Not Hungary at all ...

At ten o’clock in the morning, sunlight pouring in from tall windows onto a pale parquet floor and bouncing off gleaming wine glasses and polished silverware in a high-ceilinged, airy room, we sat down for brunch at the Hungarian Embassy. As the first wines were poured, ambassador Kristóf Szalay-Bobrovniczky took his place opposite Oz Clarke; and a fellow wine writer, looking a little pale from the night before, took me up on the offer of a headache tablet. It seemed pretty early, even for us stalwarts, to be facing...