Deft hands knead and pull the dough into a soft round, stretching it with practised assurance until it is the size of a dinner plate.
There is no frisbee toss in the air or throwing the dough so gravity can do its work. After all, this is no pizza. The round is instead slipped into a vat of hot oil. It rises quickly, becoming puffy, golden and crisp, ready for my topping.
Lángos (pronounced lan-gosh) is Hungary's answer to pizza, a ubiquitous fried bread snack found everywhere, from street stalls to food markets. Its origins though, lie in breakfast, so-called for the bits of leftover dough villagers cooked in the fire or láng of their huge clay ovens when baking the weekly bread.
Communism put an end to the bake, but not the ingenuity of Hungarian people. With the 1956 uprising, came a newfound optimism and a new way to cook the láng. Overnight, it was reinvented as a deep-fried flatbread, topped with garlicky oil or a thick smear of sour cream sprinkled with cheese.
I landed in Budapest in April last year, with stories to research and a long list of eating to do. My home in the Palace District straddled two worlds. The university neighbourhood at my door buzzed with fourth-wave coffee houses, French-style bakeries and natural wine bars.
Moreish.
April was unseasonably warm. May proved uncomfortably sticky. By the time summer scorched in, I'd relegated lángos to winter. It was a rookie mistake. This fried bread is the poster child of summer, a favourite at hot springs and swimming pools. But it is perhaps best known at Hungary's holiday resort area, Lake Balaton, where the antidote to doof beats and children's shrieks is a warm lángos and draught of ice-cold beer in hand.
Each mouthful brought unexpected joy, the warmth spreading across my belly.
The modern lángos found fame in Hungary's fresh food markets. By the seventies, its popularity had reached a fever pitch. Booths popped up like wildfire across the country. Many of these still exist; their kitsch signage, order window and stand-up counter are a nostalgic reminder of a Hungary of old. Today, they are also the place to go for lángos that is good, cheap and reliably fresh. Most are closed by noon.
At Lehel Market, I joined the queue for Lángos centRum, one of the original and best. Sandwiched between a butcher and pickle shop, this family-run booth in the 13th district s something of an institution and worth the trip for lángos that is light and airy, without being oily. They also do a roaring trade in fried doughnuts and cheap beer, palinka brandy and rum. It's in the name: Lángos Cent-R-U-M.
Belinda Luksic in her happy place.
It was only 10am and not long since breakfast, two facts that proved surprisingly helpful when it came time to order. I watched as the woman brushed garlic and oil across the round. It was bigger than my head.
The first bite tasted familiar, yet totally unique. There was the chewiness of Indian paratha, the bounce of freshly baked Turkish bread, and a good hint of garlic. I couldn't get enough. Each mouthful brought unexpected joy, the warmth spreading across my belly and curling my lips into a goofy smile.
As I popped the last of it in my mouth, I looked around. At the stand-up table and counters, people everywhere were absorbed in the simple act of eating their lángos. And on their faces was a familiar look of contentment and yes, the same self-satisfied smile.
