A Bowl of Eggy-Yog Brekkie in Kaptafa BudaPest-i

I am not a morning person, a breakfast person, or a morning breakfast person. But my curiosity sparked when Fafa suggested a café called Kaptafa, which serves some interesting food, on our first morning in Budapest. I mean, unusual food? Eggs? In Budapest? How could I resist?

After a negotiation—which, to be honest, mostly involved me semi-sleeping in while he went to the gym and Starbucks bed coffee—I agreed to join him for an eggy breakfast adventure in BudaPest-i.

Kaptafa Budapest Brekkie

The small café, conveniently within walking distance from our hotel, offered indoor and outdoor seating. Naturally, we picked indoors to dodge the smoke. While Budapest isn’t the smoking capital of Eastern Europe, getting a whiff of it was still plenty annoying, especially when having a meal.

Inside, the café was quaint, with a dash of edgy décor that I had already noticed was a theme in Budapest. It reminded me of home, Melbourne.

We were asked if we had a reservation. Nope, we didn’t. They offered us a tall table and explained that even though the cafe was empty, all other tables were reserved. I checked my watch, wondering when people eat breakfast in this part of the world.

The menu had some intriguing options. Naturally, I went straight for the most usual: poached egg on yogurt. I also ordered fried pickles (because why not?) and a Doppio right before I googled it to learn it was a double espresso. Meanwhile, Fafa played it safe and ordered a Mrs Molar – a fancy (sweet bun) egg sandwich.

Soon, the food arrived, and I found myself spooning through lightly seasoned (if at all) thick yogurt with a dash of tomato juice and a poached egg inside.

Now, I wanted to love it. I really did. This was the dish that I wanted to fall in love with in Budapest.

I mean, I like yogurt. I love poached eggs. And I thought the fried pickle’s crunchiness and sourness would help cut through if the taste got too yogurt-ey. But nope. To make matters worse, I felt a second poached egg would balance it out. Spoiler alert: It didn’t.

I kept taking small, cautious spoonfuls, brainstorming ways to salvage it. Chilli? Too aggressive. Pepper? Too err… off. Halfway through the bowl, I raised the white flag of defeat.

Meanwhile, Fafa was happily devouring his egg sandwich (he did offer to switch with me when he saw my existential crisis unfolding over breakfast, but I couldn’t do that to him. Breakfast food is one of his joys in life). So, I nibbled on my fried pickles and sipped the black Doppio, silently praying that my stomach wouldn’t stage a rebellion when I hit the public baths.

That morning, in Kaptafa Budapest, I learned a valuable lesson. No, it wasn’t about avoiding the weirdest thing on the menu next time. It was the realization that I’m just not a breakfast person—at least not an adventurous breakfast person.

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