day of reckoning

Two weeks left to go in Belgrade, and it was time for the much-anticipated pig slaughter. Milutin had been feeding the pigs a diet of acorns, barley, and rye, for the two months leading up to the fateful Sunday, and I had hatched out a plan to turn all of the meat into various cured meats, sausages, and the like. I have slaughtered my share of chickens (maybe I should write about that sometime), and killed a few fish in my life, but I have had no experience participating in or watching the slaughter of a large mammal. I sketched out a rough map, we toasted with some herb-infused rakija, and we lit cigars; the next few hours would be in the trained hands of the butcher and his assistants.

The lighting for the morning event was surreal and perhaps prescient: fog-thickened still air, rays of sun bursting through silhouetted oaks. The trees were long since stripped of their seeds-come-forage, but this morning was unseasonably warm, despite my numb fingertips. The nearby geese heard Milutin’s offer of one of their carcasses; they seemingly wanted nothing of it.

While I saw the butcher’s work on all three pigs, I witnessed the actual slaughter of only one. I will not make it out to be a beautiful thing to see. Put bluntly, it was rather difficult to watch. Instead of a relatively peaceful shot to the head in the pen, the butcher and his men wrestled with the pig to bring it out into the open for the kill. Stress, even just these few minutes, affects the flavor and texture of the meat and is to be avoided to the point of delaying a slaughter if a pig gets too spooked. It was all the sadder since this pig had heretofore lived a wonderful life on pasture and acorns.

When finally out in the yard, the pig was positioned, and a bullet fired into its skull. The death was instantaneous, though the convulsions lasted several minutes. As the heart continues to beat for several seconds, the carotid artery is quickly severed to drain the blood into a bowl. Next the carcass is scalded and rolled in hot water to facilitate removal of the outer layer of skin and hair. The men scrub until most of the hair is removed and then finish by burning off remaining hair and skin with a large propane torch. The pig is hoisted up from the branch of a tree, eviscerated, beheaded, and hacked in half lengthwise. Shoulders for coppa and sausage, loins for lonzino, jowls for guanciale, legs for prosciutto, belly for bacon, and remaining fatback for lardo. Hearts, lungs, and blood would make a blood sausage recipe I learned in France. Liver would combine with some extra belly to make a rich pâté.

As the last of the parts were carried into the outhouse to continue to cool (this would be difficult today, as the sun had broken through the fog and it was 8C and rising), we headed up the hill to the home of Milutin’s parents-in-law for some offal goulash. The variety meats for this stew came from the first pig slaughtered earlier that morning. It quickly became clear why this stew is a slaughter day tradition: we were chilled from the cool air and famished from a lack of breakfast since we had awoken six hours earlier. It was hearty, well-spiced, fatty, and even for me some of the textures were somewhat difficult to handle. Still, I scarfed down several helpings. The ubiquitous cabbage salad, tangy with apple cider vinegar and seasoned only with salt and sunflower oil, was a great counterpoint to the rich goulash. We loaded up over 150kg of pig parts into the car, the bulk of work still ahead of me.

aikido

When I was younger (much younger), I remember getting signed up for some summer classes at the Northridge Park community center. We’re talking twenty-plus years ago. I remember seeing other kids my age, shouting something (counting?) in unison, doing jumping jacks on tatami mats. They wore white robes. They were learning how to beat up other kids; kids like me, who were instead signed up for piano lessons with the overbearing old man. I reckon that overbearing old man was part of why I would eventually rebel against the ivory, giving up a bright future on my Yamaha keyboard.

Fair enough, I never got beat up, but it would have been so cool to earn a black belt. Whatever: I eventually blocked out the painful memories and picked up the alto saxophone, earning me the respect of all the babes in high school. Hell, I practically dated Winnie Cooper (sorry: perhaps an arcane reference)! I’m all growns up now and in Belgrade, and all but forgot about this episode of my life (well, the piano teacher/karate bit). And then Miloš told me about and invited me to the aikido classes he takes three times a week. As all the memories returned, a puddle of tears collected at my feet. I would earn my black belt, damnit, even if it is too late to regain my dignity. So I tagged along, ironically checking my dignity at the door.

Like most of my time in Belgrade, for every five minutes of instructions in Serbian I got an average 30 seconds’ translation. Still, as awkward as it was to try and join the routine, I got to rather enjoying the classes. I tried to pay for the class but (yes, you guessed it) my money was refused on the grounds of my visiting guest status. My favorite class was when we ran around the room (fast) for 20 minutes before proceeding to do all manner of squat-jumps, somersaults, and the like. I pushed my old out-of-shape body much too far and ended up barely limping home later that night—it was great to have such a thorough workout.

