BROTHY HUNGARIAN GULYÁS (GOULASH)

The history, the lore, and our modern spin on this thousand-year-old soup.

Welcome! This is a reader-supported publication. ♡ Today is a perfect time to take advantage of a one-time-only 30% discount on annual subscriptions, which includes full access to all recipes, travel guides, and archives (only 2 days left!).

Hello, friends! 

It’s 22 degrees out, and my children are in school for the first full day in weeks (snow! snow! snow!).* I just walked my son the 1/8 mile to school, and the tips of my fingers are mini icebergs. It feels like the perfect time to write you a story and warm them up, still wrapped in my wool coat at the breakfast table, with remnants of banana bread and squeezed half-grapefruits scattered around me.  

When I was 24 years old, with both university and culinary school behind me, I had an opportunity to work as a private chef in a sprawling villa in St. Tropez for the summer. The audition dinner happened—or almost didn’t happen—on a freezing day in February when the NYC subways and streets were shuttered under 2 feet of snow (that’s a story for another day). It was a triumph; they offered me the job. 

I knew little about the family I’d be working for before our interview, only that they were ground-breaking scientists with high-level entrepreneurial genius. I learned that the gentleman was Hungarian and his wife American—that they were both fluent in French (and French dining) and that bathing suits were considered optional. I came ready for anything. 

On my first week on the job, le madame told me that I would be free to design whatever menus I wanted night by night, as long as I cooked chicken (for her) once a week and Hungarian food (for him) on occasion. 

This was all years before I met András—or knew he existed. At the time, I had been to Budapest exactly once on a grand college backpacking tour. We’d landed in the town center during a lively festival for their national independence. Unlike all the other places we went on that trip (Brugge, Amsterdam, Prague, and Uppsala, Sweden), I did not know a single Hungarian word or dish beyond gulyás—or goulash as I knew it then—a food I was decisively uninterested in eating at the time. Later, as a freshly trained French cook—I remember thinking I would not be cooking or eating gulyás in St. Tropez, either (and I never did).

That summer in France, I struggled to put together even a few Hungarian menus—including a meal of stuffed peppers I served as a dine-in candlelight dinner on the balcony off Monsieur and Madame’s bedroom (overlooking the Mediterranean—it was wild). There’s an irony, then, in the amount of time I now spend researching, writing about, and cooking Hungarian food—and in the intense, swelling pride I felt during a ski outing with friends last weekend when I overheard my son and his little pal discussing their favorite foods over burgers and fries.

“I loooove chili,” Oliver said. 

“I like chili,” Mátyás said. “But my favorite is gulyás; My mom makes the besssst gulyás.”

“What’s goo-yash?” Oliver asked. 

“It’s like Hungarian chili, only way better.” 

Heart-melting pride.

Mushroom photo by Damir Omerović

I came by my love of Hungary’s national food, honestly…slowly—the same way I fell in love with András. It wasn’t an earth-shattering, whirlwind romance but a slow burn— the kind I imagine lasting a lifetime. This makes sense. Like the people and country itself, Hungarian cuisine is complex—formed over a thousand years of migration, invasion, resistance, and resilience. It takes decades to know it well.

Over the years, I’ve written about gulyás many times; I’ve told you how to spell it (in Magyar—the Hungarian language) and pronounce it (goo-yash). I’ve written about the pot that gulyás is most often cooked in (a bogrács–a giant kettle perched on a steel teepee over live fire). I’ve shared the history of the stew, a classic goulash recipe with a step-by-step, and the mushroom gulyás I made for my husband again and again in our first years of marriage.

In my book Feast, I tell the story of the first time I made gulyás for András—how, after tasting it, when he asked how much paprika I added (two full, heaping tablespoons), he responded, “That’s a good start.” But I’ve never shared the recipe for how we make gulyás most often now—at home—an evolution of 18 years of cooking this heady soup back and forth between Hungary and New York. 

It might surprise you that gulyás isn’t a seasonal food in Hungary. In summer, it’s cooked in the bogrács over live fire, eaten at festivals and weddings, and even at the beachside at Lake Balaton. In the winter, there’s almost nothing better than coming in from a long, snowy walk to the instant blast of heady, paprika-laced stew that greets you at the door. It is instant warmth. 

