The reasons behind the mass disappearance of traditional Hungarian pubs: not just a severe crisis, but a systemic transformation

• In fifteen years, the number of traditional Hungarian pubs (“kocsma”) has halved. This is much more than a sectorial decline: this is devastation. What is behind this? Where is the problem? What does the story of traditional Hungarian pubs tell us about Hungary?
• We sought answers nationwide, and it quickly became clear: the problem is complex. It is as much linked to larger social changes (emigration, the transformation of our social lives) as to the economic difficulties characteristic of the sector, such as the traditionally low wages in hospitality. Additionally, every pub owner we spoke to said the COVID pandemic changed something in people.
• Some even predict that the days of pubs in small settlements are numbered.
• Some believe there’s a systemic transformation happening in the world of pubs, and it’s not such a bad thing if low-quality places close down. The world is changing, and so are people’s needs. What is happening now is essentially the decline of the not-so-glorious socialist pub culture.
• We also looked for answers to whether it’s a good thing for a settlement to have a pub and if there are more alcoholics because of pubs.
• From our pub keeper portraits, it becomes clear what the profession gives and what must be sacrificed for it. And despite the grim picture painted by official numbers, the situation is not at all hopeless.

This place has been my dream since I was a teenager. I took it over from my uncle in 2020, and just a week ago, we had the farewell party. I closed shop. I couldn’t do it anymore; I was exhausted, burnt out.

We’re sitting in Pannonhalma, in the town centre — where better to start our report on pub closures than in front of a closed pub?

The story of Balázs Gémes is just one among thousands of Hungarian pub owners who have recently shuttered. At this point, there are so many failed venues that closed pubs could become a new symbol of the Hungarian countryside, as their numbers have halved over the past decade and a half.

Saying there’s a crisis in the sector doesn’t say enough. The end of the closure wave is still nowhere in sight – and on this, all our sources agree.

Balázs Gémes speaks in front of his closed pub. During our conversation, a few people still try to enter the pub, only to realise it’s closed. The garbage collector comes to take the trash, but Balázs signals him that it’s not necessary.

It’s chilly, and it has been raining all day. The weather reflects the past four years of our first pub keeper.

“There was a time I worked 32 days straight.”

“Recently, my vodka distributor told me I was the twentieth pub in the county to close in a short time. My cash register guy told me I was the fourth pub in the area to shut down in a matter of weeks” – begins Balázs Gémes. “In Pannonhalma, there were still 22 pubs in the 2000s, with only a few of us left, and now, I’ve closed mine too. I don’t understand. I’m in a good location, right in the centre, worked myself to the bone, poured my heart and soul into it, organised parties, and this is a good town even by Transdanubian standards, there’s even some tourist traffic here. And still.”

He lists the reasons: soaring prices and utility costs, the COVID-19 pandemic, the eternal bartender problem, low profit margins, and the constant bureaucratic burdens.

Prices were changing so much that I had to update the price list weekly. Meanwhile, people only saw that I kept raising prices. Many switched to buying beer at tobacco shops, drinking and chatting in front of the shop. I sold beer for 650 forints, while there it costs around 400 — a noticeable difference, especially if you don’t have much money. COVID was a turning point; it changed many habits. People since then come less often, have less money, and prefer to save.

In four and a half years, I couldn’t find a single reliable, permanent bartender, despite constantly looking, as I didn’t want to be here all the time. I have a small child and a wife. Some applicants couldn’t even write their name, and in one case, I had to look up the applicant’s phone number myself because they couldn’t even write that down properly. Once, a girl lost 100,000 forints in a single evening: not even she could understand how; she didn’t steal. Completely unsuitable people want to work as bartenders. Then there was a bartender of mine who decided they’d rather go to Austria to wash dishes for three times the pay. So, it was mostly me here, from 7 a.m. to 10 or 11 p.m., on weekdays and weekends. At one point I worked 32 days straight, 12 to 14 hours a day. Is it any wonder I developed blood pressure problems? Not to mention that 150 people a day want to talk to you, or use you as an emotional dumping ground. By closing time, I was so stressed that I had to have a few beers to calm down, and by the time I got home, my child was already asleep. In the morning, I’d leave before they woke up. It’s a miracle I lasted this long. I’m exhausted, completely drained. Without a reliable bartender, you can’t run a pub alone.”

