Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic who reckons everything’s so woke these days the new Pope will probably be a black lesbian in a wheelchair.

I’M taking myself off on a little holiday. After a google I opted for Budapest, with its cheap beer, stunning architecture and rich history. Although if my history was mainly ‘collaborating with the Nazis’ I’d keep quiet about it.

Once I escape all the bloody middle-class families at the airport going on Easter breaks it’s not long before I arrive. The first thing that strikes me is it’s a shame Hitler didn’t sort the money out. 

There’s 470 Hungarian Forint, or HUF, to the pound, which is way beyond my maths abilities. I don’t know if I’m coming or going. I could be getting robbed blind or getting endless bargains, and I wouldn’t know because I’m not some specky bastard with loads of GCSEs.

Undeterred I seek out one of the famous local ‘ruin bars’, so-called because they’re falling down and no one can be arsed to fix them. I thought these Eastern European types were meant to be hard workers, but it turns out they’re lazy as f**k. Still, it’s good to have your prejudices challenged.

I order a pint of the local beer, Dreher. It’s piss-weak, so I opt for a chaser. The most popular spirit is apparently called Unicum. Don’t think they thought that one through. I’m not Marc Almond so I order a shot of Palinka, a local brandy, instead. It tastes like shit, but it’s as potent as rocket fuel. Maybe it’s from the Nazis’ V2s. I get three in to compensate for the beer.

Feeling nicely wobbly after two more rounds, I seek out some food. Goulash soup seems a relatively safe starter option. It’s beef, potatoes and carrots in a broth thinner than an Ethiopian Slimmer of the Year. And tastes of nothing but paprika. Hungarians could learn a lot from beef and vegetable Big Soup.

On to mains, and I briefly consider the chicken paprikash before thinking better of it. Yet more bloody paprika, and doughy-looking dumplings that would leave your bowels with about as much sign of movement as the M5 on a bank holiday weekend. No thanks.

Then there’s Porkolt, an indeterminate meat stew. Or Lecso, a sort of vegetable ragout stew. Why is this place so obsessed with stew? If that wasn’t boring enough there’s stuffed cabbage, and other equally unappealing offerings.

Eventually I opt for the ‘traditional wooden platter for one’. One what, exactly? Army battalion? It’s f**king enormous. Chicken, pork, steak, fries, flatbread, salad, pickles – it’s like a deconstructed doner kebab, only five times the size.

I manfully plough my way through most of it before heading off to find a local patisserie for ‘chimney cake’, which I’m told is a regional speciality. It’s basically a sweet dough rolled around a cylinder then baked and finished with a sprinkling of sugar and cinnamon. Edible enough, but it’s no cream horn or a good old British chocolate eclair.

My overall verdict on Hungary? Just another substandard European country. I won’t be coming back and that’s nothing to do with being banned from the local thermal spa for constantly adjusting my budgie smugglers. Those young ladies should have been wearing less skimpy bikinis.