The cake list (first page) of Cafe Central in Budapesti. We were here last time, too, right before Oslo unveiling itself for the sad shithole it is ; I believe there must be pictures somewhere but I don't seem to locate them now, and anyways that's not so important.
This time, I ordered "one of each cake" along with the coffees. The brunette pointed out they have two pages. The second page's another three dozen or thereabouts though, so entirely not practical (yes, believe it or not, I obey the song of practical consideration). "No, just the top page, thank you."
"Are you sure ?" she asked, matter of factly, and when I confirmed she was off without further ado. There they are, being lined up on the bar pre-transportation :
As you can readily attest, none of these women ever had so much fun doing whatever it is they do as when they were doing it for me. I have this effect ; it very much drives the whole "girls much prefer older gentlemen" so overwhelmingly common in practice. To put no finer a point on the matter than it absolutely needs to carry : if you're an older man adolescent cunt isn't cooing over, the failure is in you. It's not them. It is you.
Above : me posing for my slave.
Below : me laughing because French-speaking woman came over to take her own picture, and other slavegirl made some comment about how "now we'll be in all the French papers or something". The other woman didn't get what was being said, or why it was funny, or generally how it all relates to her ; being of the sad she felt no burning obligation to remedy this internal failure, but instead attempted to re-ground phenomenology on more "correct" footing, by telling us that she's had two and hesitates on the third.
I assured her that "c'est tout pour moi ; rien pour les filles" (a slice of which depicted in the second image below), which blew her verbal fuse and reduced her to gestures thenceforth.
Above, and then following bellow... well... you know...
Write in your own dialogue, by the way, I'm quite curious to hear!
Have you noticed, by the way, just how listlessly fucking bored the other girl is ? She's there with "her boifriend" ; and I am telling you -- this shit doesn't work. Find a master, forget about the nonsense.
Anyway, here are the cakes. In no particular order (Fantáziánk édes ihletei) : A Férfi Illata (whisky, barna sör, kávé) ; Tavaszi Szél (citrom, bodza, cékla, fekete tea) ; Hét Szilvafa ; Ady Endre emlékére (7 szilvaréteg, textúrák) ; Centrál torta (csokoládé, kávé, fekete ribizli) ; Árvácska (étcsokoládé, mandula, áfonya) ; Tündérkert (pumkin seed, violet, raspberry) ; Rózsa Sándor (furmint, bacon, briós) ; Csodaszarvas (hubertus, narancs) ; Rigó Jancsi (bikavér, fekete ribizli, étcsokoládé) ; Sancho (Puskás Öcsiii tiszteletére – dió, meggy, palacsinta, csokoládé) ; Tihanyi Visszhang (camembert, levendula, eper, dió, csokoládé).
I hope we understand each other.
Mr. Delicious Irish coffee has like a slight regret...
It's been a long time since I had actually decent Irish coffee.
I took the shot below not merely because it goes well with the above, but also with Bingo in mind. Half a billion forint's a little over a million dollars, you understand me ? This is what you can have on the outskirts of Budapest for a little over a hundred Bitcoin. No joke.
You might recall teh Egeszsegfejlesztesi pont of yore. Well... it's meanwhile closed down, a single solitary sock left in the doorway to commemorate the place with the tripod dog where we picked the waitress up to bondage with etcetera on our first day freshly landed in Budapest.
It's gone, you see, and Budapests' been similarily low level disappointing. The one chick marginally not worth the trouble (but so, so far above all the rest of the offerings of the local BDSM scene) that we warmed up to her submissive side through me making her kneel and other things the girls did meanwhile became a unit with the somewhat strange / vaguely PTSD organizer of the better of the two lines of events (that's how these things always work, don't ask me) and they've pretty much quit organizing. Because... well... why the hell would young men organize this sorta thing if not to meet their princess ? She's sorta-coercedly topping from the bottom now, and well... souls lose themselves, you understand this, it's natural convection, the devil's not a required presupposition.
The very nice restaurant by the water where the goose once adventured meanwhile's a lot closer to a Romanian-style grill "restaurant", the great Vienese strudel house of yore brought me "stinco di maiale" consisting of five pieces of grilled meat and forgot my spinach strudel (delivered chicken instead, "shit, they destroyed the salmon" "no, the salmon's right here" "what the fuck is this then ?!" "i... umm, i think it's chicken ?!") and so on. The hotel's still nice, but they no longer have a bellhop to haul the luggage, and on and on in this vein, death and decay and chipped corners everywhere ; I'm starting to suspect Budapest's a lot like a donut we ate most of the jelly out of within a few weeks' worth of stays spread over six months. Six months during which it shed a lot of parts, shockingly enough.