All went well until one class when my foot ended up under Miloš’s. No big deal. We switched sparring partners and then, long story short, my other foot’s big toe made an audible (to me, anyway) snap as his foot came down on it in an awkward way. It got pushed back and mildly fractured. I, expertly playing the part of wimp, buckled down in pain. I limped home that night and, between my toe and my increasingly-busy work schedule, never ended up making it back. Alas, my black belt would have to wait until my return to Boston…

grilled tubes

“Tubes” are the best commonly understood translation of intestines between me and the cooks. When I need to stuff sausages, I must remember to ask for tubes, not casings or intestines. I have eaten my fair share of such things. Sausages: no problem. “Pig a**hole” in Chinatown: sure. Funky rolled-up lamb intestine stew at a nearby kafana: actually liked it. Tonight, though, I was stumped. Mirko and I, given that we will soon be parting ways, went out for dinner at the oldest restaurant in this part of the world. Named simply with a question mark “?,” it is known for its age and its traditional Serbian cuisine.

I pride myself for eating, or at least trying, anything and everything. So I was actually looking forward to the grilled “tubes” tonight (further down the digestive tract, these were not the thin things one stuffs with fresh sausage: these are thick-skinned, funky-smelling parts of the pig’s digestive tract. Upon first sniff, I knew it would be difficult. The first bite was even more succinct in its message: no way. I tried a second and a third time, with raw onion, with mustard, but to no avail: this was one dish I could not handle. The rest of the food was good: nice sauerkraut and piktija (pig head cheese, Serbian style), and decent “veal cooked under brick.” At the end of it all, while I dug through my pockets for cash, Mirko disappeared and settled the tab: it’s impossible to pay for anything in this country. Next time, perhaps (eating and paying, I suppose), for if at first you don’t succeed, try, try, try again…

lightning round, nagar style (2/2)

Wednesday evening we drove to Novi Sad for part business dinner for Vlad, and part fun dinner out for us and his girlfriend, Jelena. Though it was technically a day early, we drank Beaujolais Nouveau along with a local equivalent: Portugizer. Both were equally drinkable, though nothing exciting, as is to be expected. After a long, drawn out dinner with few exceptional dishes, we drove to our cute bed and breakfast, a farmstead of sorts, called Salaš 137. Their main attraction at the Salaš is horseback riding and golf. As we arrived quite late, we went straight to our rooms: swelteringly hot thanks to the warm weather and wood-fired stove in each room, but really quite charming. The morning was another lazy one.

The reception lady asked if we’d like to ride horses, I was the sole taker: why not? After waiting around the horse track for the trainer for what seemed like forever, a man finally walked up with a horse. I should follow him, he indicated through pantomime and broken English. We went to the horse run behind the stables, not the horse track where others were riding. Fine, no problem by me, I wouldn’t have to look like a silly novice in front of strangers. I got on the horse, which is about when I realized the trainer must have been told I was a complete moron. He told me to hold on, and took the reins himself and walked the horse around the run a couple of times. We chatted about his fear of flying, and places he liked visiting in Europe. I asked him the name of the horse, Bellissima, and was about to ask if I could take the reins myself and show Bellissima what a real cowboy from the wild west can do. I never got the chance: as I began to speak, not five minutes into my horse ride for toddlers, the man told me to dismount and go back to the reception desk to pay for my ride. Wow—pay for what, I wondered… The reception lady was surprised to see me so soon, and asked if I’d seen the trainer. I told her about my ride, and she looked as mortified as I felt like a special needs child. Good times.

We high-tailed it back to Belgrade; we had tickets for the evening’s game between the two local basketball clubs: Partizan vs. Red Star. The two have a serious rivalry, and I wanted my family to experience sports enthusiasm at its height. We first ate dinner at Zaplet, and were waiting to leave for the game when I noticed on the downstairs TV that a game was on. Our game. Almost halftime. I have not been a model of punctuality in Serbia, and this evening was no exception. We quickly took a cab to the stadium. Only, the language barrier brought us to the wrong Partizan arena. I showed the driver the physical tickets, and we were again on our way. The driver asked if we’d been to a game, wanted to make sure we knew the dangers. Way to heighten the suspense… The suspense and anxiety were largely for naught: the Serbian church patriarch died days prior, and the funeral was the day of the game. Not only that, but fearing the worst of the fans, the game’s attendance was limited. Though our team lost, it was a good game. We sat between two friends who obviously rooted for opposite teams, at one point nearly ending up in the middle of a fight. Good times.