There are many ways to make a traditional gulyás. In Hungary, you’ll find babgulyás (a bean and meat goulash that starts with bacon—so delicious), or it may be made with wild boar (my favorite), venison, or pork or beef stew meat. But, like any stew—a Beef Bourguignon or an Irish Beef Stew—these cuts require time to break down the sinew and get that soft, melt-in-your-mouth texture. 

We enjoy eating all of these versions of gulyás on our annual trips to Hungary. Still, since my mostly vegetarian husband and firstborn didn’t eat any meat for many years, I always made a vegetable gulyás at home, usually with wild mushrooms. This, for years, was our gulyás.

Mátyás, on the other hand, deeply enjoys meat. One winter, after being gifted a package of freshly ground venison from a dear friend, I used it to make a classicish gulyás. I knew this was going really off-script, but—it worked. Because it was ground, it took no time to tenderize but still lent the delicious depth and flavor I’d come to know and count on from the gulyás we eat in Hungary.

We ate this batch over a live fire on a snowy beach with a dozen friends one January, and when it ran out, everyone was practically licking the pot. From that day on, I started making gulyás with packs of grass-fed, organic ground beef I can get at our local supermarket, which can feed the family (the meat-eaters anyway)—plus a handful of friends— for days. This soup freezes super well, and because the meat is ground, it defrosts more quickly, too. 

I had never thought of Mátyás’ explanation that our gulyás is like a Hungarian chile, but he’s right. This is partly because the ground meat mimics a chili-like texture but mainly because it boasts a similar earthy, rich (and nutrient-dense!) result with the low and slow heat that fills your body and soul for hours afterward. 

Besides using ground meat, a few other things make our gulyás less traditional but (in my opinion) über delicious. Traditional gulyás has the Hungarian trifecta of onion, Hungarian hot peppers, and tomatoes, with the bulk of the stew itself coming from the meat and potatoes. It’s been perfected over literally a thousand years—so there’s nothing wrong with sticking to that. But I am always going heavy on vegetables—using up what we have in the drawer and bringing a lightness to an otherwise weighty dish. In my gulyás, the aromatics are onion, garlic, and fennel, with the heft from carrots, parsnip, small potatoes—and sometimes summer squash (the one pictured here has zucchini, which I love in gulyás).

We maximize the paprika (per my husband’s early and sound advice) and layer in sweet, smoked, and sometimes hot paprika, giving it a rounder finish. Finally, we keep it brothy rather than thickening it with the starch from more potatoes or, as is often seen—serving it with handmade noodles (I love them, but I’m not patient enough to prepare them on a weeknight).

One more thing: Mushroom lovers, I’ve included instructions for pan-sear mushrooms to layer into your soup as a garnish, along with your sour cream and parsley, which makes it easy to leave them off/out for the mushroom adverse. They are delicious here if you’re a mushroom person, but not required.

If all of this sounds complicated, you’ll see below it’s pretty simple—just a few steps and an hour in the pot that lends you flavor and nourishment for days on end (and, like most soups and stews, it gets better with time; the second day is our favorite).

Gulyás has become a once-a-week food in our house and the stalwart of our winter season—our aprés ski, our Sunday lunch, and the pot we dip back into for weeknight dinners eagerly and often. I hope this recipe will serve your family as much as ours. 

The recipe is below (for paid subscribers). Welcome to the slow burn. 

xx

Sarah

*Correction: I started this letter to you yesterday. It’s now Friday; school is closed again for the 5th time in two weeks (winds and snow!). You can guess what I’m serving for lunch.

