You know a trend is serious when people invent a word to talk about it. And in the world of Budapest dining there is no trend more talked about than “tomgeorgification,” meaning the opening of a restaurant that aims to mimic the glitz of District V hotspot Tom-George. Earlier this week we got an email from an anonymous reader alerting us to a reported case of tomgeorgification involving the former Borsodi Söröző, on the corner of Honvéd and Szalay a few blocks from the real thing, which bemoaned the potential loss of yet another unglamorous but decent local eatery to this seemingly unstoppable force.
The owner closed for renovations all summer and re-opened as “Rokfort,” as in the salad dressing and not the James Garner series. And no, I haven’t eaten there yet, but what distresses me is he went full-on Tom George with the decor and (I’m told) the menu. So what used to be a great pub with very decent Hungarian grub (this is where I would bring out-of-towners for pörkölt) is now yet another TG wannabe without the porn stars, free peanuts and fancy bathrooms.
Duly alerted, we set off like Rockford to go scope out Rokfort, and see if there was anything to our informant’s tip.
First the good news. The new décor (above left), while certainly TGesque, doesn’t hit you over the head the way Rockford used to get whacked every time he walked out of his trailer. Meanwhile, one can hardly accuse them of overly tarting up the menu if you take as Exhibit “A” what we suspect is meant to be Rokfort’s “signature” dish, the Roquefort Chicken (above right). Say what you will about a chicken breast stuffed with blue cheese, rolled up in bacon and served along with some kind of French-bread-like thing made from potato (with béchamel between the slices!) and slathered in still more cheese and sour cream. But Tom-George it ain’t. Neither was the price – Ft 1,590 (€6.10) – especially given that we could barely breathe after finishing the whole mess.
Now for the bad news. Our dish wasn’t particularly great, and neither was one of our co-conspirator’s trout, which came beached on a puddle of creamed spinach murkier and saltier than the Dead Sea. Our other companion’s Hortobágyi Palacsinta was pretty fincsi, though cranking out a decent meat pancake isn’t exactly rocket science, is it?
Meanwhile, there were indeed no free peanuts, and the closest thing to a porn star in the joint was us, which isn’t saying much, even on a good day. (Actually, the only large party in attendance was some kind of a family outing.) And the bathrooms, while equipped with every kind of automated widget, was not the kind of place you’ll ever see anyone doing lines off of the small of some size-one model’s back. But if that’s really your thing, you shouldn’t worry, as long as so many restaurateurs around town remain so hooked on TG.