The final straw was the brutally high utility bills. As a small business owner, Balázs Gémes also received retroactive bills totalling several hundred thousand forints. “In the spring, I got a 600,000 forint bill, which two weeks later stood already at 1.2 million. Now we’re nearing two million because I didn’t fill out the paperwork properly.” We have written more about how this is affecting many others: energy supplier E.ON – which was taken over by state-owned MVM in the summer – announced that it would retroactively adjust electricity prices for the period between August 1, 2022, and March 31, 2024. Two years ago, the energy provider asked small businesses to submit a declaration clarifying whether they wanted to remain eligible for certain benefits, but many didn’t understand the declaration’s importance or simply ignored the request. Several of Balázs’s acquaintances in Pannonhalma found themselves in the same situation.

“This is not the only reason I’m closing shop, it just sped up something I would have had to do sooner or later anyway. In fact, I’m relieved; I already have my next job, which will be much calmer and more predictable. I won’t have to worry about whether we’ll have guests or whether we’ll end up in the red at the end of the month. And I won’t see my one-and-a-half-year-old child only when they’re asleep. In the past four years, my wife and I have gone on vacation only once — three days in Dömös.”

At the end, we ask Balázs if there have been things he still enjoyed in running a pub.

“I liked when people came. There were always new faces. I enjoyed listening to their stories. I was my own boss, and I was close to home. I loved this place. Still, I would say that anyone with even a little sense wouldn’t open a pub today.”

Alcohol consumption plummets heavily in hospitality

According to the Hungarian Central Statistical Office (KSH), in 2010, there were more than 21,500 liquor stores, but by 2023, that number had fallen to 11,500. For comparison, the drop in restaurants was much less dramatic during this period: from 25,000 in 2010 to 22,000 by 2023. This 10 per cent “loss” in the restaurant sector doesn’t even come close to the nearly halved number of pubs.

Which clearly indicates the severity of the crisis in Hungary’s pub sector.

And the deeper data for the sector show that the hospitality industry in Hungary — not just pubs, but also restaurants, pastry shops, and cafes — did indeed experience a significant decline starting with the COVID pandemic. According to the 2023 report of the Hungarian Hospitality Industry Association (MVI), the total revenue of hospitality businesses was almost 10 per cent lower than in 2019.

The main findings from the KSH-based report are as follows:

• The sector employs about 5 per cent fewer people: in the first quarter of 2019, 195,400 people were employed, while by 2023, that number had dropped to 183,700.
• In hospitality, average wages still do not reach the national average. In fact, the gap between the two has grown since 2020. And – quoting the annual MVI report – despite some growth since COVID, “the average gross monthly wage for employees in accommodation and food services (after social services) remained the second lowest, at 64 per cent of the national average.” In other words, workers in this sector earn only two-thirds of the national average wage, which partly explains why it’s so difficult to find employees for pubs.
• The part focusing on consumption within hospitality venues is especially interesting. Since 2019, alcohol consumption has dropped by 25–30%, non-alcoholic drinks by around 15%, and even coffee consumption by about 10%. Meanwhile, food sales have noticeably increased. In other words, we drink significantly less in hospitality venues than we did five years ago, especially alcohol, meaning the decline has hit pubs the hardest.

“Pub-going as a social experience is disappearing in many places”

We asked László Kovács about the wave of pub closures. The president of the Hungarian Hospitality Industry Association told 24.hu that in 2023, an average of five hospitality venues closed daily in Hungary. (This includes not only pubs but also restaurants and pastry shops.) He added that rural pubs are now the most at risk.

In rural areas, especially in small towns, pubs will essentially disappear. There will be exceptions, of course, but pub-going as a social experience is disappearing in many places, similar to how coffeehouse culture had once disappeared.

According to the expert, there are several reasons for this. One is a significant change in entertainment culture. “Social entertainment is shifting from communal experiences to individual entertainment. In the past, people went to the pub even out of boredom, to talk, play cards, and hear the latest news. Today, it’s entirely different. Young people tend to entertain themselves at home, often alone, and spend a lot of time on digital devices, essentially living their social lives on their mobile phones. This works against spontaneous social gatherings.” Furthermore, Kovács also mentions that national tobacco shops have partially taken over the role of pubs, especially in smaller towns, as many people buy alcohol there and sometimes consume it outside at a table or bench in front of the shop.

He added that the main factors hindering pubs’ prospects are economic in nature. High inflation and poor economic outlooks drive people toward more cautious spending, meaning they’re more likely to buy alcohol at a store rather than in a pub.

After COVID, it was mostly rural and suburban pubs and beer houses that struggled to reopen. In contrast, downtown, more popular, or tourist-oriented places recovered much better, we don’t even have to speak of general problems in those areas.

