Morning after morning, I would stare longingly at the waffles being pressed by the waffle man at Jég Büfé, and each time I approached him, I got a steely look in the eye, and found myself scurrying away for a poppy seed roll instead. I was deliciously intimidated by him, and enjoyed this funny little morning ritual of fear. Friday was the day, I decided, that I would get a damn waffle. I would look the world's most badass waffle man in the eye and order what I had craved for days— and I would eat it with great relish.
I walked up to the window with my head held high, and having practiced my Hungarian pronunciation, read off precisely what I wanted. He grunted and began pouring the batter.
Was this man a commando? Did he wrestle bears? Who was he?
A vanilla custard-filled waffle was thrust into my eager cold hands.
"Köszönöm!" I grinned with satisfaction.
A large smile spread across his face, and his eyes changed from steel to warmth.