Since my family sailed over to New York, they have occupied the shrinking radius of the upper east side that is considered the Hungarian part of town. The only NY historian website that I could find that even talks about the Hungarian community of New York City’s existence, mentions it in passing.
“Museum Mile is Fifth Avenue running along the eastern edge of Central Park, posing the greatest concentration of world-class museums on the planet. Further east is German Yorkville, little Bohemia (Czechs) and remnants of the earlier Hungarian community.”
When I was younger, there were a few genuine Hungarian restaurants and butcher shops within a few blocks of my grandmothers apartment. They were owned by full blooded old eastern European women who didn’t care to speak English. Much like trying to catch a cab in this city nowadays, if you didn’t speak their language you didn’t get a proper service. These small reminders of a European run city (and my childhood) are almost all gone. My familys favorite place to sit down and eat Paprikás and nokedli, have been replaced with sushi restaurants and collage bars with wacky names like Wasabi Lobby and The Booze Brothers.
In front of St. Stephen before sexual harassing priests were an open issue and my Burning Man sun dress was still fucking awesome.
Growing up in a Hungarian Roman Catholic family, the St. Stephen of Hungary Parish has been a constant in my life.
- Its where I attended mass and gained the catholic guilt that plauges my every decision.
- Its where my mother went to school and later got married.
- Almost every memorable new years eve of my youth was spent in the basement of the church.
St. Stephens basement is occupied by a gymnasium and a huge open kitchen. On new years eve hundreds of bohemian blooded, foreign speaking, self made Americans dress up and spend the first night of the new year ripping up the dance floor to a man playing his accordion on stage while a group of old Hungarian women in the kitchen make enough stuffed cabbage to feed an army. They have raffles where you can win anything from Judy dolls to fine china.
New Years at St. Stephens meant my grandma would put my hair in curlers and teach me simple Hungarian phrases that would impress the women in the kitchen. I got to waltz with her and hear about when she played accordion on a traveling train, during the war. I would run around the basement with kids my age who spoke very little english but could scream at an equally annoyingly tone as I could.
I got to wear my mothers old embroidered shirts that are a staple among Hungarian women.
I even wore one of these Hungarian shirts into several other fashion phases of my life.
As far as I know, they still have their new years party, but as the old drunken gypsies that dominated it begin to pass away, its much more formal than it was in my youth. A sad part of no longer spending my New Years there, is that I miss out on all of the delicious, authentic Hungarian foods that those women would make.
Since they’re so good at what they do, Hungarians will come from walk-ups short and tall, to get some of whatever they decide to cook up. So, when they cook, they don’t fuck around. They prepare for WEEKS ahead of time. Pre-making hundreds of balls of dough for the fánk. Chopping cabbage until there is no visable counter space left in their industrial sized kitchen, in order to make Töltött Káposzta (pronounced as ‘tear-o cop-ist-sta’), which is Hungarian stuffed cabbage.
Fresh batch of Hungarian fánk
Since Hungary is so close to more historically populated places like Poland, the foods, music, and art of my homeland seem to get overlooked pretty often. There is no Hungarian equivalent to saaay Oktoberfest. So the one day long, once a year street fair that takes up half of the block in front of St. Stephens church is a pretty important day for my grandmother, my great aunt, and I.
yeah, thats right, I’m talkin’ about you guys.
It usualy takes place on the last Saturday of September. Its a day of good food made by the same remaining ladies who used to cook those Hungarian meals from mine and even from my mothers childhood. Instead of selling gyros, handcrafted jewelry, and other standard things you find at a street fair, St. Stephens street fair uses this term to describe what is essentially a block party/ garage sale.
they take all of the donations that the collect through out the year, and try to sell them for next to nothing, in the church’s parking lot.
Donations typically include bizarre knickknacks
funny wands. Literally.
and a decent collection of toasters.
On the street part of the street fair is where the said food is sold through purchase of colored tickets.
Palacsinta (which is essentially a crepe but slightly thicker) and makowiec beigli (a yeast bread roll filled with sweetened poppy seeds)
one full and happy grandmother!
Magi has been cooking my favorite Hungarian dishes for as long as I’ve been alive. She never remembers me, anymore.
The street fair is also a perfect place for anyone who attends the church to sell their goods. This year, I tried haggling a 12 year old for a collection of Bleach Manga he was trying to sell for 50 bucks.
I ended up saving my money for tattoos.
My grandma making fun her sisters poor posture. Guess who doesn’t find this funny…
As usual, I had a great time being outside with my family. Listening to them converse in a mix of English and Hungarian with others from the neighborhood who tend to do the same. I went home and was able to stock my freezer with enough eastern European foods to last me through out the winter. I also went home with the AWESOME new shirt that my grandmother bought me! I am one proud Magyar.