If I had to present my university years through just a few relics in the context of an art exhibition, four things would lie under the finger-stained glass: A MÁV*-pass, my yellow nail polish, which I thought looked good at the time, a package of document bags and a sandwich wrapped in a napkin. Since at that time neither Mom nor I would have been called kitchen fairy, I almost always started the day with two sandwiches. I rarely ate in restaurants, mostly nibbling on some French fries at most, while Timi Körmendy, my characteristic university scarecrow friend, destroyed fried chicken tortillas and apple pies one after another.

Timi was the kind of friend with whom we passed each other's notes from hand to hand, and she let me join one of her many friend gropus at a party every now and then, but I never felt allowed to call her on weekends. She majored in English and biology, which meant that I sat alone in most of my art classes, and often in pedagogy and biology too, if Timi didn't feel like coming. She usually hung out with the crème de la crème of the English major, plus me, the trailer-friend, which role of mine I was already aware of, but I swallowed this for the sake of the relationship.

"So you're coming on Friday?" asked Timi after our plant physiology exam, which marked the successful end of our penultimate semester. We staked ourselves out in front of the fountain, which had been shut down for the cold months, where smoking was already allowed, and as usual I lit both of our cigarettes. At Timi's, nine times out of ten it was only a pack cigs, no lighter.

"If you don't mind, yes."

"Of course not. We are celebrating! If anyone, you know how much of a drag this exam period was." Se organized the weekend program a week ago, that is, she will travel to Szeged to visit a childhood friend, and they will go on the batter, as a reward for their suffering. She probably saw the longing in my eyes when she mentioned this to me, it was obvious how much I wanted her to ask me out and she took pity on me. "I'll write the details later."

Timi Körmendy's role in my future is small, but for one reason it is indisputable. I met my husband in Szeged, on an outing that I was invited to out of pity.

That was the first time I visited Szeged, and that was the first time I spent the night with a person I met that day. Timi's best friend, Szeréna, treated my presence as if it was the most natural thing in the world. I had no say in the program plan at all, I didn't feel like I could have any right to it if I was just a third-wheel during the joint weekend of two old friends. We included a half-day city tour, tried some new bar where you could get a Nutella latte, and in the evening we went to one of the most expensive restaurants in the city.

From the sandwiches it was already clear that such a thing was quite far from me at that time, even from my wallet, but the girls didn't want to hear about me offing the program. I could refer to anything, even the lack of elegant shoes, they had an answer for everything, so whether I wanted to or not, that evening I was a guest of the Mézga Restaurant, which was on the lower level of a Habsburg-style building. We were seated at a table for three, right next to the windows overlooking the river, and while I flipped through the menu in amazement, looking for something under four thousand forints, Timi and Szeréna made it their goal to try to act like people who regularly go to such places. It didn't work, of course. The names of Italian pastas and French food specialties were unnervingly mispronounced, and Szeréna first asked for a wine-fizz, adding that she doesn't like wine on its own.

"Okay, okay, well, then I'll try again: I'm asking for a parmentee!" – Timi's face was flushed from laughter and alcohol. The waiter frowned at her. "Then it's a papermtu! "

"Parmentier?"

"Yes!"

I didn't want to be that boring figure who just looks at them and doesn't drink, so I also downed a few glasses of wine and tried to keep my feet from pressing terribly on the shoes I had borrowed from Szeréna. After we toasted the end of the terrible exam period for the second time, Timi thought it was time to open up about my private life.

"You still won't tell me what the guy's name was?"

"This is not as interesting a story as you make it out to be," I looked at Szeréna, who was listening curiously. "And old too."

"Good, but what was his name, Veca?" – Timi poked my knee under the table with the toe of his ankle boot. I didn't answer. "That's nuts!" she hissed and sipped the rest of her rosé. "That's what she plays by not calling people by their names. Especially her ex. She calls him Norton."

There was a prosaic reason for this: my ex looked a lot like Edward Norton from the Fight Club period.

