#manlysize

The house remembered them as boys. They came back as men who could no longer hide their bodies — or the lives they had built inside them. Adam. Jonáš. Matúš. Three brothers with broad shoulders, hard hands, protruding ears, and bellies that reached the table before they did.

After their father’s death, they are forced to stay together for seven days. Cook from their mother’s recipe notebook. Eat at the same table. Only then can they decide what will become of the house. But some dinners uncover more than old memories.

A goulash so heavy no one can rise from the table afterward. Pirohy made in impossible quantities, as if the whole village were still expected to arrive. And Jonáš, slowly realizing that fullness awakens more in him than shame. Something far more dangerous.

Three Brothers is a story about men who spent their whole lives mistaking strength for the ability to carry more than everyone else.

Three Brothers is a text that begins as a seemingly simple family narrative about returning to the parental home and cooking from a mother’s recipe book, but gradually transforms into a bodily grotesque with a psychological undertow. Its strongest motif is unmistakable: food as inheritance, escape, competition, eroticised attention, and a form of acceptance.

The plot has clear narrative drive. The recipe book gives the story a natural structure: goulash, Szeged goulash, pierogi, French-style potatoes, sweet dishes, stuffed peppers, and dukátové buchtičky. Each dish becomes a chapter in both physical and mental progression. The brothers do not eat because they are hungry. They eat because, through food, they restore family bonds, prove their masculinity, and gradually allow themselves to be drawn into a ritual that ceases to be innocent.

Chapter 23

Tibor gave Matúš a subtle, man-to-man smile and set the first plate down in front of him. It was ravioli. Large, glossy ravioli coated in butter and sprinkled with Parmesan. The aroma of pasta, cheese, and herbs immediately drifted up toward him. Matúš’s eyes lit up. He loved ravioli. For an appetizer, it was a respectable portion—almost suspiciously respectable—but he didn’t think much about it. Tibor said, “First appetizer.”

Matúš picked up his utensils and started eating. On a screen in a small room next door, betting immediately opened up. People were placing wagers on how long it would take him to finish the first serving. Tibor started a stopwatch. Matúš had no idea. He ate quickly, calmly, with the confidence of a man who didn’t like wasting time. The ravioli disappeared fast. Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. Stop. Four minutes and twenty-seven seconds. Nobody guessed it correctly.

Tibor poured Matúš a glass of wine and brought out the second appetizer. This time it was warm potato croquettes with bryndza cream, bacon dust, and onion oil. Maybe two hundred fifty grams, but plated elegantly. Tasting-menu style. Innocent-looking. Matúš figured this wouldn’t be a problem. It wasn’t. Tibor stood nearby, occasionally topping off his glass, occasionally encouraging him with a short comment. Matúš ate and felt his competitive side slowly waking up. Not against the audience he didn’t know existed. Against himself. After the second appetizer came another glass of wine and a third plate. Matúš thought it would finally be the main course. It wasn’t. A beef tartare on toasted bread landed in front of him. Another appetizer. Matúš was already starting to feel pressure in his stomach. He’d basically eaten almost a kilo of food and they were still just getting started. He finished it.

Tibor poured more wine and asked, “Everything okay?”

Matúš wiped his mouth and nodded.

Tibor added, “Everything so far is going on the menu.”

Matúš leaned back. His shirt was stretched tight across his stomach.

“Compliments to the chef. The food is outstanding.”

Tibor smiled and asked if he was ready for the next course. Matúš nodded. A moment later, a bowl of thick tripe soup was sitting in front of him. He loved tripe soup. He scooped up a hefty chunk of tripe with his spoon like an excavator. The soup was spicy, rich, heavy, and thick. He didn’t even notice there was almost four hundred milliliters of it. The hot paprika flushed his face. His ears turned red. The tripe soup vanished into his belly like a glass of water. The betting intensified.

Back home, Adam and Jonáš sat in front of a laptop, staring at the screen in disbelief. They watched Matúš as one dish after another disappeared from the plates. After the tripe soup came a rich beef broth with liver dumplings. Then Hungarian goulash with homemade bread dumplings. In the corner of the screen, estimated calorie counts kept updating.

4,200 kcal.

Jonáš didn’t move. Adam sat with his hands resting on the table, watching Matúš’s shirt struggle more and more against his stomach. Watching the fabric stretch. Watching the mass of his belly press against the edge of the table. Watching his brother keep a calm expression while his body was already working at full capacity. Tibor brought another dish. Roasted duck liver with onion jam, butter brioche, and red wine sauce. Matúš looked up.

“How much more do you have prepared?”

Tibor smiled.

“You’ve already eaten more than half.”