The reasons behind pub closures have not been scientifically studied in Hungary, but sociologists we spoke to suggested, based on other research and fieldwork experiences, that the causes may include:

• Population decline and emigration, especially the departure of young people, which hits small towns the hardest, particularly the poorer ones. (In the poorest villages, as mentioned, the remaining population often can’t support a pub because as they don’t even go there.)
• Our social lives are characterised by less and less interaction.
• Labour market habits have also changed over recent decades, which also don’t favour regular pub-going: more people are driving, commuting long distances, or working abroad for varying lengths of time.

The classic village pub: 30 years ago, beer consumption was seven times as high

Once again, we find ourselves at a rural pub in western Hungary, this time in Ete, a small village of 500 people in Komárom-Esztergom County, just a few minutes from Kisbér. Our host, Tibor Tálos, is well-known here: he has been deputy mayor, local council member, president of the village football team — and he’s still the pub owner today, after 35 uninterrupted years. A pub owner knows many people and many things. For example, Mr. Tálos keeps a record of who was born and who passed away in the village, often consulted on these matters because, as they say, paper doesn’t forget. “You could have written an entire novel from everything that has happened here since the beginning. We’ve seen it all” – he says with a laugh.

We parked outside the pub at 10 a.m., just as Tibor Tálos was unlocking the door, as we arrived outside of regular hours. “I open from six in the morning until nine. Then, if needed, I go take care of business, visit the bank, or run errands, and I reopen after lunch, around 1:30 p.m. Then I stay open until 9 or 10 in the evening, depending on demand. This has been my life for 35 years. I’ve dedicated everything to serving my guests. This was a good village, a collective farm (TSZ or “téesz”) village in socialist times, and workers would frequent and support the pub. The ‘lords’, the upper classes, however, didn’t come — they drank in their own cellars. Believe it or not, family background still matters today. The local upper circles only accepted me once I became the deputy mayor.”

It’s a classic village pub, spacious, with brown wood panelling, small tables on white tiles, a single beer tap, football trophies, a foosball table, and separate restrooms for men and women. The restrooms are spotlessly clean, as Mr. Tálos regularly cleans them himself. There’s also a wide selection of everything: ice cream, pretzels, gum, chocolate, chips, almost ten kinds of beer, spirits, champagne, wine, soft drinks, and more.

Our selection is better and more abundant than it was in the ’90s. Yet fewer people come and fewer people consume. Even though we used to work with an 80% profit margin, and now it’s only 40%, because that’s all people can afford. Back then, I sold seven kegs of beer a week. Now, I sell just one. That’s how much consumption has dropped—seven to one! And back then, we didn’t even have refrigerators. There was no cold beer, yet people still came and drank. Today, people even ask for their 10 forints back if they pay 490 with a 500 banknote. Every penny matters to them — that’s the world we live in now.

What is the most important thing in running a good pub? – we ask.

According to Mr. Tálos, everything starts with your attire, even before you leave home. “I was taught to respect the guests. I came here when I was 22, and back then, I used to wear a tie and worked in a white shirt with an apron. The older generation taught me everything, and I still run the pub based on their teachings. Even today, I don’t stand behind the bar in shorts. I wear a shirt or a polo shirt, like today.”

The story of Tibi’s pub, a traditionally die-hard Fradi (Ferencváros FC) supporter venue, dates back to December 1988, when it was still part of the local ÁFÉSZ (a cooperative socialist store network). Tibor Tálos took full ownership five years later, and he doesn’t hide his nostalgia for the ’90s. “People had a different mindset back then. There would be three tables with just card games going on. They didn’t consume a lot, but they spent hours here. The pub was a leisure spot, kind of like a club. After work, people would come in from the collective farm — this was a farming village, everything revolved around livestock and the land. They’d have a beer, or they’d come to chat after church, and many business deals were made here. Back then, every house had some livestock, but today, there’s not a single privately owned cow in the village — that world is gone. Even the early 2000s were good, but I feel like everything started to decline here around 2015. But even before COVID, things were better.

Before the pandemic, I used to be here until midnight, but now, it’s a good night if there are guests until 10 p.m. The situation has been brutal since COVID. People prefer staying at home; they buy their beer at the discount store, drink it at home, and that’s it. Another thing is the smartphone. I don’t get it. Young people come in, sit down at a table, and don’t even talk to each other — they just stare at their phones, and I just watch. I don’t understand today’s world. Young people don’t need entertainment. When I was young, we had outdoor cinema on Thursdays, beer gardens on Fridays, disco on Saturdays, and there were fairs and dances — the village life was bustling. Now, there’s none of that. Why? Because no one organises these things. They are fine without them.