What saved me was the main course that arrived, as well as another act of boredom, this time with the desserts. By then, the girls were, to put it mildly, squeamish, and their first plan was to order all the sweets, but I managed to talk them out of it, so they finally settled on the peach tart. The cake was just a little wider than my palm, a perfect fusion of crumbly pastry, sweet cream and honey yellow nectarine slices, and although the past also lived up to the Mézga's reputation; if you were to ask me what love tastes like, I'd say it's like this peach tart. I do not deny my bias.

I munched on it very slowly, bite after bite. I toyed with the idea of asking for another one, no matter how expensive, so the experience wouldn't end any time soon. Perhaps it was not just the taste of the cake, but also the result of the time spent, the voluntary slow-motion recording, but I suddenly remembered countless things that were good and beautiful in my life at that time, whether it was the triumph of the last semester, or Mom's new, better a more comfortable workplace and the inspiration from the Art Nouveau buildings of Szeged.

As it turned out, my idea of taking on the appearance of gluttony and ordering another portion was a solid idea compared to the girls, who decided to challenge the chef, the one who made the cake. We had to wait almost three quarters of an hour for this, but this did not hold the Timis back in the least, as they had nothing else planned for that evening.

Even here, at Mézga, it was not usual for the guests to want to talk to one of the chefs or the head chef. This could also be clearly read from the face of the "victim", as he walked towards us, straightening the sleeves of his chef's jacket. Dozens of eyes were fixed on him, as if he were some mysterious being, the dragon sung in songs, but which no one had ever seen before.

"Good evening, ladies. I'm Adorján Szendrődi, I made the tartar beefsteak and the peach tart from their order tonight. I got the information that you wanted to talk to me."

He was his mid-thirties. He had long, strong limbs, a narrow bridge of the nose, and a high forehead, furrowed by premature, shallow wrinkles. He was apparently very neat about his short beard, but it was obviously one of the basic requirements in his profession. He wore thin, black-rimmed glasses radiating modern elegance, his eyes reminiscent of the blue of undisturbed seas, and this had an overwhelming effect on both Szeréna and me. To her because, as I found out during the evening, her weakness was blue-eyed men, and to me, because I immediately began to think about how I could mix such a crystal-clear blue that hides bottomless depths.

"Hello, Adorján!" Thank you very much for seeing us." Of course, it was Timi who was the first to offer his hand, and who was not embarrassed in the least, because he was simply used to being adored by everyone. "We wanted to tell you how, my God, the cake was god-like." And now I said god twice." Shee tapped his glass with a chuckle. "Sorry, maybe that was a bit much, but we're celebrating, you know?"

Szeréna didn't hesitate any more, she already introduced herself and talked about the tart and the appetizer, adding that she never understood why beefsteak tartar was tartar . I would have preferred to immediately start apologizing on behalf of all of us, because I could see from the man that he felt quite uncomfortable behind his polite mask, but I remained silent.

"Veca is a bit reserved, but she would have easily eaten another one of these anyway. Right?"

Thanks, Timi.

"Yes, the cookie was very tasty." The cream was very, um, silky in it, the proteins didn't precipitate, I mean, the yolk during cooking, that must be difficult. But you've obviously practiced, so... - By this time I was so red that even the wine stain on the tablecloth could have been envied, but our cook just kept silent. "Sorry, I've been drinking." And I never did well. And I'm partly studying biology.

I buried my face in my hands with an awkward smile, thinking that it would be better if I really didn't speak again, but to my great surprise, Adorján didn't look like a fool.

"Thank you, I'm honored that you were so satisfied with the dessert." Are you craving something else? The kitchen closes in a few minutes, but the restaurant itself remains open for another hour.

Timi laughed at this and ordered him not to tempt us, because we had already lost all the scholarships for the three of us. As I was slowly sinking deeper than Atlantis in my shame, I hastily got up to smoke a cigarette. This provided a great opportunity for me to be angry at myself for how ridiculous I am for talking about protein so much, and even the nail polish came off my thumb, although it didn't make much of a difference in my ranking compared to Szeréna and Timi. The former was, among other things, a school example of those for whom even a nose piercing only made them more feminine, while I was left with back-pain-causing breasts, which Norton also stumbled on at the time, like a driftwood on a sandbox.