The betting picked up momentum. Tibor leaned toward Matúš and whispered that he could unbutton his shirt. It would be more comfortable. If he wanted, Tibor could do it for him. Matúš agreed. Tibor slowly loosened the buttons. The shirt opened, and Matúš’s stomach finally spilled forward. The next dish was already in front of him. Pork cheeks with root vegetables, potato cream purée, pan sauce, and crispy onions. Matúš picked up his utensils. He ate. He was surprised himself that he still wasn’t full. Then another dish arrived. Grilled sausage with bean ragout and sauerkraut. Another glass of wine. The wine was lighter, but it helped. It dulled the boundaries.

Adam kept staring at the screen. He wanted to do something. Turn it off. Call him. Go get him. But he sat there, hypnotized. He was starting to get worried. In the corner of the screen it now read: 8,400 kcal.

Adam remembered the time he’d tried to eat ten thousand calories at a Chinese buffet. It hadn’t ended well. Even though he’d absolutely stuffed himself that day, he’d been banned from that buffet ever since.

Jonáš looked at him.

“You actually have experience with that? I never would’ve guessed.”

Adam didn’t answer. He kept watching Matúš.

Matúš was served cottage cheese crepes with butter, sugar, and fruit sauce. He thought that had to be the end. After the crepes came their famous steamed buns. Four large ones, soft, sprinkled with poppy seeds and drenched in butter and sugar. A lot for a tasting menu. Then came tiramisu in a deep bowl. Creamy, heavy, sweet. Matúš ate more slowly. But he kept eating. The last bite disappeared into his belly after two and a half hours. Everything.

Tibor walked in carrying a pitcher of water. He poured a glass and then looked at Matúš. He was slumped back in the armchair, shirt open, jacket pushed behind him, his stomach enormous, stretched tight, and heavy.

“Can you stand up?” Tibor asked.

“Don’t you have anything else?” Matúš said with a smile.

“No.” Tibor shook his head. “I’ll help you up.”

Matúš stood. He felt a little drunk, but after seeing the four empty wine bottles, he wasn’t surprised. He took off his shirt and handed it to Tibor. It was soaked with sweat and missing buttons, but it had done its job. Matúš tried to pull his T-shirt back on. His stomach was too large, too full, and hanging too low. The fabric caught on top of his belly and refused to go any farther. After a moment, he gave up. He kept only the jacket on. His belly remained exposed. Full. Heavy. Visible.

Tibor asked, “Can I help somehow?”

The question caught Matúš off guard more than he expected. For a split second, only one answer flashed through his head: Only if you feed me yourself. He didn’t say it. He didn’t have to.

Without another word, Tibor picked up the fork. He cut off a large piece of steamed bun, added poppy seeds, a little melted butter, and calmly lifted it to Matúš’s mouth. Matúš froze in surprise. This was exactly what he wanted. He no longer had to prove he was in control. He could just lean back and let Tibor guide him through the last bites. He chewed.

The bun was soft and hot. The poppy seeds clung to his tongue, the butter soaked into the dough, and the plum jam opened only on the second bite — thick and sweet. Tibor waited. Matúš gave a small nod for him to continue. Another piece. Then another.

Fork. Bite. Chewing. Breath.

The first bun disappeared from the plate before Matúš even realized when it had happened. Tibor’s ears had turned red. He looked calm, focused, almost professional. He was feeding Matúš, and he knew perfectly well this had stopped being just about food a long time ago. For a moment he paused. He looked at Matúš more softly than before and asked quietly, “Can I keep going?” There was no arrogance in it. No power play.

Just the caution of someone who understood that the line between helping, pleasure, and humiliation had become dangerously thin — and didn’t want to cross it without permission. Matúš said nothing. He just leaned back heavily and gave the slightest nod. Tibor continued.

The second bun was harder. Matúš chewed more slowly now. Every bite settled inside him with increasing weight. His stomach pressed so hard against the edge of the table that it felt less like the wood was supporting him and more like it was anchoring him in place.

He breathed deeper. Slower. Sometimes he closed his eyes before he had even finished chewing.

Tibor never stopped. He cut smaller pieces now, more patiently, adjusting himself to a body that had been saying enough for a long time and was still accepting another bite. Matúš felt every swallow immediately.

Warmth. Weight. Pressure. Relief.

The last piece took the longest. Tibor held it on the fork a second longer than necessary. Matúš stared at it for a moment. Then he opened his mouth. He finished it with his eyes closed. When he swallowed, he didn’t move for several seconds. He just sat there sprawled at the table, shirt unbuttoned, huge stomach spread across the tabletop, breathing slow and heavy, arms hanging at his sides like a fighter after a match he technically won — but at a cost he still hadn’t fully understood.