The story of Tibi’s pub is remarkable in many ways — not just because of its age but also due to its business model. Not every village with 500 inhabitants can sustain a pub. In fact, even larger settlements struggle to support a single establishment. (Of course, in many places, there isn’t someone as dedicated and professional as Tálos Tibor running things.)

In smaller settlements, combined business models are increasingly becoming the sustainable option. In Ete, for example, the national tobacco shop has been integrated into Tibi’s pub. “Without it, we wouldn’t survive” – says the pub owner. “And I also need to serve my own wine. I have a small vineyard, and the wine comes from there. All done officially, following every rule, of course. Right across the street, you can see the post office closing for today. I’m trying to get a gambling license to offer lottery tickets and scratch cards. It’s things like these that keep us going. What I earn here is an honest, factory worker’s wage — enough to live on but won’t make me rich. This place has never generated enough income to hire full-time staff, just the occasional temp. We used to have a jukebox and a gaming machine, but the owner took them away after a month because they didn’t make enough money. Back in the ’90s, I could afford to buy a Toyota Corolla — I have just sold it recently. Now, I can’t afford a new car anymore, just a used one.”

Someone walks in, and Mr. Tálos immediately goes to serve them: they came to buy cigarettes.

There’s no such thing as saying no. I respect the customer, and that’s exactly why I don’t drink with them. It’s dangerous if someone starts drinking behind the bar. I don’t do it; you’re not supposed to. As for credit, I only allow small amounts, and not always. You have to stick to certain rules; otherwise, things can get out of hand. It’s a must.

Has this taken a toll on your life? You’ve been here from morning until evening for 35 years.

Oh, indeed! Many times my wife would step in when I had to leave, or when I went to see Ferencváros play. But that’s how it was. That’s how we lived.

And was it good that it was like this?

I won’t deny, it wore me out mentally. Fourteen hours of work a day. Last year, we took only two one-day trips to Lake Balaton. Vacations are always just a few days. I have grandchildren — they were here yesterday, and they had to come to the pub to see Grandpa. These are tough things. They are hard to think about. But you always have to open the pub. I should’ve spent more time with the family. But the pub always has to open.

Would you do it all over again? Would you start again?

Yes, because I loved this work, I loved hospitality. I was free, too. Some customers even referred to me as a psychologist as they got such good advice from me. I love talking to people. I used to love listening to the older folks tell stories about the Don River bend (WWII) or 1956. I’m interested in history, and I always enjoyed hearing those stories. The experiences and wisdom of the old folks — I tell my kids what Uncle Ernő told me. But somehow, this kind of storytelling has disappeared. From the pub and from the village, too.”

When Mr. Tálos brewed us coffee earlier, he mentioned that he was tired and longed for a calmer life. “I’ve been trying to sell the pub for a year and a half, but so far, only one person has come to check, and they eventually moved on. I’d pass it on if there was someone.”

“The fading of socialist Hungary’s unrefined pub culture is underway”

If anyone has a clear vision and extensive experience of what’s going on with Hungary’s pubs, it’s Tibor Csanádi.

He has been visiting pubs for nearly ten years, having stopped at over 3,700 establishments both in Hungary and abroad. He shares his experiences through his Kocsmaturista (‘Pub crawl tourist’) project: impressions, snapshots, historical writings, and sometimes conversations. Csanádi is interested in pubs as a phenomenon, exploring various dimensions of pub culture and experiences. For example, why do we go to pubs, what makes a place good or bad, and what does a pub mean to a particular area? “I’m not a sociologist, I’m not investigating with a scientific approach, I don’t have that toolkit. However, I’ve been travelling around Hungary for a long time, and I don’t necessarily see it as a tragedy if low-quality pubs close. The usual suspects so often discussed are only partly the reasons behind this trend.

Csanádi identifies these factors as the causes often mentioned by hospitality workers, such as the removal of slot machines, smoking bans, inflation, COVID, or tobacco shops that operate as “quasi-pubs” in many places. “The impact of these is undeniable, but I believe there’s more to consider, and it’s worth approaching the issue of Hungarian pubs from a broader perspective.”

When Csanádi, now also hosting thematic tours, started the Kocsmaturista project, he had a romanticised view of the subject. “I thought I would mainly see communities, encounter many beautiful old stories, and find that the pubs described in works of literature do exist. However, this is less of a reality in rural Hungary, in small towns, or suburbs. I saw far more dehydrated, visibly alcoholic people with a blank stare than I had expected. And I visited far more bad places than I had anticipated. Based on this, I would say that we are in part mourning a false illusion when lamenting the closure of rural community spaces. A lot of these venues weren’t suitable for being true community spots for a broad segment of society.

