Long before we’d reach the border fence, Tante Elfrieda proclaimed that her lips could never again be crossed by paprika. Given the ruddy wash of this spice through Hungarian cuisine, her proclamation seemed wondrously remote from reality. Like Charlotte Corday thinking that slaying Marat in his bath could end the bloody aftermaths of the French Revolution. Onkel Theo – a stalwart drinker – accompanied Tante Elfi along rain-damp cobblestones as she paled at menu after goulash-laden menu. Against all odds, one passed muster. Thus it was that, in 1987, from a plate of tough little quenelles, I was to first taste venison.