Chapter 3

The morning was waking up slowly. Warm light flooded the kitchen, and the house still carried the heavy atmosphere of the previous night’s overeating. An empty pot of goulash still sat on the counter, along with Adam’s strong coffee, steam rising from the mug. Adam was sitting at the island wearing only sweatpants, no shirt. His large belly spilled over the waistband, shifting forward slightly with every deeper breath. He was still full, yet somehow already hungry again. Not intensely. More like a quiet, familiar feeling that seemed to return surprisingly soon after every big meal. He watched his reflection in the dark glass and thought about Jonah. He was beginning to understand what Jonah loved about it. It wasn’t just the food. Slow footsteps sounded from upstairs. Matthew came down wearing only sweatpants as well, sweaty and still half asleep. His huge belly swayed lazily as he walked. The moment he entered the kitchen, he noticed Jonah contentedly rubbing his enormous stomach. The whole scene felt strangely masculine and absurd at the same time. Matthew smirked: “You’ve definitely got the biggest gut out of all of us.”

Jonah slowly looked up. “Please. Take a look at yourself first.”

Matthew laughed and pointed at his belly. “No, seriously. You look like a professional eater after the season’s over.”

Jonah leaned back and rested a hand on his stomach. “Says the guy who could barely make it down the stairs.”

Matthew looked Jonah up and down for a moment, then suddenly opened a drawer.

Jonah frowned. “What are you doing?”

Matthew pulled out a measuring tape and held it up triumphantly. “I want proof.”

Jonah laughed. “You’re insane.”

Matthew stepped closer. “Stand up.”

Jonah was laughing, but once he stood in the middle of the kitchen and the tape started wrapping around his waist, it was obvious he was more interested in the result than he wanted to admit. His enormous belly pushed the tape forward, making it impossible to pull it tight. Adam watched silently from behind his coffee mug. Matthew bent down, focused, connected the tape, and looked at the number. He went quiet for a second. Jonah asked impatiently, “Well?”

Matthew looked up at him and said, “One hundred forty-seven centimeters.”

Matthew burst out laughing so hard he had to lean against the counter. Jonah looked down at his body. He smiled with satisfaction. Adam smiled too and set his mug down on the island.

“Your belly’s like a drum.” Matthew laughed even harder.

Jonah raised an eyebrow. “Try it.” Matthew didn’t hesitate. He slapped Jonah’s enormous belly with his full palm so hard that the sound echoed through the entire kitchen. “Exactly. A drum.”

Jonah cracked up and grabbed his stomach. “You idiot.”

A moment later, Matthew walked over to Adam as well. Adam warned him. “Don’t even try it.” Matthew slapped his belly too. The dull thump bounced off the kitchen cabinets. Matthew nodded approvingly. “You sound good too.” Adam laughed, even though he acted offended. The laughter mixed with the morning sunlight and the lingering fatigue from the meal. They started counting again—the gallons of goulash, the bread, the sausages, and the late-night eating straight from the pot. The numbers sounded ridiculous. Even so, the hunger was slowly coming back.

After a moment, Jonah rubbed his belly and asked, “You guys aren’t getting hungry again already, are you?”

Matthew laughed. “After everything we destroyed yesterday?”

Adam looked down into his mug and stayed quiet.

Jonah stared at him. “Adam?”

“A little.” Adam finally admitted.

Matthew stopped laughing. He looked at them, then at his own stomach, and sighed. “Fine. Me too.”

Jonah smiled with satisfaction. “That’s exactly what I thought.”

As a joke, Matthew grabbed his big protruding ears and started pulling them out to the sides. “Look at us. We look like elephants. Big-bellied, big-eared, and always hungry.” Adam laughed. “That’s way too accurate.” Their laughter echoed through the whole house. Finally, Jonah straightened up and made a decision.

“I’m going to get breakfast.”

Matthew looked at him. “Like that?”

Jonah looked down at his sweatpants and bare chest. “No. I’ll clean myself up first.”

A few minutes later, he came downstairs dressed in the same suit he had worn the day before. The sight was ridiculous. The white dress shirt was stretched across his enormous belly to its absolute limit. Two buttons in the middle were already missing. Wide gaps had formed between the remaining buttons, exposing his deep belly button underneath. His suit jacket hung completely open because fastening it was no longer possible.

Matthew immediately started laughing. “You look like a mobster after a three-week all-inclusive vacation.”

Jonah stopped in the doorway and looked at him calmly. “Keep laughing while you can.”

Matthew wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. “Why?”

