the more complex and flowery Betsek dry Furmint 2011.

Barta: Amid a lovely mansion of central Mád that is currently under extensive restoration, guests can enjoy the cozy atmosphere as much as wines like the oak-barrel-aged dry Harslevelű 2012 with a distinct herbal flavor.

Demeter Zoltán: Since 1996, master winemaker Zoltán Demeter crafts exquisite single-vineyard vintages with a goal of reflecting Tokaj’s hallowed traditions and land; his sparkling whites and dry Furmints are elegantly delightful.

Disznókő: This gorgeous estate encompasses some of Tokaj’s finest vineyards, centered by state-of-the-art winery facilities – if given the chance to try László Mészáros’s wonderfully viscous 2005 Essencia, don’t miss it.

Dobogo: Owned by Izabella Zwack (of Hungary’s Unicum-producing family), this rustic winery is where Attila Domokos makes limited-edition libations like the smoothly salty dry Furmint 2011 or the Mylitta aperitif series.

Erzsébet: A multi-generational Tokaj family produces handcrafted estate wines from several prominent vineyards in cellars dating back to 1743; their crisply saltyKirálydűlő 2012 displays the full potential of dry Furmint.

Gizella: When he took over his family’s small winery near Tokaj town, young vintnerLászló Szilágyi melded reverence for the area’s heritage with a playful modern spirit – try his light and fruity 2013 Kastély dry Furmint.

Gróf Dégenfeld: For over 150 years, the Dégenfeld Family continually utilizes top-quality Tokaj grapes to produce world-class wines; the Aszú 5-Puttonyos 1999 has an intensive bouquet with nice honey-and-apricot flavors.

Holdvölgy: Above labyrinthine cellars dating back to the 15th century, this ultra-modern winery is led by Tamás Gincsai; here several wine varieties are divided into tasteful categories like “Meditation” and “Eloquence”.

Oremus: This sprawling estate overlooking Tolcsva is innovatively designed with gravity-fed facilities to make wines as gently as possible; the Mandolas 2012 dry Furmint has a nice spiciness enhanced by oak-barrel aging.

Samuel Tinon: After tending wineries all around the world, French vintner Samuel Tinon settled down in the village of Olaszliszka to become a pioneer of dry Szamorodni, an oft-overlooked Tokaj specialty well worth trying.

Sauska: Expanding on his modern winemaking center in Villány, Hungarian tycoonKrisztián Sauska launched his Tokaj winery under the leadership of Gábor Rakaczki; the Aszú 6-Puttonyos 2003 is like flavorfully thick honey.

Szent Tamás: Welcoming visitors at the border of Mád, this sophisticated new winery emphasizes Tokaj’s mineral cocktail that produces its incredible wines – the 2011 dry Furmint is smoothly salty, nice alone or with food.

Szepsy: As the primary trailblazer behind Tokaj’s renaissance, István Szepsycontinually produces top-caliber vintages in his family’s own Mád winery; the Aszú 6-Puttonyos 2007 is smooth and fragrant with dried-apricot overtones.

For a chance to try good libations from some of these Tokaj wineries and many others without leaving Budapest, the Tokaj Grand tasting gala at the Corinthia Hotel Budapest on Saturday, March 28th welcomes the public to try the complete range of wines from the region. Moreover, many fine restaurants and wine bars across Hungary’s capital offer Tokaj wines, while all of Budapest’s Bortársaság wine shops carry an excellent selection of Tokaj’s best bottles. To learn more about Tokaj’s wine and touring, we recommend the English-language book Tokaj: A Companion for the Bibulous Traveller, and the freshly updated Tokaj Guide.