"What else do you study besides biology?"

I looked behind me in amazement. He stepped out of the restaurant's rear staff entrance, holding the door so that it wouldn't slam shut with full force. He just spread his jacket over himself, didn't zip it, and smiled at me as warmly as if I hadn't just made a complete monkey out of myself.

"I'm studying to be a teacher," I murmured with some delay. "I major in art and biology. Elementary School."

"Then I guessed right about the teacher part."

"I've been told that I look like a teacher. Um... Really, sorry for the what went down inside. And maybe for now too. I'm not completely sober yet."

"It's okay," he shook his head and stepped closer. He didn't light it, although I thought that was why he jumped out. "I've been working in hospitality for ten years, and I've seen the worst." He laughed softly. "Your friends informed me that they think I look a lot like Zé Fördős."

"Yes, Timi is a big fan of Street Kitchen. Don't take it as an insult. And you are just a little bit alike." Hesitantly, I handed him the cigarette box. "Do you want some?"

"No thank you. To be honest, I've never even tried it."

I was overcome with the urge to throw the whole box in the first bin. Does he despise women who smoke? Fortunately, I couldn't think too much about it, because we were both distracted by an old man who tried to leave his parking space with unreasonably high gasses, and by Timi and Szeréna rushing out the door, laughing sick to their stomachs at something.

"I think I'll have a fight with them about settling my bill behind my back..."

"I wouldn't dare to bet that they wrapped their head around it. However, in order to protect your privacy, I would like to ask you quickly: could you give me your phone number?"

It felt like the most natural thing to do. It would have been hard to reject someone, who, with his peach tart, created a stream of beauty in my soul, and who, according to them, came out here because of me. This was not easy for me to believe, so much so that I could neither recall the moment when Adorján and I said goodbye to each other, nor the details of the journey to Szeréna's apartment, which was in the Égő Arany house, once built for oil workers.

"Well, has he texted you since then?" asked Timi, sitting on the arm of the sofa. The ride home and the shower more or less sobered her up, her body-hugging top and leggings didn't hide how flat she was both front and back.

"Oh, I should have thought you'd noticed," I laughed bewilderedly and glanced down at my phone, which I put on the floor beside my bed. "But I don't see much in it."

"Are you saying this because of Szeri? Oh, she won't be hating on you for that. Let's be honest, girlie was acting like an idiot. I would have picked you too if I were the guy."

This was reassuring, but it did not dispel my doubts. I didn't dare to hope that our chef would contact me, that he wouldn't forget me overnight. Maybe he's not even single , I thought. However, while we were bumping home on the train, my phone beeped, indicating that I had received an SMS from a then unknown number.

Hello! It's me, the chef from Mézga, who supposedly cooks vanilla custard well. You can contact me at this number, but I also sent you a requesr on Facebook, I found you through Tímea. J- A.

I didn't even think to tell Timi about this. On the one hand, because then the topic would have been my private life again all the way to Debrecen, and on the other hand, I suddenly had no idea what "A" meant. Andrew? Adrian? I still had it in the evening, but maybe because of the liqour, maybe because of exhaustion, the information was deleted in the morning. I could still retrieve his last name from my memory ( Szendrődi), but I wouldn't have been able to say his first name even if I was beaten to death.

So I saved it under the name Nectarine, shame or not, and I couldn't wait to check my Facebook at home in the absence of my mobile internet.

***

"This is cuter than you think," said Adorján, sweeping the snow off a bench in Déri Square. We were nearing the end of the second hour of our date and we were already over a cup of hot coffee each. "But if I don't ask, you won't tell me. Shame!"

"Don't tell me it's not a bit awkward." -I watched him with folded arms, every pore, every blood vessel of mine filled to overflowing with that simultaneously pleasant and revolting kind of excitement, which doesn't even want to let me stand on my two feet, but I could blame my nervous pacing back and forth on the cold. "It's like I have a memory disorder that only covers names! And I'm a teacher!"

