Did the general readership know that The O'Brien is one quarter Hungarian? Your O'Brien is so down with the Hunky gypsy gig, that if she says this is the recipe for Hungarian lecho, you can bet this is the recipe for Hungarian lecho. So whatever other Hungarian lecho recipes you find out there, this is how you make real lecho and anyone who says anything different can go straight to hell.
This recipe starts off at the West Side Market. You feel like shit? You go to the West Side Market. You amble around. Maybe you buy some artichokes out at the produce stands or you buy some salted licorice at the Mediterranean Imported Food shop. Whatever you're diggin' on at the Market, after a half hour or so, you'll feel better. (And yes, The O'Brien realizes you may not be in Cleveland. If your local farmer's market doesn't have the touchy-feely gig going on, or you don't have a farmer's market, then maybe go to your regular grocery and get a manicure after for chrissake).
At some point, get your ass over to Dohar Meats (stands F-1 and F-2) and get a pound or so of their double smoked garlic sausage.
In the interest of full disclosure, the mother of The O'Brien will tell you to use Eckrich Polska Kielbasa, and you damn well might listen to her. After all, she's packing the 50 percent Hungarian that makes up the 25 percent Hungarian in your humble hostess (who is thankfully going to shift these ramblings out of third person).
Since I'm about to start the recipe proper, I should probably give you a nice neat ingredient list, but I'm not because sometimes I like to be a pain in the ass. That said, I am going to come clean about one thing: when I make lecho, I get all the ingredients lined up and prepared like some miserable goddamn Next Food Network Star wannabe.
Let's go.
Chop one green bell pepper and one sweet red bell pepper into about a half-inch dice and put that in one bowl. Chop one large (like, maybe bigger than your fist) sweet onion (Vidalia or your regular yellow cheap will do) the same way and put that in another bowl. Chop two or three hot peppers (Hungarian or Jalapeno) into a very fine dice and put that in another bowl.
Now then STEP AWAY from the dehydrated garlic, the granulated garlic or (god help us) that candy-ass pre-minced garlic in a jar. Get two or three cloves fresh garlic (although sometimes I use four because I am completely down and righteous) and crush those through a press. Put the mashed garlic in with the hot peppers.
Slice your sausage into quarter-inch thick discs and put that in another bowl.
Melt a tablespoon or so of butter in a pan (I use a 3" deep 12" skillet) with about three tablespoons of olive oil and heat 'r up. Throw in the onion and sauté that for about two minutes. Add the red and green sweet peppers and sauté for another two minutes. (Yes, I use the timer. No I don't like to admit it.)
Now turn the heat down and add the hot peppers and garlic, two tablespoons of water, a tablespoon of Worcestershire, a tablespoon of Tabasco (yes, a whole tablespoon--and I usually use more, you candy-asses), a half cup of ketchup, and salt and crushed red pepper to taste. (When I say taste, it should taste HOT. This shit is supposed to be kick-ass hot, not just "spicy" hot. It should be hot enough to separate the men from the boys or the quirky half-breed Irish Hungarian broads from the Stepford wives.)
Add the sausage for chrissake.
Stir it up proper and cover that mother up. Adjust the heat until you get a nice low simmer and let it ride for 15 minutes. No, you don't need to stir it. No, you won't blow the whole thing if take a peek because you're an impatient dumbass (which I [being completely perfect] have never, ever, ever done).
Now lift the lid and behold your Hungarian Lecho. Yes, those are angels singing behind you.
Add more hot sauce or crushed red pepper if it's not hot enough. Whatever you do, take this advice: make this stuff a day before you're going to serve it. Because if you think it's kick-ass now, it's going to be even kick-assier after 24 hours on account of the flavors "marrying." (I like using important chef terms like that once in a while just to keep you people on your toes.)
Serve the lecho piping hot in a chafing dish* with crackers or small bread rounds as a cocktail snack (and I'm using the word "cocktail" reluctantly--lecho is good ol' Hungarian drinking** food: the more you eat, the more you can drink). That's my favorite way to eat lecho, but people also eat it over rice as a main course. I've been known to spoon it over leftover mashed potatoes for lunch or even over scrambled eggs for breakfast.
However I eat it, lecho brings tears of shear joy to my eyes.
That said, I have a sad, sad, sad cultural addendum to this recipe. Back in the day when the mother of the O'Brien would make lecho and take it to a party, every last bit would be scraped from the dish. Now when your humble hostess whips up a batch, there are almost always leftovers. Oh sure, your old-timer holdout guys will belly up, but the general American palate has pretty much turned candy ass.
Who gives a shit? I will be making hot Hungarian lecho until the day I die.
Kiss my ass.
*Yes, I have a chafing dish. Yes it used to belong to the mother of the O'Brien, and yes I have Sterno. How brilliant am I?
**Lecho or no lecho, you drink Slivovitz with a Hungarian and you're on your own.
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