What can you do ?!
The above is, not that you could've in a million years guessed it, Gyor.
A sort of Timisoara interpreted in the Hungarian space -- the same proportions in a new configuration. It'd be a mindblowingly nice town if it were Romanian, of course ; but it still has... you know, that abandoned, provincial air. The strange, cheap smells wafting out of stores. The embodied sadness, abandonment of hopes and dreams wafting of the deflated drapery of "nice" clothes stores for women that'll never be anything other than mothers. You know how it goes, I'm sure you do.
Above : one of the best provincial town "cultural spaces" I ever saw. The pictures are genuinely interesting, which is rare enough in something Town Hall did.
Below : the most emo dragon killer you ever saw, I'm sure. What can he do, though, he's a saint!
There was a funny scene, not here depicted, whereby we went by an advanced busker station -- a cart full of old books. I had the girls pick something, and then I called for the busker, incarnated in a fat twentysomething female, to do her abject humble thing consisting of getting a little money and prosternating her dumb worthless self repeatedly before my obliterating if superior condescending kindness.
She pretended to not hear it.
So I yelled. "Hey, you!"
She kept at it.
An older gent next to her grabbed her elbow ; this she decided she couldn't ignore, so with a huff she threw whatever she was futzing with down and made for me.
"How much ?" I inquired, in complete disdain of her idiotic self-centerdness. She lounged into some lengthy explanation in their local barbarbar as to things I didn't care about. I was not about to accomodate some worthless dumb cunt / street urchin, especially not one this far afield any kind of appropriately abjectly submissive behaviour ; so she kept flailing and pointing and eventually she left in a huff.
We started laughing and left in turn, to agitated yelling an' thrashing behind. Seriously though, who the fuck actually imagines that sort of nonsense'll ever wash ?!
Apparently, some dumb cunt in Gyor's not yet gotten the memo. What do they do on those dumbphones all day anyway ?
And we've crossed, unsuspectingly, into Austria.
Vienna is a place where you can certainly smoke indoors.
It's also... oh... how, but how to describe the poverty, the failed sadness, the universal insufficiency and generalised shortage of failed socialism ?
The other people there were poor ; the place was old, surviving by default, like the Romanian Gostat and Alimentara. Cooperativa de Consum Viena!
It's not just there, either. The hotel, smack drab in the old city, Wien 1010, "four stars" like everything here, costing the same two hundred odd euros a night as such a thing everywhere, nevertheless has... well, two baths, but a single shower (no tub). No balcony. Less space than anywhere else I've been, about a third of the floor surface of my Warsaw residence (excluding the ample balcony there -- that here's entirely absent too!). They make a great many discreet mentions of how they don't clean this every day, more like once a week. This happens to be no problem for a lord of the republic traveling with a pair of well domesticated slavegirls -- we don't let the maids in much more often than that anyway, as there's a limit to how much maid one might wish to fuck. For everyone else though... I suspect that might be a problem.
The bars, to continue, most of them have a single girl working, uncanning cans and untapping bottles. She can bring you coffee, they have a canned process for it, but not lemonade, they don't have a canned process for that. Would you like seven up ? Or beer ? Christina, the waitress Nicole picked up, did try to mix edelweiss syrup into 7up and add cut up mint leaves, and of her own mind trying to satisfy the fantastic gentleman -- because she's just that kind of girl. But it's not that kind of system, which is the overarching point. Just like the earlier Nazis failed to effectually describe the actual situation in the minds and hearts of these people, just so the current alt-Nazi pantsuits fail, with their idiotic "anti-rape" and "pro-environment" replacements -- direct, and quite transparent replacements -- for "antisemitism" and "aryanism".iv
Useful waitresses can be had. Pleasant coffeehouses and all other things can be had. The women are still women, and will work like women ; the trees, the parts, all of the parts, ad idem. But the system is systematically inhuman, antihuman, and hostis humani generis in general.
The original Sacher torte, at the foot of the Sacher hotel. It still has the lackeys to open up the doors for you, by the way -- a dedication to the preservation of sanity is all that's preserving the humanity of these misfortunate folk through their 2nd, most miserable, sadly enduring Anschluss.
And in the end...
Well... history's what we're here for, isn't that so.
Good morning Vienna! Time to adventure s'more!———
- Centrál Kávéház és Étterem 1887 - Károlyi Mihály u. 9., Budapest [↩]
- Previous, and long time, owner of the place. [↩]
- Let's jointly unite together two different things : the be and the careful. I trust you see what she's saying. [↩]
- The problem with systematic socialism can always be restated as "the extreme poverty of ideas", which readily reduces to that ancient point. [↩]