A significant part of what we are witnessing is the fading away of the cheapness and quantity-focused, low-quality pub culture of Hungary’s socialist era. In my opinion, this is not a tragic phenomenon.

Especially considering that newer, higher-quality places have started opening in rural areas as well, not just in county seats and tourist cities. Of course, it’s not only bad places that are closing; many valuable, good pubs are also shutting down for various reasons. However, most closures are happening in this lower-quality segment.”

He adds that a major issue is that many pub owners do not ensure succession or feel a responsibility for the future of their establishment. As a result, when their lives take a different direction, they simply close the place as if it had never existed. Another significant reason for closures, especially in larger cities, is conflicts with neighbours, or battles that the neighbours win. Many pubs are forced to close because of complaints from those living nearby.

Csanádi believes the pub culture inherited from socialism should be approached critically, and for good reason. “I’m mainly thinking about cheap, large-scale, and not high-quality alcohol consumption. A lot of pubs were sustained in part because people would swing by for a drink both before and after work. As the old song says: >>The workday is done, you leave the factory – a shot of vodka makes you strong and brave<<.” (Beatrice: 8 óra munka) But – as Csanádi explains – work ethics have changed. “Nowadays, drinking at work is more often considered shameful, many workplaces conduct breathalyser tests, much more people drive, or factory workers are transported by company buses, so there’s less need for pubs between the factory and the train station.”

We can feel sorry and nostalgic about these old pubs, but it’s no coincidence that “pub-going” (‘kocsmázni’) has developed such a negative connotation in the Hungarian language. In rural areas, it’s widely accepted that women don’t go to such places, and if they know what’s good for them, they shouldn’t, either. Indeed, standards are often so low that they truly couldn’t walk in with a good feeling. Cobwebbed, dirty rooms where cheap wine and mass-produced spirits are served, or sour-tasting draft beer — provided there’s any draft beer to begin with. Bathrooms without lights, toilet paper, or soap, where it’s better not to touch anything because everything is sticky, dirty, and often smelly. Many such places still exist in Hungary today; remnants of socialist Hungary’s pub culture. And the sheer number of pubs was often linked to many family and personal tragedies. Despite this, exceptions do exist, and nothing makes me happier than discovering a good pub in rural Hungary.

Csanádi emphasises that it’s not just about the old, traditional pubs — the so-called “pub-pubs”—shutting down, but also that new ones are opening, although these receive less attention. “Even in small towns, newer, next-generation places are popping up, which often define themselves as communities, not just pubs. They aim not only to be good pubs but also good places to be. That’s the key to success — a good place finds its own audience.”

In his view, a good place means a pleasant environment, a friendly bartender, a decent selection of drinks, a clean appearance, a sense of culture, and impeccable hygiene. “For me, a bar stool is also essential” he adds. “I’m not a snob; overly fancy places aren’t my thing, just as rundown pubs aren’t either. I feel most at home in friendly, welcoming, community-oriented middle-ground pubs.”

Csanádi also highlights the stark differences between pub culture abroad and in Hungary. For example, English pubs or beer halls in Czechia, Slovakia, Poland, Austria, or Belgium have a very different atmosphere compared to Hungarian ones.

The background to this is that during socialism, Hungarian pubs primarily targeted the lower classes, whereas abroad, pubs were aimed more at the middle class.

“In England, the pub is a unique social forum where, for instance, a guy in a suit and a punk orders their drink at the same counter. In Italian bars, or in local cafes across the Balkans, Croatia, or Serbia, these places are special because they operate all day. In the morning, they’re coffee shops, and by evening they transform into pubs. During the day, locals go there more for socializing, talking, having coffee or soft drinks, rather than primarily for alcohol.”

Returning to Hungary, Csanádi asserts that what’s happening is not just a tragic decline,

but also a generational shift in pub culture.

“The needs and habits have changed, the audience has changed, and as a result, fewer pubs are needed than in the socialist Hungary of old.”

“People said we were crazy”

Ganna is a small, remote village located in a beautiful natural setting on the western edge of the Bakony Mountains, just 15 kilometers south of Pápa. After an hour’s drive from Tibi’s pub in Ete, we arrive at the settlement of only 243 people. This seems like one of the last places in the country where anyone would venture into hospitality. What could 243 people sustain? We’d guess nothing.

