Szegedinsky Goulash: Part 2

October 5, 2025

The saga — szega — continues. The FOR MAAT crew indeed did me a solid and rustled up some Szegedinsky Goulash. This time, we bypassed the restaurants of Trenčín, which seemed to be actively discounting that such a dish even exists, and they found a willing partner to make it. That’s right: homemade! Its only been two week since I’ve been here, but it certainly feels like I’ve been set afloat on the HMS Terror. A home-cooked meal is indeed wanted.

The saviour of my gut is Ala. if you’ve ever been to Eastern Europe (1), you have met Ala: a kindly, older woman, probably in her 60s, who once worked at, possibly, the post office, perhaps as a teacher, some administrator, or, like Ala, at the train station. Since retired, she is, well, I’m not sure. But a character. She shares studio space with the FOR MAAT gang — well, what I really should say is that she seems to occupy a weird, interstitial space between, around, amidst, amongst, upon, over, and within the studios. One of my first encounters with Ala was as I was leaving the studio space at night, walking through a sort of chamber overstuffed with… things — I must say, absolutely elegantly stacked and packed and organized and tottering piles of bricabrac — that I nearly missed her. The lights were out, completely dark, but just as I was passing through the door, navigating the potential icebergs with aplomb, a light from a phone went on, uplighting her face a la Jack Nicholson in The Shining: I was terrified, thinking I had awaken a kraken or some odd little troll that wanted to murder me. Startled, I ran. She cackled. Hard, long cackles, still ringing as I left the building and ran down the street. I had no idea who or what that was.

But I later learned: that is Ala, and she is certainly not a murderous writer, but let’s say, a spirited character with a tremendous sense of humour. Ala was now my chef and guide into the realm of Szegedinsky Goulash. We made a plan, and I was late. Ala cursed me in good, thick Slovakian: I made the Szegedinsky Goulash cold! You mustn’t eat it cold! I was disappointed that she was disappointed and disappointed in myself that I was late — I was cursing under my breath only hours ago about how time is quite fluid here: hence, the Balkan appendage someone had applied earlier now directly applied to me. It’s true, I really am becoming Slovakian.

She opened the pot anyway, and met me with a warm smile, succulently stirring the Goulash. She managed to pull a spoon out of a giant box of, I don’t know what, her arm like a heat seeking missile with perfect targeting. She then pulled out the white bread out of some other hidden crevasse, which looks more like an extruded dumpling than bread, a loofa sponge with less holes. It turned out to be the perfect companion to the Szegedinsky Goulash, it being the Ginger Rogers to Goulash’s Fred Astaire, slurping up the liquid so thoroughly you never knew anything was there. Eventually, Ala’s targeted spoon dumped meatload after meatload into my bowl, piling it ever higher until my thumbs holding the dish were submerged. I licked them, their sticky flavour portending good things to come.

Indeed, the rush of onions, peppers, sauerkraut and pork all combined into a happy dance in my mouth, erasing any ill will I felt in my stifled quest. I eventually convinced Ala that indeed, I do have a slow metabolism and therefore three bowlfuls is plenty. She was satisfied I was satisfied, perched on the edge of her chair looking at me was if I was a puppy, proud of the accomplishment I just achieved. She then poured me a glass of Slovakian wine, thick with sweetness and sugar; immediately I got a headache, perhaps it was even a pre-hangover. I still gulped that down, and then I found my glass refilled more times and then again. Tomorrow will be a rough day, and it was.

But I had the Szegedinsky Goulash in my stomach, and the memory of sitting in this strange space in the cold licking my bowl with a woman I hardly met and with whom I could barely communicate. But her eyes were liquid, as playful and joyful as I imagined the crew of ABBA before their divorces, and that was enough. She spoke and spoke, and I nodded and nodded. My glass was always full, my bowl never empty, content that maybe this is the artwork, this moment, right here, even though she thought I was 75.

(1) Don’t come at me with this: I have spoken to many people, lived in the region, and many from here agree that indeed, this is Eastern Europe, with all its quirks and anomalies. I like the fact that they accept their regionalism and embrace that they have a culture separate from other parts of Europe; which, to me, is a hell of a lot richer than some other places I have lived. Besides, if everything is Central Europe, then what is Eastern?