And that was that. They left as quickly as they came, and were enchanted by the country and its people: they already want to return. This place has that effect on people. In their place, they left goodies Vlad and I had ordered for the kitchen, including some of Taza Chocolates finest specimens (thanks go to my friend Alex for getting together the order on short notice—if you haven’t tried their stuff, you should: I’m willing to bet that it will pose a hefty and worthwhile challenge to your concept of chocolate). They left behind books, knives, and lots of love. A special thanks to all who made the week such a great time, most of whom will probably never read this.

giving thanks

I was not planning on a cheesy Thanksgiving day post. Until it was cancelled earlier this week, I had planned to share the special occasion with some friends of Vladimir who spent years living (and raising their kids) in the US. I love Thanksgiving, even on those occasions that dysfunctional family relations come to a head (which for me have usually involved shouting-level arguments with my parents about Bush and their irrational support of the man and his policies), or on the rare occasion that I’m out cold before the party has really begun (though I really, terribly regret being unconscious for the spectacular party at my apartment in Queens, NY, three years ago). I enjoy the planning, sourcing, and cooking of the big feast. Most of all, I live for the point in the day when all the prep work is finished and I get to truly relax with friends and family. First with Rosh Hashannah and Yom Kippur, now Thanksgiving, and next, Hanukkah, I’m spending so many big holidays (in my book) away from home.

I don’t really understand all the fuss about Thanksgiving wines: I find that good wine tastes good with just about anything (maybe that’s just the latent alcoholic in me), and besides, there are usually so many side dishes that the Yellowtail Shiraz Georges Duboeuf Beaujolais is bound to pair well with something. Really, though, I take it as the perfect annual opportunity to open that special wine that has been waiting patiently for the right meal: something to look forward in itself.

I enjoy the somewhat awkward pre-meal recounting of thanks, though I never know quite what to say until I’ve actually said it. Given that I’ve come to let this blog live freer and less-edited, the same applies here. I’m thankful first and foremost for my parents who brought me into this world and have wasted no chance in showing me the true meanings of support and unconditional love. For my sister, cousins, aunts, and uncles, who have unwittingly helped shape me into the self-righteous monster I have become. For my good friends, who have earned their titles with years of dedication, understanding, and loyalty. For my loves: past for the opportunities to learn, screw up, and move on; but present most of all, for loving me despite my ever more opinionated demeanor, and for allowing me this opportunity to explore, bearing with my long absence so patiently. For those terribly special people around the world who have slowly and systematically taught me new and ever more beautiful interpretations of hospitality. For those of you still reading despite this embarrassingly awkward post!

This is, of course, just the tip of the iceberg: I have a lot I am thankful for. I hope all of you are enjoying yourselves tonight. Given that I will eat no turkey tonight, perhaps some of you will allow me to eat vicariously through your cameras? I can’t wait to hear about your latest Thanksgiving feast: bon appétit!

lightning round, nagar style (1/2)

I have had no time for writing of any kind this past week. Work gave way to my family’s arrival ten days ago, and I was destined for the role of tour guide extraordinaire. They arrived without their luggage, a frequent occurrence in these parts, it turns out. Their airline, however, was kind enough to give them some spending cash to compensate. Cash in-hand, with them I was finally able to explore some of the Serbia I have been too busy to see. Here is part I of a brief recap, to the best of my memory.

We spent the first couple of days getting acquainted with Belgrade proper: a trip to Kalamegdan fortress (a simply beautiful place to stroll around), a walk down the pedestrian-zoned downtown Knez Mihailova street (shop til you drop—literally: you’ll faint at the high prices on anything produced outside of Serbia), a visit to the Jewish History Museum (enlightening) followed by a look inside the only operating synagogue in Belgrade. The weather was highly cooperative—mostly sunny, usually warm enough to eschew heavy coats. We visited some new (to me) restaurants. For the sake of documentation, Lovac, a game restaurant, was largely a disappointment. Šaran, however, an old fish restaurant in the old neighborhood of Zemun, was great. Zaplet (where I work) was the overall favorite, my mom especially enjoying traditional food that reminded her of what she ate as a child in Israel.

