Slick arias served up on a plate

In the Bel Canto everything is

The violinist, with his wild, black hair and penetrating eyes, weaves among the tables, playing like there's no tomorrow - and not much left of today. Other members of his quartet (on viola, piano and cello) are fanning the flames of his Hungarian frenzy.

The violin player's elbow isn't the only joint that's jumping. The whole place, packed with late-night diners, is being swept up in the excitement of the performance.

Every so often the half-dozen waiters - in their black-ties, white shirts and long white aprons - line up in front of the musicians and deliver a rattling chorus from Verdi or Rossini. In an instant, they are back delivering food and drink to the tables. It's so slick it looks spontaneous.

Guest singers wait in the wings, or, rather, hang about near the kitchens. A hearty gent with a nice line in classics, such as La Donna e Mobile, appears regularly for a song or two. And there's a diminutive lady in fishnet stockings and a skirt that should perhaps be a fraction longer. When she sings Puccini, a voice of dinner-stopping purity fills the restaurant.

Even the manager steps up to do a quick turn. Then a well-built gent at the table next to us, who has been alternating between scoffing and jigging in his seat, finally stands up and lets rip with his own solo performance.

He's great! At the Bel Canto, it seems, it's not over till the fat diner sings ...

"Not bad for barbarians, eh?" said my Hungarian companion. Her gentle barb had a serious point. The West European psyche still associates the old Soviet countries with backwardness. But the truth is that Hungary has been at the heart of European civilisation for centuries. Bel Canto was just operatic dessert. The musical main course had been served up earlier, just across the road, at the State Opera House.

A double bill had started with C'est la Guerre, an Hungarian opera from the 1960s by Emil Petrovics - who later graced us with his presence on stage. After Tokaji wine and cakes in the bar at the interval, we returned to our seats for a sex-and-violence-flavoured production of Bartok's ballet The Miraculous Mandarin. Gyorgy Szakaly was suitably spooky as the indestructible Mandarin, and Julianna Juratsek - all black mane, scarlet slit-dress and long white limbs - incandescent as his seducer.

Whether you go to the State Opera House for the heavy metal of the Ring Cycle (playing next in early 2003), the light froth of a Nutcracker at Christmas or the premier of a Hungarian opera (probably firing squads and suicides), you are guaranteed something unforgettable.

Just don't forget to book Bel Canto. You might get the chance to perform a quick aria...