Pigging Out in Hungary

or

Were you Thinking of Becoming a Vegetarian?

Ian Shires

Our Yorkshireman in Budapest

February 2007

We first met Ian and his partner, Judit, in the summer of 2003 on Camping Fifi in the Turkish border town of Edirne. They had just arrived from Bulgaria in his long-wheelbase Land Rover; we had motorhomed up from Greece via Gallipoli. We were later to visit them three times over the years at their home in Budapest.

In this article, Ian writes of a weekend spent with his Land Rover Club in the town of Szeged in the far south-east of Hungary. We have passed through Szeged many times on our way to and from Romania; it is also very near to the border with Serbia.

Ian describes the journey of the Land Rover group from Budapest to Szeged, their accommodation in a 'Tanya' (a rustic hostel), the killing and butchering of the pig, the feast that followed and, if that were not enough, the recovery of a Land Rover Discovery from a nearby lake during a practice exercise. 

See also Ian's Expedition to Turkey and his article A Travelling Life on this website

Last weekend we were at a 'pig killing'. This is a traditional Hungarian thing that happens every year in February. It is so common that even large hotels organise pig killing weekends.

One of the lads from our Land Rover club organised it. We set off on Friday afternoon to Szeged, a city in the south. It's about a 3 hour drive from Budapest on the motorway. That meant going to the filling station, topping up the tank and then buying a motorway ticket.

At one time there were toll booths on the motorways but they scrapped that and now you have to buy a sticker at filling stations. The minimum is for 4 days and costs around ₤5 (€7). You must give your name, the registration number and the nationality of the car.

In return you get a sticker with holes punched in at various places, to tell the date of starting and stopping. You have to sign the sticker. Next you pay your money and a receipt is printed out with all your details. Once again you have to sign this. If you want a VAT receipt you have to ask, because the first one is not good for VAT. So you have to spell out the name of your company, etc.

Then you can get in your vehicle, holding your sticker and the two receipts. The sticker must be stuck to the windscreen down the right-hand side. Naturally this means that I can't see properly, because I have a right-hand drive, so I usually just drop it into the old Tax Disc holder. If you actually stick it on, you may never get it off. You can see cars and vans festooned with stickers. How they can see is a mystery.

I might add that the sticker is not enough. You must also carry the first receipt. Why, I hear you ask. No-one really knows. If Hungarians can make things complicated, they will.

The drive down to Szeged was OK and we ended up at a 'Tanya'. This is really a traditional Hungarian smallholding. They have a few pigs, chickens and a few acres of land. In the south the soil is very sandy and they grow lots of paprika. Very labour- intensive. The owner had built a separate wooden building with bedrooms down one side, opening onto the communal area on the other. It had a kitchen, breakfast bar, tables, chairs and settees. Although it was quite basic, it was generally comfortable.

The Friday evening was spent listening to the general prattle about gearboxes and how many screws on the chassis, that sort of thing. Plus getting lots of the local brew down your neck. Pretty fiery fruit brandy called Palinka.

Saturday morning saw quite a few bleary-eyed folks, especially as we got up at 0500. Normally they would kill the pig in the yard but EU regulations now mean that they have to have the pig slaughtered at a registered place by a registered slaughterer. So off we went in convoy to the next village. I was expecting a nice shiny tiled slaughterhouse.

Instead we pulled up outside a small bungalow in a residential street with a few wooden sheds and a garage round the back. A street looking much like any other Hungarian village. We walked around the back and were met by the owner. Everyone was given a glass of Palinka.

The guest of honour was a youngish sow in a pen under a lean-to. Presumably to make a better show, they decided to get the sow out into the yard. The technique was to use a metal tube with a wire loop running through it; back the sow up into a corner, slip the loop over her upper jaw, pull tight and haul her out, with another guy steering with her tail.

She clearly thought this was a bad idea and the men spent a good 10 minutes trying to catch her. She made one hell of a din. She made even more of a din when they eventually pulled the wire tight around her snout. The nearer she got to the crowd of 20 spectators (including me), the louder it got. I'm sure it woke the whole village.

Now the official man stepped forward with a humane killer, placed it on her forehead and BANG, she dropped like a log and lay there twitching for a few minutes. Meanwhile someone was fetching the washing up bowl. This was held near her throat while another man stabbed the jugular. One hell of a gush into the bowl. Then the twitching slowly settled down.

