Two . Six . Eighteen . A week or so ago he turned twenty-one, with dinner at the Little Hungarian (no, we’re not), a glass-fronted café in Glenhuntly Road. We ate schnitzels the size of , chicken soup with matzoh balls, szegediner goulash, lecsó salad, sautéd red cabbage and sauerkraut sides, bottles of egri korona red wine and caster-sugared strudels leaching fruit like snow-dusted forest floors.
Recipes and ruminations from a small house in a big city.