The Goosey Gustav: Hungary's Holy Grail

A little bit of Hungarian food, drink and travel

In Hungary I learned via television, which was all in foreign, that Hungary's favourite McDonald's special is the “Goosey Gustav”. Described by McDonald’s as “Beef patty, with goose liver slices fried on a contact grill, lamb's lettuce, sliced hot green pepper, grilled onions, slightly peppery sauce, in a shiny hamburger bun”, the idea of a foie gras burger had me staring at the TV advert I didn’t understand with dreams in my eyes.

Who doesn’t want grilled goose liver on a burger, except for geese and cows. I’d say vegans but there aren’t any in Hungary, except maybe in a museum or zoo somewhere. A burger with grilled “foie gras” on top, in a brioche bun. Now if that sounds classy, it's because it is, but McDonald’s make it?! 24 hours into my stay in a country I immediately loved when I first came a few years ago, I had my Holy Grail. I had to try the limited edition Goosey Gustav.

There for a week, my (Hungarian) girlfriend Kat and I had a lot pf places to be, an awful lot of food to eat and in my case Palinka and wine to drink. Palinka, by the way, is the greatest spirit in the world and I’ll not hear any different. Best had in a small glass (50ml or upwards) right before breakfast, mid morning, at lunchtime and around dinner until you pass out, this classy cousin to vodka takes the edge off the day and inevitable argument or two.

I love Palinka. My girlfriend loves me in spite of it.

Family meals in Gyál provide homely Hungarian cooking and her Dad’s schnitzel is always perfect pork which he puts noble effort into. Goulash is a hearty meat and bean stew or soup which doesn’t need a fancy restaurant to rock your world. My favourite is the Gypsy King, way better than its namesake Tyson Fury; a delicious pork steak covered in garlic and bacon, not a lunatic pugilist I have given up trying to defend.

If you like seafood, Hungary isn’t the destination of choice. The Hungarian “sea” is Lake Balaton, smack bang in the middle of their historically fucked about with and landlocked borders, which serves as a domestic holiday destination and watering hole for the many brilliant vineyards on its periphery. Bet you didn’t know Hungarian wine is amazing. Hungarian wine is amazing- I learned that on my first visit.

Hungary is famous for its geese, according to Hungarians. You probably have a Hungarian Goose Feather pillow if you live in a castle. They’re expensive. Hungarian goose liver pate also requires an overdraft. Proper Hungarian goose liver pate is eye-wateringly costly and therefore a waste on a McDonald’s burger. I have no idea where McDonalds get theirs from and frankly I don’t care. Like most fast food I operate under a don’t ask don’t tell policy.

But we’ll get to the Goosey Gustav Holy Grail.

To give Kat's parents a break we embarked to Eger, a city at the foot of a mountainous area of protected natural beauty. An hour east and a little north of Budapest, towards Slovakia, we had three days there. I was surprised given how much rustic countryside we’d gone past on the train, how lively, lovely and packed with history Eger is.

Hungary is not a youthful country, from what I’ve seen, but Eger has a (Catholic) University and several very large (Catholic) churches and a population able to attend them.

It is also the venue of notable national pride: Eger Castle was the scene of a siege in 1552 by the Ottoman Turks where the Hungarians repelled dragons and Sauron with two and a half giants and some pea shooters. Or something. I kid. It was an impressive, gutsy victory with real people which they should be proud of. The English bloody would. My joke early in my stay that I was surprised Hungary had ever had a fight and should just wave people through to Germany was not met well, I understand why.

"Nothing to see here, don't try the Palinka, move along please."

We stayed at Excalibur, a fantasy themed "mini" hotel located in the park in Eger, near its thermal springs. It was cheesy but fun, by way of a hotel. 

The medieval restaurant had fantastic reviews and I was all over some Kingly grub. What turned up was beef dryer than jerky covered in fried onions in a volume I assume designed to disguise the decimated moo moo.

I have worked in pretty much every job in restaurants, from pot washer and waiter through to chef and manager. I do not like complaining about food when I know that nobody sets out to make a bad meal. Except when I know somebody couldn’t give a fuck that they’re sending out a bad meal. I’m not even talking about McDonald’s here, they at least have a doctrinal paint by numbers approach to meal prep.

Employing my imbibed Palinka power I complained, and to their credit the restaurant capitulated immediately and comped the whole meal. They knew. I did not go near the banquet hall again, even for the included breakfast. The room had a fridge, at least.

Unbelievably, it tasted worse than it looks

Given we were in a city in touching distance of such beauty, we went for a hike. Not a big hike, but a nice trot through some of the countryside which Eger becomes in just minutes walk from its centre. A little hilly with trails, for a short time you’re passing the suburban bigger houses with more land, then the farms with the detritus left on their periphery in bushes by teenagers out for a booze at night. We didn't see any used condoms and I think my looking out for them might have spoiled Kat's country calm. Take the boy out of Lewisham, etc.

I like looking around, and what I noticed in the fresh but not too deep mud was the tracks. Human, with little paw pad and four toed doggies dancing around them. Rather sweet seeing the memory of man and man’s best friend briefly tattooed into the terrain. I was looking to see how big the dogs were, finding these things interesting as I do. Then I saw some different tracks, at new angles in the mud.

