MERRY CHRISTMAS FROM BARTO, PA (via Connecticut)
Lajos Refi weeps inconsolably at our kitchen table. A tailor who lost a finger to a stitching machine in his native Hungary, he took a factory job at Bally Case & Cooler in Pennsylvania as he could no longer craft suits or skirts or more intimate finery. Eager to share stories of his homeland, our neighbor regaled us while sipping a glass of homemade wine. He and my father would swap tips and sometimes argue in good-natured fashion over proper distillation techniques. And then there was the time Dad jumped up from his lunch one Saturday yelling. “What the hell is he doing with my grapes?!!” Halfway up the hill, Lajos was pruning away. About half of the grape vines rested neatly in the grass. “I help you, Veel-yam! I help you!” My dad’s name was Willard, but Lajos called him Veel-yam. He wanted my father’s grapes to enjoy the old country treatment, which – he was convinced – led to a superior batch of wine come Fall. Hence the north vineyard was pared to satisfy the Hungarian standard. My Dad came back down the hill and returned to his lunch muttering. “He cut ’em all to hell!”
Lajos and his clippers had spoken. Lajos once gave Dad a bottle of Hungarian moonshine which is probably still on the same shelf in the cellar where my father placed it about 45 years ago. As kids, we’d sneak in, smell it and then clap the lid back on, screw it down and run away. Just one whiff made us light-headed. But tonight was different. Lajos sobbed and sobbed. Never before had we heard such a story. He’d told us that he had given up everything to come to America. His wife. His children. We had no context. Apparently, the original plan had been for his oldest son and Lajos to escape the rapidly enclosing Iron Curtain and send for the family later. But things did not go according to plan. The Communists swiftly overran Hungary. One morning, the Refi family awoke, and there the Reds were. Lajos and his son managed to buy their way onto a couple of fishing boats launched in the last seconds of the revolution. With great relief at their narrow escape, Lajos turned in his seat to match eyes with his son. Horror. Lajos looked on helplessly as Communist soldiers descended upon the boat holding his son. He wept explaining that he lived that night incessantly. Lived it. And lived it again. What else might he have done? Should he have gone back to certain capture? Was there something else he should have done that he had yet to think of? The Iron Curtain dropped that week like a guillotine. Now Lajos lived with what might have been. He was proud of Hungary.
He wanted us to know his country was a great country, too. A country worth fighting for. He loved sharing his culture. Knock. Knock. Lajos at the door. With wine. With sausage. With “Hungarian
Fire-water! (Moonshine!)” Another Saturday, another knock. The hard-working, sad-faced man in a plaid shirt, baggy laborer’s pants and newsboy cap, Lajos was generous, earnest, eager to share. A favorite childhood memory has him showing up at our door with a large pot of Hungarian goulash. There were so many of us. He explained that he wanted to make sure there would be enough. Lajos was eager to have us experience a taste of his homeland. He was proud of his Hungarian culture. Many times since I have recalled the memorable, mysterious, smoky-sweet scent of the stew that appeared on our doorstep, out of nowhere. I’d seek it out, but…disappointment. Goulash takes many forms, and the essence of Lajos’s goulash was most elusive, particularly in its distinctive scent and flavor. Not long ago, I told a co-worker this story. And then I forgot about the conversation. Decades passed. Never mind days. In the ensuing years, I had taken up cooking as a hobby. Lajos had not been any more than a passing memory. Lajos and his grapes. Lajos and his spices. Lajos and his sad and poignant tales. And then, unexpectedly, a small packet on my desk. Who? How? And now…a confession.
The coworker, hearing the tale, had gone to a downtown Mystic, CT, spice shop. A foodie herself, she carefully selected a small package of sweet, smoky paprika. From the old country. Merry Christmas! Now, this called for proper research. And so it happened that this Christmas Eve I found myself collecting the proper ingredients for an authentic Hungarian Goulash. Potatoes. Onions. Sweet yellow and orange peppers. Crushed caraway. Celery leaves. Chopped Angus. Garlic. Now, to sweat the onions. Brown the beef. Crack open the packet. Sweet, smoked paprika dusts the onions and beef. Alchemy. Sheer perfume. I am seven again. A man with deep creases in his face, looking older than his years, stands at the door on Sycamore Road. He holds a pot smelling of peppers and meat and spice and pride. Happy Christmas, Lajos. Wherever you may be…
