Hungarian sausage

My mother once came to visit me when I was at boarding school in Canterbury in the nineteen eighties. I seem to recall that she had come with my grandparents who took us out for lunch. It would have been somewhere smart. After they had departed, my mother stayed and took me shopping. I do not recall where we went but I can remember one of the things she bought me: a large Hungarian sausage: bright red, coarse, full of garlic and studded throughout with fat and peppercorns. I think I ate it in one sitting, on my bed, after Mum had left; that I still recall it, thirty years later, is a testament to its quality. Ever since, I have been trying to find something similar, but have never succeeded. The Hungarian sausages I have encountered since have been disappointing: too salty or too greasy, like the worst kind of Danish salami. One day, though, I will find what I am looking for.