Have a gay old time: Gay Hussar
By Douglas Blyde, published on 15 December 2010
From stirrups to the carburettor, buttons and soap, the Hungarian Republic has given the world much of use. However, other than an annual flow of 10,028,000 litres of elixir, Tokaji, it is not widely celebrated for its gastronomic canon of goulash, galuska and gyors… But, as if titled by Carry On writer, Norman Hudis, London’s first Hungarian restaurant, The Gay Hussar seems to endure. Established in 1953, its phone box red, Greek Street frontage is as much a stalwart to cabbies who learn it on the knowledge as it is to nostalgic expats and Labour politicos. After a fellow critic admonished us for daring to consider reviewing such an ‘institution’, we grew ever more galvanised to give this grand old dame a darn good seeing to.
Beyond opaque glass framed by eyelid pelmets extends a thick carpet busy with brainy swirls. Flanking the central aisle, pews are austerely angled and upholstered in mustard. Swathed by slugs of low rent red tinsel are cartoonist, Martin Rowson’s typically obnoxious looking caricatures of obnoxious seeming Labour MPs. Many of those featured have first editions on the shelves above dispense. When we pointed out that Tony Blair looked like he was about to tumble, long serving Polish manager, John Wrobel reassured that “he sometimes does”, later disclosing that he was personally gifted Peter Mandelson’s autobiography before its official release.
Despite the establishment’s lefty leanings, it still feels cosy and, thanks to a muffled soundtrack of strenuous waltzes, lulling too. Take note, this is a time warp where one can order sherry with confidence it will be served correctly – but we would shudder to think what might occur if we were to request a filthy martini.
Almost as a warning, already lined up on the table on our arrival were three red chillis framed by psychedelic crockery somehow suggestive of The Magic Roundabout. Our companion, who is an enthusiastic baker of bread confirmed that the tedious tasting loaf of sliced white bread was truly the one of the worst things she had tried since sliced white bread.
From a menu whose frontal image mimicked the label of Camp Coffee and chicory concentrate, we opened with The Gay Hussar’s signature starter. Scooped with a sturdy Sheffield plate spoon, thin, chilled and un-wintry, soured wild cherry soup became pleasant when we were finally able to taste beyond its unnerving strawberry Yazoo hue. However, we wondered whether, for one third of the price, Yazoo might actually have delivered more flavour? It was riddled, apparently rightly, with plump, pliable de-stoned cherries.
To follow, we allowed our guest to order our preferred selection of smoked goose breast. This however proved as gargantuan and overly oily as Demis Roussos. Meanwhile our veal goulash was meat poor but thoroughly mashed gnocchi (‘galuska’) rich. Both dishes were beyond being uncharming aesthetically, possessing respective textures of slipperiness and sponginess. Fortunately a side order of sliced cucumbers offered a modicum of refreshment and nutritional hope.
From a wine list which includes 22 renditions of wide ranging Hungarian bins, the French owned Megyer Tokaji Muscat ‘06 (not the promised ’08) was arrestingly vegetal, like a crushed geranium stalk. However, it was acidic enough to thankfully scythe through the fodder.
Finally, seemingly styled on a Rastafarian puppet, our chestnut pudding, puréed into thick draped worms looked peculiar and tasted prosaic.
As our waiter shouted down to the kitchen from the foot of the stairs, we recalled the spectacle of the bookseller and Mr. Mann and the bookseller’s wife, Margaret in the Little Britain sketch.
A recent diner on concierge site, London Eating incriminated The Gay Hussar’s chef of 22 years service as having ‘done more to destroy the identity of Hungarian food than anybody else…’ In honesty, while we would not rush to return, dinner had not been quite that awful, especially compared to the spectacle of the staff who easily tolerated a black mouse at a French restaurant earlier in the day. But regardless of unauthenticated institution status (a blue plaque would clash terribly with the brazen facade), to a great many Londoners, The Gay Hussar is Hungarian cuisine. Whether it accurately reflects the fare of a country which only got its first Michelin star in 2010, or whether it is sleepily drab, outdated and at odds with the motherland, one thing seems certain. If a blithely loyal but unambitious chef anywhere can find favour with a similarly undemanding, paying clientele then things will soldier on.
It is perhaps worth noting, incidentally, that this is not a place to hit the sauce. We are not proud to admit it, but we had to use the ladies’ loo twice – it seems only two cabins serve the entire three floored restaurant.
Gay Hussar, 2 Greek St, Soho, London, W1D 4NB
Have a gay old time: Gay Hussar
From stirrups to the carburettor, buttons and soap, the Hungarian Republic has given the world much of use. However, other than an annual flow of 10,028,000 litres of elixir, Tokaji, it is not widely celebrated for its gastronomic canon of goulash, galuska and gyors… But, as if titled by Carry On writer, Norman Hudis, London’s [...]
5 Responses to “Have a gay old time: Gay Hussar”
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Chris I
15 December 2010
I love this line:
“Megyer Tokaji Muscat ‘06 (not the promised ’08) was arrestingly vegetal, like a crushed geranium stalk. However, it was acidic enough to thankfully scythe through the fodder.”
Other than the paprika in cabinet my only other “Hungarian” dining experience was when I was on a semester abroad in Vienna and shot across the border to Budapest with some school mates. I recall the food and the dining experiences fondly – but perhaps it was a reflection of being 20 years old and rambling around Europe that made everything seem so perfect.
I wonder how many other restaurants have become the archetype of a particular cuisine for a city, area or country.
As for archetypes:
Last week I was in Stockholm and came across O’Leary’s which is a Boston sports bar chain. No, really a Boston sports bar chain. I ended up having lunch at the one in the Kista Mall. Not my choice, I prefer the Indian in the food court. Since I live just outside of Boston, I bored my Swedish colleagues with stories of Doug Flutie and Ray Bourque and Dee Brown (their pictures and those of many more Boston sports stars were hung on the wall) – at one point I said “I know this annoying which is why I am doing it.” Funny thing was I am not sure they knew it was a “Boston” sports bar. The food is horrendous by the way.Rambling: too much wine.
Chris L.
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“This is not a place to hit the sauce.”
Hmmm…that pretty much rules it out for me.
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douglasblyde
17 December 2010
Fascinating rambles, though, Chris L.
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Chris I
17 December 2010
Douglas:
I love this site.
It raise so many questions for me. Challenging.
Fun to think about the stuff posted here and ideas offered. I think in the final proposition life is really complicated and sorting out what you think about stuff is difficult.
Chris “I” (L)anfear
Ivan Y
15 December 2010
When we lived in Russia, my mother did quite a bit of business with Hungary (mostly, importing wines) and we did an extended family vacation in the touristy part of the country (Lake Balaton). The Hungarian cuisine was quite good at local cafes/diners — reminded me of Ukrainian/Southern Russian dishes.
Out of curiosity, does Gay Hussar serve common dishes that people in Hungary actually consume regularly or is it some sort of a spin on a “traditional” fare that is way more esoteric? I understand, it’s always difficult putting together a menu for a restaurant limited to one country/region, but I like to see regular dishes representative of what people actually consume and not some exotic gastronomical masterpieces.
To be frank though, it’s a problem even in native countries — some upscale Russian restaurants I’d visited in Moscow served food that might’d been served back in times of Russian Empire, but wasn’t anything a Russian family would cook up even for a special occasion.