A triad of poems concerning a glass of pálinka in Budapest and its accidental meeting with the floor

When I was in Budapest at the weekend, I ate and drank many glorious things, including lángos, a flatbread hot from the fryer slathered with garlic oil, sour cream, and cheese; chicken paprikás, a warming creamy stew with sweet paprika; stuffed cabbage leaves with sauerkraut; and Hungarian wines white, sparkling, red, and sweet, of which the only unpleasant thing was their tragic absence from UK supermarkets. But the most delicious thing I tasted was pálinka, a clear, delightful brandy made from each of the best sorts of fruits. I was so overwhelmed by my first taste of it that I immediately decided to compose a poem concerning its deliciousness. Alas, halfway through my glass, I was compelled to write two more, after a swift and unexpected meeting of my precious quince pálinka with the cold, uncaring floor of the bar.

A serenade in poetry to quince pálinka, in five languages 

Bir pálinka

Si deliciosa!

Je voudrais plus de choses

que viene de esta finca

Always I shall ponder

over bir pálinka

Quince Lament

Since

I spilled the Prince of schnapps

in Budapest

A loss so bad

I wince

each time I think

of that 

pálinka quince

and I am sad

A poem based on our latest conversation, upon the happy arrival of the replacement quince pálinka

Ah

It's so delicious

So delicious

The quince pálinka

(he looks at me

and nods)

It's so delicious

The quince pálinka

And variations

______

If you enjoyed this post, you can follow me to receive new posts by email. Thank you for reading! 

Or see more posts here: Get in the tuktuk, no time to explain