Jonah pointed at his belly. “A few more nights like that, and you won’t fit into that shirt either.”

That made Adam laugh too.

Caption 5

Jonáš arrived in town. He knew the old streets by heart. The facades had fresh paint, and where old shops once stood there were now salons, small bistros, and cafés. He drove past the old bakery. A low building with a faded sign, small windows, and a door they used to walk through as boys to buy rolls, sweet buns, and poppy seed cake. He couldn’t smell the baked goods through the closed car window, but his memory filled it in instantly. Warm rolls. Buttery pastries. Yeast dough. Sweet farmer’s cheese. He was about to park when he noticed something new a block farther down. A café. Large clean windows, a dark frame, a wooden sign above the door. Modern, but not sterile. The breakfast menu was painted in white on the glass, and beneath it was a name that caught his attention even more than the storefront itself.

BREAKFEAST. He chuckled to himself. A weak pun, but an effective one.

He parked by the curb. For a moment he stayed in the car. The shirt stretched across his belly was holding together mostly out of habit. He tried to tuck it in a little. His stomach got in the way of every movement. The fabric couldn’t really be smoothed out anymore, only shifted from one point of tension to another. He got out of the car. Once he was standing, he felt his weight more clearly than before. He crossed the sidewalk and went inside.

The café was open, but empty.

The air smelled of coffee, butter, and something sweet that was baking somewhere in the back. The room was warm, with wooden tables, soft chairs, and a large counter at the far end. Behind the display glass sat croissants, cakes, sweet buns, savory pastries, and tall sandwiches. A breakfast menu hung on the wall.

Jonáš stopped by the door. For a second he hesitated. Is it open? Muted sounds of dishes and someone moving around came from the kitchen, but otherwise it was quiet. He sat down at a table by the window. Jonáš settled into his seat slowly. The booth was fairly narrow. His stomach immediately bumped against the edge of the table.

He remained seated with his belly pressed against the tabletop, his jacket unbuttoned and his shirt stretched so tightly that every breath was visible. He rested his palms on his thighs and looked at the menu.

Breakfast for One — eggs, bacon, bread, spread, vegetables Big Breakfast — three eggs, sausage, bacon, beans, potatoes, bread House Feast — a selection of hot and sweet breakfast items, pastries, eggs, meat, cakes, coffee, and much more!

Jonáš paused at the last option. House Feast?

The words immediately created pleasant images in his mind. He had come to buy breakfast, but stopping for only coffee and a couple of butter rolls would have been disappointing.

A young man stepped out of the kitchen. He couldn’t have been much older than thirty. Slim, well-groomed, moving with effortless confidence. He wore a white T-shirt and an apron tied around his waist. A fresh skin fade highlighted the shape of his head. And his ears. Large, protruding, impossible to miss. Jonáš smiled.

Maybe it was some kind of local trait. Maybe men here were born with ears like family crests. Him. Matúš. Adam. And now this young waiter or cook who looked like he had just stepped out of a modern barbershop advertisement.

“Good morning. We’re serving already.”

He approached with a smile. His eyes briefly landed on Jonáš’s stretched shirt and the large stomach pressed against the table. The young man picked up a menu even though Jonáš already had one in front of him.

“Coffee?”

“A strong one, please.”

“And something to go with it?”

Jonáš looked back at the menu. He knew he had only come to buy breakfast for the three of them. He knew he should say, just coffee, please.

Instead he pointed at the last item. “What exactly is the House Feast?”

The young man smiled slightly. “That depends on how much you want to eat.”

“How much I want to eat?” Jonáš repeated.

“Eggs, bacon, sausage, bread, homemade spreads, sweet pastries. Depends on what’s ready that morning. Coffee included. Want to try it?”

Jonáš felt that familiar tension stir in his chest. Last night. The goulash. Adam’s look. The scale in the bathroom. One hundred fifty-three. Jonáš placed a hand on the menu. Through the fabric he could feel his stomach pressing against the table. “I’ll try it.”

The young man wrote down the order and asked one more question. “The full House Feast?”

A simple question. But to Jonáš it sounded like a challenge. He nodded. “The full one.”

Jonáš leaned back as far as the chair allowed. In the process his stomach pressed even harder into the edge of the table, and the gap between the buttons of his shirt widened slightly.

The young man smiled. His gaze drifted lower. To the stretched white shirt. To the missing buttons. To the huge belly resting against the table, impossible to ignore. Jonáš noticed. He had become sensitive to that. He could tell the difference between mockery and curiosity. This wasn’t mockery. The young man quickly lifted his eyes back to Jonáš’s face. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to stare.”

