In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a tea war brewing in Budapest, and Jókai utca is the front line, with no fewer than five teahouses on the relatively short street that runs from Andrássy to Nyugati tér. One of the most recent – and eccentric – establishments to pitch its tent on Jókai is the Zöld Teknős Barlangja (“Green Turtle’s Cave”) which bills itself as a Native Teaház (“Native Teahouse”). The Green Turtle’s Cave could be called the Planet Hollywood of Budapest teahouses, though instead of trafficking in celebrity detritus, they “honor” the American Indian by flogging various “injun” knick-knacks. That, and by serving tea.
It might seem like an odd coupling – Native Americans and tea – but the manager told me in no uncertain terms that the Indians have long employed tea as an aphrodisiac and for medicinal use. After perusing the gift shop (where, in addition to tee-shirts whose labels read “Made under the support of Black Hawk Eye, Chief of Production”), I found jewelry, furniture, and paintings allegedly made by American Indians, though nobody could tell me which tribe crafted the “Cat in the Bag” gag gift produced in China.
The actual downstairs tea room is David Lynchian in its banal strangeness. And like most theme restaurants, the more “authentic” decorations they cram into the space, the more artificial the experience feels. The menu left me believing that the owners, like Columbus, confused the American Indians with natives of India. The Apacs (“Apache”) tea is black Ceylon, the Grizzly Mancs (“Grizzly Paw”) is Irish Breakfast, and the Mohican is also a Ceylon blend. The cavernous space (with a few private pillow-lined rooms, for that intimate pow-wow) looks like it was decorated with the remains of a reservation garage sale: tomahawks, dream-catchers and black velvet buffalo paintings line the walls. And the best part? The staff is forced to wear uniforms even more humiliating than those at Café Mozart or Sir Lancelot’s, including ponchos, feathers and war paint. Our server, in a Pocahontas braid, seemed utterly miserable and spent most of her time pouting behind the fully-stocked bar, rearranging her headdress. I was glad I had worn my cowboy shirt, though she didn’t seem to appreciate or understand the joke when I offered a beaded bracelet as payment for my pot of Tomahawk Tea.
There seems to be a vogue for all things Indian in Budapest: the mercifully brief fame of reality TV star known simply as “Indian,” and the Peruvian pipe players under Nyugati who have had makeovers and now don Native American dress. But much to my shame, this sorry concept is not naïve cultural appropriation: it originates from an American company called Indian Summer, which already operates similarly non-native tea houses in New York and Tokyo.
