At that time, my father grew grapes on the slopes of Mount Szent-György overlooking Lake Balaton, an hour and a half southwest of Budapest. Each year, the szüret, or grape harvest, was an occasion for family and friends to get together, drink first-run juice, and eat paprika-laced beef stew cooked in a cauldron over an open fire. We would pick the fruit by hand, filling our baskets with gray-green bounty, and then toss it all into a Kremlin-era grape crusher. My dad's wine, a thin white olasz riesling, wasn't sold commercially. Other than sweet Tokaji—the name for the wines from the region—and a few other mass-market bottlings (Bull's Blood of Eger, anyone?), it seemed inconceivable that Hungarian wines would ever find an international market. It was a shame, as their minerally dry whites deserved a wider audience than us bored teenagers.