You can’t mistake boar tracks, and despite what Asterix and Obelix tried to teach me, wild boars are not placid, delicious dinners on legs ready to carry home on one shoulder. We did consider the tracks being deer, but they didn’t look expensive.

Wild boar are 80 kilos of irritable tusked muscle. They’re only really dangerous when protecting their young, but our issue was that there were lots of little piggy tracks around the giant heavy, fresh ones. Perhaps we were being city dwelling noobs to nature (my experience with boar is limited to eating them and comic books about eating them) but once there was some snuffling in the bushes too, we turned back.

When one door slams shut another one opens, and the delicious new door was called lunch. In my opinion Google Maps is not a surefire way of finding good food, but is certainly better than judging a book by its cover. Google voting gave a place in Eger a very respectable rating. Always check the volume of votes, by the way. Anyone with 10 friends can get a 5 star rating, it’s longevity and variety of customer satisfaction you want married with the desired delicacy.

Flamingo Bistrobar sounds like an 80s nightclub, but didn't serve its food on mirrors with straws to sniff it up. I always get steak tartare when we go abroad, for anthropological research reasons and because I bloody love some bloody meat.

The worst tartare I’ve had was in Rome- where I am pretty sure they just put two raw hamburgers on a plate and cursed my bastard English name when they sent it out. It was at least a good quality burger I managed to eat, unlike the “rustic” lamb which came out afterwards, looking and tasting like a burgeoning serial killer’s last ditch effort at disposal. We didn't tip.

The tartare Flamingo served was superb. Succulent, with the buttery meatiness it should have and a lovely, necessary zing to compliment the flesh. The kitchen added a colourful flourish with their mayo and dressing. Mayonnaise is one of your five a day in most of Europe, alongside sauerkraut.

I ordered another steak for my main dish, because I’m a steak slut, which was perfectly rare, juicy and textured. I could have sucked it to death. I didn’t do that because I have only just thought of doing so. Flamingo’s portions were huge, too- they all came with enough pasta to fill your boots and sleep with Balaton’s fishes. No coke on mirrors though, there’s only so much value for money a place can offer.

Spoiler alert, the best food I ate in Hungary, and the best food (and drink) I have had anywhere for some time, was not the Goosey Gustav. The day after our aborted boar trek, we decided to roll the dice on a small plate, avante-garde eatery near the entrance to Eger Castle. Pont Gasztroműhely looked unusually wanky, something the Hungarians don’t do, so we went in.

There was a set menu, which Kat got and it delivered a chicken noodle broth with such depth it transcended its homely origins. I went a la carte because far before this Hungary trip I knew I was plumping for being plump. The most expensive Palinka I’ve ever had, raspberry, was so good Kat even complimented my “not smelling of booze” after I knocked it back.

I tried two local white wines, because in Hungary you can order 100ml which is basically a whiff, and the one I went for I forget the name of but it was delicious. From the small plate selections I chose steak, obviously, cassoulet and wild boar because I’m petty and can’t catch them like Obelix. Every dish was juicy and flavorsome which with the service and stunning setting ensured an unsurpassable experience.

But I still hadn’t eaten a Goosey Gustav.

Kat’s parents came to Eger on our last day and we thought about taking them to the thermal springs/baths. When we went to check prices a school was emptying out. One teenage boy had already lit a fag, before he’d left the building. I can only assume, but fag ash Bill must be a hot ticket in the rural Hungarian teenage boy market, because the rest of them stank of sweat. Fresh sweat, stale sweat, been wanking into a sock for days sweat. After the swim and shower.

That didn’t just put me off swimming, I briefly shut down breathing just to escape the bouquet of bumfluff bastards. Still, got a lot of time for the guy smoking before he’s left the building, though. Once played football with a Polish winger who managed to impress while never touching the cigarette burning its way toward his lips. There’s a self destructive coolness in it that’s uniquely European.

After a lovely Palinka nap in the car, it was suddenly time to do things again. We went shopping in Gyál’s nearest behemoth supermarket, which surely employs more people than live near enough to shop there. They have a McDonald’s. Yes my friends, I got a Goosey Gustav!

It wasn’t as easy as just asking for the burger, though. Middle of nowhere McDonald’s was a surprisingly testy affair, with the bouncer (I thought bouncers in fast food joints were exclusive to Lewisham Burger King) dealing with a pissed Gypsy (their words not mine, I’d have said drunk prick). The guy had his trousers around his knees, which I know is fashionable in London for certain groups but we weren’t in London and he was just hammered and the main threat was his lad flopping out, not any fearsome violence.

The Goosey Gustav is unlike any McDonald’s burger I’ve ever had. In a good way. A brioche bun is just glazing, anyone can roll a shit in glitter. The burger is juicy and thicker than a normal McPattie, lambs leaf is unusual and works but where the Goosey Gustav excels is its creamy goose pate and pepper sauce. If a pub in Dalston charged you £50 for it some twat would be wanking themselves silly and tweeting about it at the same time because tossers are ambidextrous.

Was the Goosey Gustav the best thing I ate in Hungary? No, but it is the best McDonald’s special I’ve had. Was it worth the wait? The McRib can get in the bin, Goosey Gustav is a delicious gastronomic paradox. 

Uno Palinka por favor!