The Lost Strudel

By NORA EPHRON

I don’t mean food as habit, food as memory, food as biography, food as metaphor, food as regret, food as love, or food as in those famous madeleines people like me are constantly referring to as if they’ve read Proust, which in most cases they haven’t. I mean food as food. Food vanishes.
I’m talking about cabbage strudel, which vanished from Manhattan in about 1982 and which I’ve been searching for these last 23 years.
Cabbage strudel is on a long list of things I loved to eat that used to be here and then weren’t, starting with frozen custard; this delectable treat vanished when I was 5 years old, when my family moved to California, and my life has been a series of little heartbreaks ever since.
The cabbage strudel I’m writing about was sold at an extremely modest Hungarian bakery on Third Avenue called Mrs. Herbst’s. I initially tasted it in 1968, and I don’t want to be sentimental about it, except to say that it’s almost the only thing I remember about my first marriage. Cabbage strudel looks like apple strudel, but it’s not a dessert; it’s more like a pirozhok, the meat-stuffed turnover that was a specialty of the Russian Tea Room, which also vanished.
It’s served with soup, or with a main course like pot roast or roast pheasant (not that I’ve ever made roast pheasant, but no question cabbage strudel would be delicious with it). It has a buttery, flaky, crispy strudel crust made of phyllo (the art of which I plan to master in my next life, when I will also read Proust past the first chapter), with a moist filling of sautéed cabbage that’s simultaneously sweet, savory and completely unexpected, like all good things.
Once upon a time I ate quite a lot of cabbage strudel, and then I sort of forgot about it for a while. I think of that period as my own personal temps perdu, and I feel bad about it for many reasons, not the least of which is that it never crossed my mind that my beloved cabbage strudel would not be waiting for me when I was ready to remember it again.
This is New York, of course. The city throws curves. Rents go up. People get old, and their children no longer want to run the store. So you find yourself walking uptown looking for Mrs. Herbst’s Hungarian bakery, which was there, has always been there, is a landmark for God’s sake, a fixture of the neighborhood, practically a defining moment of New York life, and it’s vanished and no one even bothered to tell you. It’s sad. Not as sad as things that are truly sad, I’ll grant you that, but sad nonetheless.
On the other hand, the full blow is mitigated somewhat by the possibility that somewhere, somehow you’ll find the lost strudel, or be able to replicate it. And so, at first, you hope. And then, you hope against hope. And then finally, you lose hope. And there you have it: the three stages of grief when it comes to lost food.
The strudel was not to be found. I spent hours on the Internet looking for a recipe, but nothing seemed like the exact cabbage strudel I’d lost. At a cocktail party, I lunged pathetically at a man named Peter Herbst, a magazine editor who my husband had led me to believe was a relative of the Herbst strudel dynasty, but he turned out not to be.
I also spoke to George Lang, the famous Hungarian restaurateur, who was kind enough to send me a recipe for cabbage strudel, but I tried making it and it just wasn’t the same. (The truth is, most of the genuinely tragic episodes of lost food are things that are somewhat outside the reach of the home cook, even a home cook like me who has been known to overreach from time to time.)
About two years ago, when I had landed in what I thought was the slough of despond where cabbage strudel was concerned and could not possibly sink lower, my heart was broken once again: the food writer Ed Levine told me that the strudel I was looking for was available, by special order only, at Andre’s, a Hungarian bakery in Rego Park, Queens. Ed hadn’t actually sampled it himself, but he assured me that all I had to do was call Andre and he’d whip some up for me.
I couldn’t believe it. I immediately called Andre. I dropped Ed Levine’s name so hard you could hear it in New Jersey. I said that Ed had told me Andre would make cabbage strudel if I ordered it, so I was calling to order it. I was prepared to order a gross of cabbage strudels if necessary. Guess what? Andre didn’t care about Ed Levine or me. He refused to make it. He said he was way too busy making other kinds of strudel. So that was that.
But it wasn’t.
This week, I heard from Ed Levine again. He sent an e-mail to say Andre had opened a branch on the Upper East Side. It was selling cabbage strudel over the counter. You didn’t even have to order it, it was sitting right there in the bakery case. Ed Levine had eaten a piece of it. “Now I understand why you’ve been raving about cabbage strudel all this time,” he wrote.
The next day my husband and I walked over to Andre’s. It was a beautiful winter day in New York – or my idea of a beautiful winter day, in that you barely needed a coat. We found the bakery, which is also a cafe, went inside and ordered the cabbage strudel, heated up. It arrived. I lifted a forkful to my lips and tasted it.
Now I’m not going to tell you that (like Proust tasting the madeleine) I shuddered; nor am I going to report that “the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory.” That would take way more than cabbage strudel. But Andre’s cabbage strudel was divine – crisp but moist, savory but sweet, buttery beyond imagining. It wasn’t completely identical to Mrs. Herbst’s, but it was absolutely as delicious, if not more so.
Tasting it again was like being able to turn back the clock, like having the consequences of a mistake erased; it was better than getting a blouse back that the dry cleaners had lost, or a cellphone returned that had been left in a taxi; it was a validation of never giving up and of hope springing eternal; it was many things, it was all things, it was nothing at all; but mostly, it was cabbage strudel.