TheTraveler

 

The Best Little Hotel We Never Stayed At
By Anne Ake

I envisioned the Hungarian puszta as dry and barren, but our route north from Mezohegyes on the southern border was lushly agricultural. We soaked in the aura of rich green cornfields, brilliantly yellow acres of sunflowers, and little towns bursting with flowers of every color. As we neared the end of the day, we were tired and had exceeded our interest in corn and sunflowers.

Finally, the road rose into the hills and vineyards appeared. Our interest turned to Eger’s famed red wine—Bull’s Blood. We couldn’t wait to check into the Senator House Hotel in Eger’s old town. Finally, it stood in front of us, oozing charm. Wagging our luggage behind us, we entered the tiny lobby. We were delighted with the place, and pictured ourselves sipping Bull’s Blood at one of the cheerful outside tables.

The proprietress gave us a friendly smile. I told her we had two rooms reserved, and handed her a copy of our confirmation. A look of panic crossed her face. Then she said,
“I must call my husband. He speaks better English.”

Andras Cseh appeared, examined the confirmation sheet, dug through a stack of old FAX’s and finally turned to us with a look of dismay. He had misread the FAX and only had one room.

Bill and I enjoy traveling with my brother Joe and his friend Becky, but we didn’t want to sleep with them. The distressed innkeeper offered us rooms in the more expensive hotel across the street. He would pick up the difference in price, and let us use his parking garage. By this time, we were feeling a bit surly—we really wanted the Senator House. However, we grudgingly agreed and Mr. Cseh helped us check into the Offi House.
After settling in, we visited the festival in the town square. What could be better—the festival was celebrating the famed Bull’s Blood and each participating vintner was paired with one of Eger’s finest restaurants. We purchased empty glasses for about 65 cents and tickets for wine at 35 cents a glass. Finally, a taste of Bull’s Blood.
Before we finished our first glass, Mr. Cseh came hurrying through the crowd to invite us to his tent, where we were elegantly wined and dined as his guests. By this time, we agreed that everyone makes mistakes, but few handle them as graciously as the Csehs of the Senator House.

Later we settled into a table near the Senator House tent, and an East German couple joined us. They spoke a little English, and I speak a very little German. Nevertheless, we managed, and the more wine we shared the less language mattered. We agreed to meet at the same spot the next night.

Saturday morning after a hearty breakfast in the hotel’s sidewalk café we set out to explore. We climbed to the hilltop castle where we were treated to spectacular views of the city below. Leaning against the castle ramparts I imagined the time in 1552, when 2000 villagers in the castle were besieged by 100,000 Turks. The men fought valiantly, and the women poured hot soup and oil on Turkish soldiers who neared the walls. According to legend, the village warriors fortified themselves with plenty of the local red wine. The men’s beards were soon stained red with wine, and the rumor spread among the Turks that they were such formidable opponents because they were drinking the blood of bulls. The 2000 villagers saved the city from the Turks, and the red wine of Eger has been known as Bull’s Blood ever since.

Later on Mr. Cseh’s recommendation we caught a taxi to the Valley of Beautiful Women—also known as the wine street. Here approximately 50 local vintners have cellars dug deep into the mountainside. Over time, the tunnels and cellars have grown to a total length of more than 100 kilometers. The front rooms of the cellars serve wine and sometimes simple food. The cellars weren’t serving yet, so we settled into an outdoor café for lunch and wine poured from an old three liter coke bottle.

Finally, the cellars began opening up and we ventured down the steep stone steps of Number 2. Four or five wooden tables occupied most of the narrow space between black velvety walls. The walls were covered in a thick black mold that promotes proper aging of the wine. The cellar smelled pleasantly of mold, must, and dampness. Previous imbibers had imbedded coins in the mold. We tried to continue the tradition, but our coins fell out. We ordered, and watched the proprietress use a long glass tube with a glass bulb on one end to siphon wine from a wooden cask. She then held the glass contraption aloft and expertly spewed the right amount of wine into each glass without spilling a drop.

Gypsy musicians appeared and made love to their violins. When they found out we were American, they added Over the Rainbow to their repertoire. Hungarian folk musicians seem to think Over the Rainbow is the American national anthem.

We visited more cellars than I care to think about that afternoon. Each had its own charm and atmosphere. Some were rowdy, some quiet, and most had Gypsy musicians . . . and Over the Rainbow. Some of the cellars were popular with locals, who came with containers ranging from cask shaped plastic jugs to empty pop bottles, to be filled with their favorite wine.

We caught a cab back to town and made our tipsy way to the festival. We were late, but our East German friends were waiting. We finished the evening with more good wine, good food, and good friends.

Even though we didn’t stay there, the owners of the Senator House set the mood of our visit with their friendliness and outstanding customer service. We will remember the Senator House as our favorite hotel where we never stayed.

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