With a rope around one leg she was dragged around the front of the house and into the van, ready to be taken back to the Tanya.

Another glass of Palinka all round to celebrate a job well done, while we watched a couple of dogs lapping up the spilled blood.

It was now getting light, and back at the Tanya the sow was hosed down. Then the butchering started. I was amazed how much trouble they took with the skin. Out came a gas bottle and a metre-long pipe with a sort of blow-lamp head. The gas bottle had to be placed in a bucket of hot water to stop it freezing up. It was about minus 5 degrees, after all.

The boss man moved the flame around the pig while his assistant scraped the hairs off with a spade. This blackened pig was then hosed down and scraped clean. Then they started again, until the pig looked like it was made of chocolate. Now it was scrubbed and washed down with onion sacks.

At this point I was wondering when the guts would be opened. But I had to wait for this.

The pig was propped up on its back with a couple of bricks each side. Then the cutting started. The boss man seemed very skilled. First job was the head off. But while it was still stabilised he sliced the cheeks off and split the skull. The brain seemed to be reserved for something special.

Next the legs were lopped off with a very sharp knife. All the bits that were removed went onto a table in the garage. The table was covered in plastic sheeting. Now the legless carcass was slit down the middle and the skin removed. Finally the guts and other internal organs were removed, and kept of course.

The carcass was opened up and, using an axe, he separated the two parts. I noticed that the spinal cord was placed separately with the brain. Maybe it was a local delicacy, I've no idea. It wasn't dumped.

In the garage he began to butcher the meat. Basically all the skin was removed, the fat removed and the bones. Items were placed in different boxes. I could see that the liver, heart, lungs and kidneys were in one box, but I could not see a pattern for the other boxes. Other meat was also lobbed into the liver/lung box.

Only the pork chop area resembled anything you would recognise. Even they had the bone and fat removed so it was a long block of meat. I never saw any bacon or any Sunday Joint.

After a celebratory Palinka, meat from various boxes was minced into a wooden trough, mixed with salt, pepper and loads of bright red paprika powder. Imagine a trough like your bath, filled to about 7 or 8 inches with minced meat, liver, lungs, etc and then a 2-pound bag of paprika. The worrying thing was that bits of skin and all sorts of bloody rubbish went into the sausage meat mix.

I must admit that at this point I was frozen solid and went inside for a warm up. When I got out the assistant was breaking open certain bones, which had scraps of meat still attached. I recognised hip joints being split with an axe and all placed in a pile. In the pile were parts of the trotters. Separate were the toenails. Take note!

At last everybody went inside. On the table was a big pot with fried blood and garlic. We sat down with a slice of bread, took a lump of the blood and proceeded to enjoy it. Well, the others did. I love a nice Barnsley black pudding, but this tasted like fried minced cardboard box. At least there was a decent slice of fried pork and that kept me going.

After 'breakfast' we roamed around the area looking for some 'treasure' that one of the guys had hidden. We had to take care not to roam into Serbia because the border was only 200 yards from the house. Using my GPS and the co-ordinates, I found the treasure in a partly dried-up lake. The treasure was, you guessed it, a bottle of Palinka.

Lunch was something really special. It was a sort of stew made up of all the split bones, not forgetting the toenails. I had a few spoons of the juice and a slice of bread, but had to give up as it was so greasy. Even a glass of Palinka didn't cut through the grease.

The afternoon ride around the area was fun because we were taken to an autocross track. Up and down we went, with me burping and farting at every bump. Good fun.

The evening meal was various sausages made during the day. I had a piece of bread and an inch of sausage. Once again it was so full of grease I had to stop eating.

One thing that took my mind off the burbling going on down below was a call from one of the lads. He was stuck in the partly dry lake. We got his co-ordinates and two (Land Rover) Defenders went to pull him out. It was a good job one of them had a winch. The guy's Disco (Land Rover Discovery) was up to the top of the wheels in gloopy mud.

Everyone was knackered after that and it was a fairly early night. But I had to get up several times to speak on God's telephone - fat with paprika in it does not look good. Basically that was it. Why the hell we didn't have a barbecue, I do not know. Hungarians love their fat but I don't.

Back to Budapest Sunday morning, still feeling ropey.