Naturally, we’re wrong.

Katalin Rávai and Róbert Török decided to take the plunge and opened their own place. The business is doing well, drawing guests like a magnet — almost from everywhere.

Katalin and her partner took over the rundown pub on the edge of the village just last year. In a mere four months, they cleaned it up, renovated it, and reimagined the space before officially opening it in this year’s April. The result is Bujdosó Pub, which, in honour of local traditions, chose Jóska Sobri, the legendary outlaw of the Bakony range, as its mascot. The Bujdosó is now a stylish pub with an extensive drink menu — offering at least ten types of beer, including craft beers — showcasing a somewhat American-inspired interior, and serving excellent Neapolitan pizzas made by Katalin herself.

Good thing it’s Monday, as we’re closed today. If you came on any other day, we wouldn’t be able to talk because there’s always constant coming and going here. Business is surprisingly good; we open at 10 a.m. and go home at midnight

– begins Róbert.

The couple bought a house in this Veszprém county village over ten years ago. The village is notable for being home to the Esterházy family mausoleum, where author Péter Esterházy was also laid to rest. “We had been running a business together back in Budapest, working in commerce. But for a while now, we’ve been living here and decided to move here permanently and start something new. We had no experience in hospitality; we simply thought that if we did something good, it would work. We’re even considering expanding the place, maybe adding a playroom or a covered terrace, and a proper kitchen with a chef would be great too.”

But can a village of 240 people really sustain a premium venue?

Several people have told us that we’re crazy for putting so much into this. That if not even that rundown, dilapidated place was able to survive, how could something like this work? Yes, that’s something we heard a lot, and it’s understandable. But we went ahead anyway, and people just started coming. Already at our opening party we had 150 guests.

– says Katalin.

Katalin and Róbert tell us that their clientele is diverse. On one hand, you have the locals from the village coming in regularly who are happy to have a place to sit and chat. Then there are those – the majority, actually – who arrive from the neighbouring villages, but there are friend groups from Pápa as well, sometimes visiting several times a week. “And they come for longer visits, have long conversations, eat pizzas. We also host events like music nights or wine tastings; these attract a lot of interest, too. We’re a family-friendly place; during the summer, the terrace was full of kids playing while their parents had a chat.”

The clientele is complemented by tourists arriving with organised bus trips to visit the nearby Esterházy mausoleum, or hikers travelling the Bakony region ending up in Ganna. “There are several guesthouses in Ganna, and those guests come regularly too. We’ve had visitors from Poland, the Netherlands, and even our twin village in Transylvania – just that night we sold 28 pizzas. Once, a whole group of bikers came from Paks and stayed for hours. Some people come out of curiosity because they’ve heard there’s an interesting place here where guests are well taken care of. Our crowd comes together from many places, so it’s clear the village alone couldn’t sustain us. It’s an important factor that a significant portion of our customers are women, accounting for 30-40% of our visitors. Sometimes people order pizzas as takeaway. We wouldn’t survive on drinks alone, but neither could we rely solely on pizza. The two support each other.”

So, is everything running as smoothly as it gets? Not exactly. Katalin and Róbert have many great experiences and receive a lot of positive feedback, the project is working. But the cost is six days a week, from morning until night, naturally including weekends — especially weekends.

There are so many costs, so much bureaucracy and inspections. Contributions are high. Right now, I feel like we’re at a standstill because we need to develop, but we don’t have the funds. We’re working with small margins. I can’t charge more than 700 forints for a beer because the retail price is much lower. We could also use a stable employee at some point, but that’s not easy to get, either. To be on more secure ground, we’d need to increase pizza sales to, say, 50 a day, but Kati can’t handle that alone, unless she’s to work herself to death. As it is, we’re here all the time, and we don’t even dare think about taking a vacation

– says Róbert.

Her partner is much more optimistic, believing that everything will eventually work out and fall into place.

“I love making pizza, I love kneading the dough, but I did get tired in the beginning. Then one of the customers gave us a dough mixer. Just like that. We’ve been using it ever since. I also remember there was a lady who didn’t even want to come in at first, saying it’s a pub, but I persuaded her. Now, she comes regularly. We’re constantly getting new customers. People value the experience of having a place where they are respected, where it’s good to come in and chat. They’ve been missing this — many people thank us for finally bringing some community life here.”

Social harm or benefit?

The issue of pubs is an intriguing one from a sociological perspective, too. Studies, mostly from Anglo-Saxon countries, report that regular pub attendance can have a positive psychological impact, as it makes people feel part of a community. These studies claim that being in such spaces helps improve mental health by allowing people to share and even solve their problems in a friendly atmosphere where stress can be released without needing to meet any particular expectations.

