Rudine Langère
Magyar paprikás csirke
The chicken descended from above, arms stretched toward an unseen sky, as if caught in a dramatic final act. Suspended in midair, yellow feathers swirled around it like echoes of a lost past. Below, the stage was set—ripe tomatoes, fiery chilies, fragrant herbs, and the unmistakable scent of paprika, waiting to embrace their fated guest.
István swirled his glass of white wine, watching the slow descent. “Even in flight, you cannot escape tradition,” he mused, reaching for the spice that would seal its destiny.
Tonight, Magyar paprikás csirke would be made with theatrical flair.
recipe in the first comments
Magyar paprikás csirke
The chicken descended from above, arms stretched toward an unseen sky, as if caught in a dramatic final act. Suspended in midair, yellow feathers swirled around it like echoes of a lost past. Below, the stage was set—ripe tomatoes, fiery chilies, fragrant herbs, and the unmistakable scent of paprika, waiting to embrace their fated guest.
István swirled his glass of white wine, watching the slow descent. “Even in flight, you cannot escape tradition,” he mused, reaching for the spice that would seal its destiny.
Tonight, Magyar paprikás csirke would be made with theatrical flair.
recipe in the first comments