You say Kadarka, I say Kekfrankos

“K” grapes! Who could know???

I’m sipping one of the puckeriest wines I’ve had this year, a little red number from Hungary. It’s thin and tart, and I’m damned if I can tell you what fruit’s going on, in the nose or on my palate. Maybe cherries. Sour cherries. Sour being the operative word here. The interesting thing is, I’m not disappointed. My expectations, low to begin with, were not dashed. It seems exactly the sort of wine I’d be served if I were drinking at a local taverna. In Hungary. It has character, just not an impressive one. Or rather, it has an impressive character, if by “impressive” we mean, “making an impression.” It definitely made an impression on me. Just not a sun-shiny one.

The swell part is, I’m not likely to run into this baby again, given that my parents personally schlepped it back here, to me, from its country of origin. Hungary. Did I mention?

Hungary is about the only word I can decipher on the label. I can’t even tell you the vintage; the label says 2003, but the neck tag, in colors reminiscent of the flag of Italy, says 2005. Also “E” and a six-digit number, and a bit of French blathering about state control. But then it lapses back into what I presume is an Eastern European dialect. In its incomprehensibility, it reminds me, once again, of Italy and its wine-labeling labyrinth.

What the main label seems to say is the name of the wine (beneath a head shot of an angry bull): EGRI BIKAVER. Then Minosegi Szaraz Vorosbor, with various accent marks and other such squiggly enhancements. Szaraz. Perhaps a shiraz? It also says Hungarovin. Which must mean “wine of Hungary,” which is no help at all.

What’s up with the pissed-off bull? The back of the label has a few paragraphs with such pithy phrases as “Az Egri Bikaver az 500 eves hagyomanyoknak meggeleo hazasitasi recept alapjan keszul.” Hagyomanyoknak. What a great word. I squint at the label, and feel confident in advising you that this wine is best served at 16 to 18 degrees Centigrade. You do the math.

All I know of Hungary and its wines is that it is the home of Tokai, or Tokaj, or Tokaij. Whatever, it’s a sweet dessert wine, and although it is well-known, even famous, and has caused nasty winemaker wars with Italy, which two years ago lost the right to the name. . . where was I? Oh yeah, despite its fine reputation, I have not tried Tokai, on account of I don’t like sweet dessert wines. Except the occasional ice wine.

So. All I know of Hungary is “the capital of Hungary is Budapest,” and Tokai. I certainly don’t know the language. Which means I can continue to trash the wine Mom and Dad got me without even knowing what it is, or I can actually do a bit of research.

Ah screw it. I google it; head for Wikkepedia, and learn this:
Egri Bikavér means Bull’s Blood from Eger. Leaving aside the weirdness of that translation, at least for the moment, let us stipulate, along with Wikkepedia, that what I have in my hands is a reputed and traditional Hungarian wine from the Eger wine region in Northern Hungary. It could be described as a Hungarian Bordeaux, blended as it is from at least three of these grapes: Kadarka, Kékfrankos, Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, Kékoportó, Cabernet Franc, Blauberger, or Pinot Noir. And sometimes Zweigelt and Syrah. The first two “K” grapes form the base, about 40 percent, of the blend, defining the wine’s “unique flavor and color.”

I’m with ya on the unique flavor, Wikkepedia. The color doesn’t do much for me; it’s a light ruby with a hint of gold. Wait, that sounds rather attractive, and this wine isn’t. In fact, I’m surprised at its legs. Which are more impressive than the color would suggest.

Ennyhoo, a good quality Egri Bikavér requires two or three years of aging, and is recommended with game, beef, or spicy foods. And the name? Something to do with the battles against the Turkish armies in the mid 1500’s. During the siege of Eger Castle, the defending troops were served a lot of red wine – to keep up morale, or lessen fear, one presumes. “Among the Turkish soldiers it was rumored that bull's blood was mixed into the red wine, as otherwise the strength and firm resistance of the town and castle of Eger could not be explained. Finally the enemy gave up."

Yeah, who wants to conquer a people who drink blood? My grasp of geography is admittedly shaky, but isn’t Transylvania in the vicinity of Hungary? I’m starting to wonder whether Count Dracula was just a wino, pure and simple, and developed his taste for blood by sipping on the local Bikavér. Which 500 years ago MUST have been more full-bodied. At least fuller than the sour, insipid specimen I keep compulsively sipping at, somehow unable to believe my wincing tongue. I begin to suspect late-blooming masochism on my part. WHY am I still drinking this?

I gather that a good example of Bull’s Blood would be dark reddish-purple, offering a nose of cherries, berries and spice. It SHOULD taste of tart-sweet black-cherry fruit, with a snap of lemony acidity and a long finish. It MIGHT taste like that, in another universe. Or a better wine shop.

Money phrase: “The difference between the best quality Bikavér and the cheap mass-market variants is immense, although price is a fairly good indicator of quality.”
I take another sip of my Bull’s Blood, and am relatively certain that the parental units did not pay much for it. At least I sure hope not.

While I can’t, alas, share this delectable concoction with you, I can say, once again and with confidence, “Hagyomanyoknak.”