It’s important to note that while these studies typically examine the world of sophisticated British and American pubs and beer halls, in Hungary, the word “kocsma” is associated with an entirely different setting and atmosphere. Apart from a few university theses, no major research or monograph has examined the sociological processes that have been taking place in Hungary’s – still – ten thousand pubs over the past decades. (By comparison, an English study, for instance, even examined which days of the week patrons drink more quickly and which days they adopt a slower pace.)

This is exactly why we asked Bernadett Csurgó, a rural sociologist, for her opinion on how we should evaluate the closure of pubs, and what sociological function such places might have in a community. To begin with, is this trend good or bad?

“The pub is an important communal space in a village, much like the local store. When I’m doing fieldwork, I often notice that the shop and the pub are the meeting points in a village where locals gather, discuss local issues; that’s where you can bump into the doctor, teacher, or mayor” – she explains.

Overall, I view pubs as positive spaces as they can be interpreted as community hubs. Therefore, the disappearance of pubs is a negative trend in Hungary, as it means the loss of a fundamental service. The first part of this process is the closure of the school in a village, followed by the shop and then the pub. As aging progresses and services are dismantled, the village starts to head toward either decline or ghettoization. The disappearance of services is, of course, linked to the lack of a paying customer base, or perhaps the fact that the locals’ spending power is so sporadic — for example, they may only have money for one week each month — that it becomes unsustainable to run such businesses long-term.

According to the sociologist, the disappearance of old village pubs correlates with gentrification. This process involves wealthier, middle-class, or even more affluent people from cities appearing in villages and starting to transform them. A good example of this is the Káli Basin and, to some extent, the Őrség region. “This often goes hand in hand with the creation of new establishments, shops, and bistros that, however, do not cater to the needs of the long-time local residents. We also observe that these newer places don’t become spaces of integration; there’s no mingling. Instead, they mostly meet the needs of the newcomers and not traditional village society; the latter is in turn pushed out of these locations.”

Designer drugs replace alcohol in the poorest villages

According to Nóra L. Ritók, head of the Igazgyöngy Foundation, it’s not just pubs that are closing in impoverished rural areas, but services in general are disappearing. In other words, the “pub crisis” is part of a larger trend. Ritók bases her assessment on her experiences from the village of Told and its surroundings in eastern Hungary.

In these places, everything is increasingly shifting toward the grey and black markets, while villages are becoming more and more deprived of basic services. Shops that can offer goods on credit tend to survive, but those that can’t eventually close down. There’s also a tendency for small shops to gradually become more like pubs, as alcohol has a long shelf life, unlike many food items. At the same time, there’s the black-market version of alcohol sales in villages, partially replacing pubs: homemade fruit spirit (‘pálinka’) or wine. Customers just yell over the fence and the transaction takes place in front of the seller’s home, with the debt written up in a notebook – to be paid when the family receives social benefits.

Based on her experiences, Nóra L. Ritók doesn’t believe that the presence or absence of a pub makes much difference to the number of alcoholics in an area, so in this sense, there’s no negative impact. However, she also doesn’t think that pubs are particularly important community spaces in the small settlements she’s familiar with. “There is a counterexample nearby, where sports have managed to build a community around a pub, but this is not typical. More often, it’s just lonely drinkers sitting by themselves.”

A sociologist focusing on poverty research in Northern Hungary adds that in the areas they know, pubs closed years ago. “The poorest people here don’t even go to pubs anymore. In many places, alcohol has been replaced by much cheaper designer drugs or even rat poison.”

“Going to the pub has become a luxury”

Our last pub owner hasn’t gotten rich in recent years either, but neither is he planning to quit. He says he faces many challenges, but this is his profession, he loves doing it, and he can’t imagine doing anything else for a living. He doesn’t want to go work in a factory or a shop. István Lőrincz is the owner and jack-of-all-trades at the Szöglet Pub in Nyékládháza, Borsod County. A cheerful, smiling, good-humoured man; we spent two hours in his company without hearing a single complaint. Even when mentioning something unpleasant, he tries to turn it into a joke. “There’s my Punto, I bought it in 2012 for 1.2 million forints. I couldn’t afford a new one now, so why would I want to replace it anyway?”

It’s clear from the very first moment that Lőrincz is not the type to be pressed for information. While handing over our welcome soda, he already recalls how everything began. “I’ve been running this pub for ten years. Originally, the idea was to give it a go in Ireland, but then I figured people drink here too, so why travel? Plus, it’s convenient since I live just next door.”

