Café Gerbeaud in Budapest, Hungary

With much excitement during a spare few days of Easter holiday essay hell, me and three of my MA girlies set off to Hungary, to stay in Reka’s fab little apartment in the heart of Budapest. Although I was very excited and had been looking forward to the break for a good long while, I’m sorry to say that pretty instantly homesickness set in! How annoying! Basically, the result ended in me angrily huffing and puffing my way around Budapest zoo with the others before running out of the lion enclosure to put credit on my phone so I could text my mum and Roger. Zoos and I don’t get on to begin with, so it was never a good idea. The bear made me especially sad. But I wasn’t always homesick; once I’d got that credit on my phone I was ok. As long as I have some form of link to Roger and my mum, I think I’ll survive. Even a coconut phone or frequent messages in bottles would have sorted me out.

On the trip we went to a few “Ruin bars”, which were amazing to look at and had a great atmosphere- but when you’ve been recently diagnosed with a hernia in your stomach, the idea of having a glass of beer is one that I wasn’t very willing to undertake! But I did really enjoy the markets we stumbled upon, including from touristy trash ones to the huge indoor food market by the river. I’d definitely like to come back to buy some ingredients there as it was a bit of a rushed visit. I did manage to get my hands on some supplies in one of the supermarkets though, as well as some little bottles of brandy that are so toxic they’re just being used as ornaments!

One of the highlights of my trip, however, was Café Gerbeaud. Yes, so the guidebook may have recommended it, but it also pointed out that the view from the top of St Steven’s Basilica was well worth a look, and on the sunny afternoon that we had, it was a beautiful sight. After we’d (wisely) taken the lift back down to ground level, we found our way back to Vörösmarty square and got a tale for three in the café.

I’ll admit I’m always drawn to this style of old empire cafes. I’m dying to go to the ones in Vienna where Freud and Marxists were always seen having a cup of tea and a cake. And the epic visit to Florian’s café in Venice a few years back with the Mum-y is a memory I wouldn’t trade for anything. Essentially, I like places that tell a story, or places where you can imagine characters from a novel having an argument and storming around in. At Café Gerbeaud, we were lucky enough to be sat in the front salon, rather than a huge room deeper within the building that was crammed with Japanese tourists. As such, we had a fab view of shining confectionary cabinets, crammed with amazing decorated cakes and pyramids of macaroons. From what I’ve read, the whole design of the place is artifice- a bit of rococo is slung in here, a bit of belle epoque there, but for me, it was all pretty fabulous.

While the girls were in the achingly long queue for the loos, I ordered us all a little vanilla macaroon to say thanks to the girls for letting me soak up the atmosphere. Some gesture, I know, but the macaroon was very delicate with a big, creamy hit of vanilla- not to be sniffed at! I also ordered an iced coffee, which came in a tall glass and was delicious! I’m not a hot coffee person, but I can still tell when people get things right or not. With a long history of café cultures, this swanky Budapest joint knew how to make a rich, cold and creamy iced coffee, I can tell you.

The damage was pretty high; I think my coffee was around six pounds, with the macaroons coming in at just over a pound a head. But who cares! Look, if you’re on holiday and you’re into soaking up the atmosphere, I can’t recommend Café Gerbeaud enough. It’s an experience, and you’re supposed to have those on holiday, right? It was very touristy, but so is a trip to Bettys back in York, or to café Florian’s in Venice. The point I’m trying to make here is that sometimes, it doesn’t matter if things are a bit expensive; sitting in the buzz of that café really gave me a feel of how Budapest must have been in the old days. Even if that was as much artifice as the Louis XIV ceilings, then call me a sucker, because I loved it.