Unable, at the last minute, to join us on a trip to Mokra Gora, Vladimir instead arranged for us be driven in a friend’s car. An amazingly generous and ridiculous gesture, an extremely polite man by the name of Ivan drove. Since Shiri, Viktor, and I had gone out late the night before, I was in and out of consciousness for the spectacular drive. The landscape was stunningly beautiful and we drove by numerous small towns and through thousands of acres of farmland. The trip was largely an excuse to relax and be away from the bustling city. We arrived and started a fire in our cozy wood cabin. We napped, ate, and talked about various business and investment ideas (typical Nagar conversation). It was nice to sleep a bit and we all enjoyed exploring the surroundings, hiking down the hill to a nearby village in search of a fabled farmers’ market we had been told to visit, but could not find. So we began the lazy return to Belgrade.

We stopped in Užice to visit its farmers’ market. There, we found some great kajmak and fresh goat cheese from a man selling a variety of dairy and smoked meats. We also stocked up on apples and pears, buying some homemade wine from the same woman. Yes, homemade wine, at an open-air market. Homemade wine sold in a variety of old soft drink bottles. Did I mention I love this country and its lack of regulations? Where else can you buy this kind of stuff? Onward, we stopped at a floating restaurant on the bank of a river. Old men fished from the restaurant’s patio and from nearby boats. Sadly, though the fish was ostensibly fresh, grilled really meant deep-fried to an overcooked dark brown. Indicative of the relaxed Serbian mentality, the wine I had ordered upon first sitting arrived toward the end of our hands-on fish eating contest. Since we were going to have the main course on down the road, we sent it back and got the check instead. The next place was a nondescript house marked with nothing but its address. Ivan heard about it from a friend who lived nearby, and it served only traditional Serbian style veal breast, slowly roasted. An excellent main course, though quite too much food, as usual. Judging by the shape of the car when we returned, Ivan managed to remain awake for the rest of the drive back; none of us were so successful.

Stay tuned for the second part of this exciting tale!

me shoot fire stick

I recently completed (and passed) a hunters’ education course (in NH) for the purpose of obtaining a hunting license. Passing the course means that I can legally buy a hunting license in any of the fifty United States. Your personal feelings on hunting aside, I think it can be sustainable and humane if practiced with care and by the rules. In any case, though I’ve shot handguns on multiple occasions (back in my gang-banging days with my uncle and cousin in Israel), and had to pass a too-easy test with a small rifle for this course, I’ve never used a shotgun. As I have no large freezer and hate waste, when I finally go hunting I will likely go for small fowl rather than larger animals.

When I spoke to Bata (Vladimir’s younger brother) about hunting, he suggested that I join them on their next trip to the shooting range. Excited I was, Yoda would say. So on Sunday I met with the brothers and Bata’s friend/colleague Sima for some trap shooting (shooting at clay pigeons with a shotgun). Upon meeting, Sima handed me a box of cartridges and told me I should play the part of the dumb American if we got stopped by the police. So, after picking up a ridiculously heavy breakfast to go, we embarked on the half-hour drive to a sports park outside of Belgrade.

Crammed into the back seat (as I typically am in this nation of taller and bigger people) of Bata’s car, I fueled up and worked on my game face. Inside the gun shop we loaded ammo into coat pockets, and borrowed a shotgun. We made our way through the misty rain to the range where Vlad and I were lectured about the basics of the task at hand: load the gun, get set, make a loud noise to trigger the release of the clay target, point (one points a shotgun with one’s body rather than aiming down the sights) and shoot (two shots per target), repeat. The important part, they told, was to keep the upper body locked so that the gun would aim wherever you turned your head, and to keep the butt of the gun pressed firmly into one’s shoulder. Yeah, yeah, I’m an American from the wild west town of Los Angeles Angeleeze—we’re born with six-shooters and get our first sawed-off shotgun as a Bar Mitzvah gift—I knew exactly what I was doing.

Bata and Vlad had poor first rounds, so it was time to show these brandy-sipping, gun-toting Serbs how an American handles a shotgun. While the instructor was off chatting with Sima, I made the embarrassing blunder of pushing the cartridges too far into the chambers, preventing the hinge-action gun from closing. I stood fumbling with the gun, trying to get the damned thing closed, until the instructor stopped me and pushed out the cartridges with a long wooden stick. This was not a good start. As the instructor readied the target system I asked another question, my voice triggering a target to needlessly fire—I’m sure they all had their doubts about this American by now. I became one with my weapon and lined up my line of sight with the barrel, my cheek against the cold gun.