Jonáš looked at him. “You from around here?”

“Yeah. I worked in Bristol for a few years. Now I’m back. This place is ours.” He gestured around the café.

“Ours?”

The young man nodded and explained that his sister did the baking and worked in the kitchen while he handled everything else.

“Mom says we’ll be bankrupt within a year, so we’ve got motivation.” He said it with a grin.

“The name’s good,” Jonáš remarked.

“Breakfeast?”

“Cheap wordplay. But good.”

The young man laughed. “That was exactly the goal.”

He set down silverware wrapped in a napkin and a glass of water. As he leaned forward, his eyes drifted once again toward Jonáš’s stomach.

“Think the House Feast will be enough for you?” He smiled.

Jonáš raised an eyebrow. “Is that a question or a provocation?”

“Professional estimate.”

“And what does the estimate say?”

The young man looked him over again. Not provocatively. Practically. Then he said, “I’ll bring you the basics first. Then you can decide.” Jonáš felt something familiar wake up inside him. It wasn’t excitement. More like anticipation. That dangerous spark.

“With us, the House Feast can be expanded depending on how much you can handle. Sort of an all-you-can-eat concept, but we keep it under control so food doesn’t go to waste.”

Jonáš looked at him more carefully. There was nothing fake in the smile. Just the calm confidence of someone who understood that food wasn’t only a service. It was also a way of reading people.

“What’s your name?”

“Tibor.”

“Jonáš. Nice to meet you.”

Tibor looked at Jonáš. A massive young man with a handsome face and a powerful build. The morning light shone through his large protruding ears.

“Those ears really are some kind of local trademark.”

Jonáš laughed out loud. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

“Don’t worry,” Tibor said. “Around here we consider them a mark of quality.”

Tibor turned toward the kitchen but stopped at the counter first. “Oh, and by the way, if that shirt is bothering you, feel free to unbutton it.”

Jonáš looked up. Tibor wasn’t smiling. Not mockingly. Just matter-of-factly. Like someone who could see something was uncomfortable and saw no reason to make it embarrassing. “You’re alone in here for now,” Tibor added. “And we’ll see whether we need to expand that House Feast.”

Then he disappeared into the kitchen. Jonáš remained sitting by the window without moving. The sentence stayed with him. If that shirt is bothering you, feel free to unbutton it. The shirt really was bothering him. It stretched across his stomach, pulled with every breath, and the remaining buttons were holding on with such effort that every movement felt risky. Gaps between them revealed strips of skin. One deep breath and the fabric creaked again at the seams.

He felt it again. That strange excitement. Intense. Not just because of the food that was coming. Because of the entire situation. Sitting in a strange café. Wearing a shirt that was barely holding together. With his stomach pressed against the table. Slowly, Jonáš placed his fingers on the tightest button. He hesitated. Then he unfastened it. The fabric immediately relaxed outward. Not much. But enough to let him take a deeper breath. His stomach shifted forward and settled more comfortably against the table. The relief was so strong he had to close his eyes. He opened another button. Then another. The shirt parted like a curtain. His belly spilled majestically across the table.

Footsteps came from the kitchen. Jonáš quickly placed his hands on the table, but he didn’t button the shirt back up. Tibor arrived carrying the basics. On a large wooden tray sat buttered eggs, crispy bacon, a sausage split down the middle, crispy potatoes, beans in thick tomato sauce, two kinds of spreads, a bowl of pickled vegetables, and a basket of bread with steam still rising from it. Beside that he placed a smaller plate of sweets: two croissants, a sweet cheese bun, a slice of poppy seed cake, and a small cream-filled pastry. Finally he set down a strong coffee.

Tibor glanced at the open shirt, then at Jonáš’s face. He said nothing. And somehow that was the worst part. No joke. No surprise. No “I knew it.” Just calm acceptance, as if the whole thing were part of the standard breakfast experience.

“Your breakfast starter,” Tibor said.

“This is the starter?”

“Yes.”

“And the expansion?”

Tibor smiled slightly. “That comes if you still have the appetite and the will to keep eating.”

A short breath caught in Jonáš’s throat. Tibor handed him the silverware. “Eat slowly. Enjoy every bite.”

Jonáš picked up the fork. The first bite was egg, bacon, and bread. Warm. Greasy. Salty. Simple. Good. So good that he rolled his eyes. The second bite was bigger. By the third, he had stopped thinking about what he would tell Adam and Matúš about why he had spent so long in town.

The café was still empty. The first people were walking outside. Inside, Jonáš sat by the window with his shirt open, his enormous stomach resting against the table, and a breakfast in front of him that was called the starter.