RECIPE // BROTHY HUNGARIAN GULYÁS

Serves 6 to 8

3 tablespoons olive oil

1 large yellow onion, coarsely chopped

1 large bulb fennel, trimmed and thinly sliced

2 garlic cloves, smashed and roughly chopped (or sliced) 

1 lb ground grass-fed, organic beef (or pork!) *

1 teaspoon sea salt, plus for seasoning

½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

3 tablespoons Hungarian sweet paprika (édes)

1 to 2 tablespoons smoked paprika (Spanish Pimenton)

1 teaspoon Hungarian hot paprika (csípős), optional

2 teaspoons caraway seeds

3 large carrots, peeled and cut into ½-inch chunks

3 medium parsnips, peeled and cut into ½-inch chunks

¾  lb. small new potatoes, peeled and halved (about ½ inch each)

1 large zucchini, trimmed and roughly chopped 

1 28-ounce can of chopped tomatoes 

4 to 5 cups chicken broth or water

crispy pan-seared mushrooms, optional (recipe below)

¼ cup coarsely chopped flat-leaf parsley, for serving 

Sour cream or creme fraiche, for serving 

1. Add the oil to a large Dutch oven and heat over medium heat until simmering. Add the onions and fennel and cook, stirring occasionally, until soft and translucent, about 10 minutes. Add the garlic and stir to coat. Turn the heat to high, add the beef, and season generously with salt and black pepper. Cook, stirring frequently and breaking up the meat into little pieces, until the meat is lightly browned, about 5 to 7 minutes. Stir in both kinds of paprika (plus hot paprika if using) and caraway, and cook, stirring constantly, until fragrant, about 1 minute. Add the carrots, parsnips, canned tomatoes, and 4 cups of broth or water. When the liquid boils, turn the heat to medium-low and cook, covered, about 30 minutes. 

2. Add in the potatoes, zucchini, and up to 1 cup more water or broth if desired (for a brothier soup); cook until all the vegetables are tender and the soup is intensely flavored, about 20 to 30 minutes more. Season with more salt and pepper to taste (there are a lot of vegetables in here, so don’t be shy with the salt. You need it to balance the paprika. Add a little at a time, tasting as you go). 

3. Meanwhile, saute the mushrooms (if using; recipe below). Stir into the gulyás, or serve on the side for individual garnishing. Serve gulyás warm with a generous dollop of sour cream and a sprinkling of fresh parsley on each serving.

*Because so much of the flavor comes from the paprika, you could easily swap ground pork or venison for the beef here.

CRISPY PAN-SEARED MUSHROOMS

2 tablespoons olive oil

12 ounces wild mushrooms (such as maitake, oyster, king trumpet, etc.), halved, quartered, or cut into bite-sized pieces

Flaky sea salt and freshly ground pepper

3 tablespoons unsalted cold butter, in pieces

2 sprigs fresh thyme

1. Heat the oil in a large skillet over medium-high until shimmering. Add mushrooms to the skillet in a single layer, cut side down, and cook, without stirring, until one side is golden brown, about 3 minutes. Lower the heat slightly and season with salt and pepper. Toss the mushrooms and continue to cook, adjusting heat as needed until the mushrooms are golden brown and crispy, about 5 minutes more.

2. Add the butter and thyme to the skillet; tip the pan so the butter pools, and use a flat, wide spoon to baste the mushrooms in warm thyme butter as the butter sizzles, 3 to 4 minutes. It should smell nutty but not burnt. Remove the mushrooms with a slotted spoon and add to the gulyás while warm, or serve on the side. 

WHAT ABOUT PAPRIKA PASTE?

It’s fairly traditional to use Hungarian Paprika Paste to get more body and flavor into your gulyás. We use it when we have it (it’s everywhere in Hungary but can be harder to find here). I’ve written the recipe here with only dried paprika, but you can layer it in paprika paste after sweating the garlic and onions.

Here’s an article I wrote for Food & Wine about the charms of Paprika Paste. As noted, you can find paprika paste online (here) and in the international section of many supermarkets. Be sure to check if you’re buying/using hot (Csípős) or mildly sweet (Csemege).

SOME LIKE IT HOT

Most Hungarians are used to much more heat than my American palate prefers. If you prefer a hefty kick in your gulyás, use two tablespoons of hot paprika instead of smoked or a tablespoon of each. As mentioned above, you can also layer in spice using hot (Csípős) paprika paste. Start slow and work your way up to your desired threshold.

---

Food Photos by Kate Sears. Styling by Sarah Copeland.