– Do you know what the difference is between Hungarian and Székely cuisine? – Szidónia asks.
I don’t even try to answer. I know she’ll tell me.
And as she starts to talk, I already feel it: this is no ordinary lunch. It’s an endless story, one that isn’t meant to be written – but tasted.
And truly, Szidónia can’t be stopped. Nor should she be. She doesn’t just serve food, she builds a world: from words, stories, and flavours. The restaurant where we sit – Szék – isn’t just a place to eat. This is Transylvania in Budapest. A Székely land, where the expats find each other. Where foreigners ask questions, and locals marvel at what’s always been here – but they never had words for.
– Here, we don’t just eat – she says, as she sets a plate of creamy vegetable csorba in front of me. – This is a kitchen of remembrance. At first, all I can smell is the fresh vegetables, the citrusy-tart aroma, and the warm feeling of home. Then I bite into something unexpected. – Just a little meatball – Szidónia says, as if apologizing. But there’s a smile, as if to say, “Of course, I’ll surprise you.”
In the Szék, there’s a quiet corner where less light reaches, but more stories lie waiting. Worn-cover, yellowed-page cookbooks, rescued treasures from the antiquarian bookshop: fragments of an ongoing collection. Szidónia is not a chef – she’s a collector. An heir. A kind of gastronomic chronicler.
– My father was a baker, you understand? Her voice suddenly shifts, as if she’s flown home for a moment. – I learned from him that food doesn’t just get made, it ripens, like a story. That everything has its time.
She tells me that during the Covid period (just when they opened), it was the kenyérlángos (fried flatbread) that saved the Szék. Baked fresh in the oven and delivered immediately, it was an enormous success. – On the crispy edge, through the burnt onion and the layer of sour cream, people felt something familiar, a secure grasp – she recalls.
The next dish: gulyás-vetrece (a kind of goulash) with roasted root vegetables. The meat – beef neck – falls apart, the jus is deep and smoky, like the scent of an autumn forest.
Meanwhile, she keeps talking, listing all the dishes they’ve worked on over the years: eggplant cream, stuffed peppers, zakuszka, miccs, soupy cabbage, roasted potatoes, lamb, polenta, vargabéles – dishes rooted in family trees.
– So, do you know what the difference is between Hungarian and Székely cuisine? – she asks.
I don’t wait for an answer from myself. I know she will tell me.
– The spices. Not the loud flavours, but the deep, slow waves. The quiet layers. Lovage, tarragon, savoury, marjoram, dill. Fresh herbs and different pickling methods. The Székely kitchen asks for time, but then it lingers within you.
Then, as a dessert, she serves their cheesecake – as if I were spooning up the memory of a summer afternoon. It’s not too sweet, just as much as it should be.
And finally, I realize: there are dishes that add a piece of the world from where they came. Szék doesn’t just cook – it calls you home. Even if you’ve never been there before.
Szék Restaurant & Bar
Budapest, Andrássy út 41.