As I sip my soda, Lőrincz shares more.

Oh, I don’t drink or smoke. Just a glass of champagne on New Year’s Eve, and that’s my quota for the year. I say, more left for the guests. Besides, you shouldn’t. There was a pub owner who drank with the customers, and at some point, he started giving away drinks for free. He went bankrupt. If you drink behind the bar, it’s over. You miscount, you mispour, there will be trouble, and then there’s this free-for-all, because customers can immediately sense if they can get away with nabbing something. It’s forbidden — don’t do it! And you need presence of mind, too. Lots of different situations can arise; this job is more exhausting mentally than physically. There was a time when someone fell and hit their head, and we had to call an ambulance right away. I even had a customer who was so wasted that I put him in my car and took him home. I decided he shouldn’t ride his bike in that state. I’m that kind of pub owner. My customers are important to me. And I give credit too. There was one who owed half a million forints, but he paid it back. For larger amounts, I have them sign a written acknowledgement right away.

We interject: how’s business going?

“Well, what can I say? Fewer people are coming, and they’re consuming less. Eight years ago, Józsi would come in, down three or four vodkas and then drink three beers on top just to keep it pleasant, not just strong. Today? He stops at one. One vodka, one beer, and that’s it. But people still come to me; a place just closed down in the next street, they gave up.

Do you make a profit?

“Sometimes yes, sometimes no. What business isn’t like this? I make a living, I even manage to save; we don’t live in luxury, but I can provide for my family. I’m raising my child alone, with help from my parents. Our house has a slate roof; I’m just replacing it with tiles. We didn’t even go on vacation this year because of that. Maybe next year.”

Running this business is still walking on thin ice, even though I’m no longer behind on energy bills by two or three months. It’s like a puzzle, needing constant readjustment. Recently, the ice cream machine broke down, costing half a million forints. I also just replaced something in the car that I use to transport goods; that was around seventy thousand. What would be left over tends to go toward expenses like these.

Szöglet is also a sports pub; the name translates to ‘corner kick’. Events like the UEFA European Championship, the Olympics, or a weekend showdown always help attract crowds. There’s a fishing lake and a beach nearby, and many cyclists come through here, some of whom become customers. Locals from Nyékládháza come by often, “many times because they realize I’m a friendlier pub keeper, that I always have a kind word for my customers, that I listen to them, and I chat with them. Many only have me to talk to about their problems, and people often seek my advice. If I can help, I’m happy to do so.”

However, he also faces significant challenges in finding staff. He has a collection of stories related to this issue. “Either they start fiddling with the money or the drinks. I can’t believe how many times I’ve had to run these laps! I always tell them upfront that it’s not worth trying to cheat; I always find out, there are cameras behind the bar. Yet they still do. You can see as they slip money into their pocket; I once had to tell this guy to hand back a twenty thousand forint note. He returned it, and that was goodbye. There was also one guy I had to deal with for a year; after a while, he began stumbling over his words, and it turned out he had been drinking on the job — wine, shots, everything. That’s mortal danger; the tax authority can show up anytime and shut you down. By the way they’re my special favourites, those tax officials. I always recognise them, no matter they’re dressed like regular folks. They mostly go after new places; they haven’t been here for a while. One time, they came to verify if the Royal vodka actually contained what was labelled on the bottle. They measured, calculated. It was all good.”

Is this life difficult?

What do you mean?

How many hours do you work?

Nonstop. Basically, I live here, but my home is also just next door.

Opening time is at six in the morning, and closing is at ten in the evening. In between, he takes his child to kindergarten and picks him up in the afternoon. “My father and mother help me with raising him. If I hire someone for the summer season, then I can spend more time with my son. But I don’t complain about being here a lot. I usually say: it’s enough and to spare. I meet and talk to many people. I feel good; I love doing this. It’s not easy, but what is? I feel lucky to be able to do this. The freedom of being my own boss is priceless. It’s not like I think I’m too good to work anywhere else, but here, I do what I want, and I don’t have to wait for someone to tell me when I can take a lunch break. This is my own thing; I fought for it. And the scenes you can sometimes see here – I can only stare in silence behind the bar. Once a woman dragged her husband home by his ear. There have been exposed secret dates, everything. You can’t see better scenes at the movies!”

Lőrincz has one final observation about the profession that any of our previous pub keepers could have told us:

The problem is that it used to be natural to go to a pub. Nowadays, though, it’s become a luxury.