Jam, pancake and her

I was recently with friends in Szeged. The road, of course, led us to the most important destination - the restaurant. We didn't philosophize much, we were just looking for a place that smelled of home cooking and happiness. And we found it. The restaurant was beautiful, in green tones, with a relaxed atmosphere and a waiter who seemed to be on a lifelong stress vacation.

Friends, hungry as if they hadn't eaten since last Christmas, ordered chicken rolls with bacon and cheese, and stuffed chicken, of course - again with cheese. With that: salad, french fries, and – no less – jam. A contribution that no one expected, but we welcomed him as if he was the main actor of the evening.

I, as is usually the case, had to be different. I ordered a potato pancake, filled with sautéed mixed vegetables and pieces of chicken. A little spicy, just enough to remind me that I'm alive. The food was phenomenal. Not good - phenomenal. It was as if every piece was singing a ballad to me in Hungarian.

We laughed, enjoyed ourselves, the atmosphere was warm and cheerful. And then... then she came in. She sat down at the table next to us. I didn't notice her right away – until I caught her eye. She smiled as we joked something. She had that smile that could make you forget where you were and what you were eating. I looked at the plate, then back at her. I was between two great loves – my angry pancake and her smile.

My friend tells me: "Come on, offer her some jam, so you can see how Hungarian wins her heart." I smiled, but... something tugged at me. I got up, went to her table and said:

• Sorry, I know it sounds weird... but would you mind sharing some of that jam with me? If you don't mind that a local tambourine is playing in the background, and I don't know a word of Hungarian?

She looked at me like I was a total fool. And then - she smiled. Honestly. The way people smile when they like someone for no particular reason.

• Only if you give me some of your pancakes - she answered.
  And there it is. That's how it all started. With a little laughter, jam, and that strange mix of spiciness and sweetness - just like her.
  After that laugh and swapping pancakes for jam, we stayed in the restaurant for a while longer. My friends immediately withdrew from the story, with those smiles that clearly say: "Come on, brother, now play."

Talking to her was easy. Her name was Lea, she was from Pécs, she came to Szeged to visit her friend for the weekend. She had some mixture of accents that I couldn't decipher, but it all sounded like a song to me. She ordered another drink, and I was already thinking about how to extend the evening.
At one point she said:

• Do you want to show me Szeged?
• Well... if you don't mind that I don't know where I am either - I answered.
• Perfect! Me neither!

And here we are - two strangers who don't know the city, but walk around as if they grew up there. The street lights cast a golden hue on the cobblestones, and music was heard from a cafe. We stopped at the bridge over the Tisza River and were silent for a few moments. And that beautiful silence, where you don't have to say anything, and everything is taken for granted.

At some point she asked me:

• Did you know that jam is an excellent compatibility test?
• Please? - I looked confused.
• Well, if someone shares jam without asking "why", but asking "how much", it means it's worth it.
  I had no answer. I just smiled at her and said:
• Then you're probably worth more than anything I've tried here... and the pancake was superb.
  At parting, she left me a piece of paper with a number, a heart instead of a dot on the "i" in the name, and a short but sweet kiss on the cheek.
• If the road ever takes you to Pécs... bring jam.

And here I am now, sitting at home, looking at that piece of paper and thinking... Maybe we shouldn't wait for the road to "hit me". Maybe I should just bring the jam and go.