"I like Nectarine." He was smiling just as sweetly as when we bugged him at the restaurant, and I still didn't want to believe that she was really such a gentle soul. Although, as a matter of fact, I would have had every reason to do so based on what I have seen so far. "It's a bit feminine, but fair enough."

His fawn-colored jacket with the sun-kissed brown of his hair gave him a reassuringly autumnal look, and with his split-leather, old-fashioned shoulder bag, I would have seen him as a teacher rather than a chef in a shabby restaurant. However, Adorján was a cook to the core, a man of gastronomy in all its flavors. When we started talking online, food quickly became our central topic, right after I let him know that I myself was from Szabolcs county, and that without a car it would be quite difficult for me to go back to Szeged for a date. "Let's get to know each other through our favorite foods, I don't think there is a more reliable way," he wrote. When I shamefacedly sent him my answer, which was a ham sandwich and fast food fries, he told me that the method needed to be revised.

"You can be Füli too," I smiled and plopped down next to him on the cleaned bench, the tassel of my white cap swaying back and forth on the top of my head. I pulled my feet up because the melting snow was forming bigger and bigger puddles under our feet; as quickly as it fell, we had to say goodbye to it as quickly. The sun shone dazzlingly in the cloudless sky, and the snow trickled loudly from the roofs. Cheap little waterfall in the middle of the city center.

"I'll kill Áron..."

"Oh no! I still want to know him."

His best friend, Áron, was responsible for me finding out that Adorján's second name is Fülöp. This could be because Áron also liked to grind his tongue on this a fact, so much that he did not bother to make it known to the world in his latest birthday post. "Congratulations, Fülöp!"

"I haven't dared to mention you to him yet. But once I do, the feeling will be mutual. Also from his girlfriend. For years, my singleness has been an annoying obstacle to the double date she dreams of." He lifted his bag onto his lap and, to my great surprise, took out two neat boxes of food. "So, I didn't want to lie to myself about the fact that favorite food can mean a lot, at least to almost everyone except you..." I poked him in the side, blushing, but he just laughed. "That's why I prepared, to see if the method works in my case. And I won't deny it, I wanted to cook for you from the beginning."

I couldn't find the words for a very long minute, I just looked at Adorján's face and tried to figure out how I could have deserved such kindness. As you know, when we were just planning the meeting, he suggested that we could also go to his apartment, where he would cook for me, but I said no, and he understood that. I already found it a big deal that he came all the way to Debrecen to please me, but this...

"Now I feel stupid," I admitted, taking one of the contents of the first box, i.e. the spicy marble cheese toast cut into the right small rings. "That because of me you have to carry out your plans on the cold street."

"Come on, Veca . You have to be so flexible if you're trying, right?"

Norton would have just said I was a chicken. Just like he said every other day that it's a wonder of the world that he's with me, because he's basically into ballerina-shaped blondes.

"But, yes, it's true. But me too. So next weekend I'm going to Szeged and... Wow, that's delicious!" As simple as they were, the small snacks were so tasty, there was no doubt, he also baked the bread himself. "Is this a Mediterranean recipe?"

"Actually, it's one of the flavors of my childhood." He also grabbed one, then opened the second box, which smelled like a massive portion of Hortobágy meat pancakes. "Just so you don't think I'm a snob. This is a perennial favorite."

It would be trite to say that I knew even then that he would be the one for me. What I didn't know was that I feel fantastic with him, that he doesn't humiliate me or make me uncomfortable with any of his words, and at the same time, he doesn't let my chronic anxiety kill the mood either. He was able to make me eat the meat pancake from the plastic fork given to me on the open street, while I was shaking with laughter, and as I looked into his eyes, the stream of beauty flooding my soul turned into a geyser of love, which went hot and unstoppable from head to toe.

I didn't know anything about Réthavas at the time.

*MÁV is the acronym for Hungarian railways.