I grunted, watched the target fly off and let out a first shot. Nothing. Miss with the first shot and the target is so far off that the second one usually contains more desperation than success. Not this cowboy: my target was destroyed by the second shot. I was on a roll, and hit the second and third targets. By the time I fired at my tenth (end of my first round), I had obliterated at least six fake pigeons. I would have eaten well. Still, the instructor made the note that I was aiming the gun rather than instinctively pointing it, and it was obvious to me by my bruised shoulder that I’d have to work on keeping the butt of the weapon more snugly against my shoulder in the future. Still, I’m glad to see that I might actually have a chance of survival in the wilderness on a diet of shotgun cartridges.

butchering buša

Though I have experience butchering small livestock, before last week I had never really done any in-depth butchery with beef or veal. Last month, knowing that we would have the opportunity to work with less common animals such as Mangalitsa pigs and Buša cows, I sought out advice on the best uses for their various parts. Mangalitsa pigs turned out to be well-documented thanks in large part to Heath’s efforts at Wooly Pigs’ in Washington state. Buša cows are another story entirely—searching several permutations of the name turned up next to nothing, besides some very basic technical information about the breed. At one point, though, I found an email address for a man named Zoran, listed as the Buša breeding contact in Serbia. I wasted no time getting in touch with him, and he was quick to respond to my inquiries. Not only did he give me further information about the Buša cows, but it turns out he raises Mangalitsa pigs as well.

It seems that Buša were traditionally raised by subsistence farmers in the mountains where the milk, rather than the meat, was the primary product. As such, the cows would typically be slaughtered at an age approaching 15 years—resulting in meat more suitable to braises and stews than anything else. In any case, Zoran promised to be in touch when the time approached to slaughter one of his animals.

Last week, as promised, he wrote me of a Friday slaughter of his Buša bull, 1.5 years old. I quickly replied, and we agreed that Vlad and I would drive out to their town of Vršac to see whatever we could. As the slaughter was early in the morning, we skipped it and instead drove straight to his house, where we were invited in to meet his beautiful family as well as his butcher of 50 years’ experience. This was indeed a family affair, attended by his wife and two engaging children, as well as his mother and father. The butcher, in a fashion I’ve never before experienced, had meat spread out across the wooden dining table, using a small cutting board to do the work.

I cannot say enough good things about the experience. It just struck me as the right way to approach the meat we eat. Here were two young kids, playing with the bones, watching the butcher at work, and helping to take the meat upstairs (where it would be laid out on the floor to rest overnight before being frozen or further processed/cooked the next day). Zoran gave us tastes of his friend’s acacia honey, his father’s two year old bacon, the last of the season local grapes, some grassy fresh goat cheese, and his own unfiltered apple cider. Zoran’s wife, a physician, told us of the healthy nature of the Buša’s omega-rich fats, pointing out bone marrow (love it) and fatty cuts, mentioning the liver as especially beneficial to the kids, with its concentration of iron and vitamins. The event seemed straight out of Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal, Vegetable, Miracle (I recently finished reading it).

While we came for ideas in using the veal we had at Zaplet, we left instead with a warm fuzzy optimistic feeling about family and life. And death: the butcher went on to show us how he kills the animals, with a purposefully-designed gun made by none other than F. Dick, better known for their utilitarian knives. We had to run back to Belgrade before the family had a chance to put me to use in the kitchen, but they have an open invitation at Zaplet. I look forward to our next encounter, and hope that I can provide as well for my future kids.

nice hams

Sunday night I went for a ‘quick drink’ with Viktor, and almost made it out of Scandal by 1:30. Viktor said ‘one more,’ and I took the bait. Having finished, the server delivered another round, this time on the house. Again, we drank and almost exited, but the Karaoke band said they’d sing another song before calling it quits for the night, and so we of course stayed. Once again, I found myself falling asleep at 4:00, usually not a problem on a Sunday night. I had to meet Vlad at nine, though—we had an excursion planned to visit one of Serbia’s best Prosciutto makers.

Zombie-like, I trudged up the street to our rendezvous point. I, the dwarf American, moved quickly to the back seat when we picked up Vlad’s friend Dragan, a former basketball star—even in the front seat, his knees were up against the dashboard. We chatted and talked about the sights on the way. About halfway through our drive we stopped at a café on the road. Inside was a scene out of an old detective movie, sunlight pouring through thick, smoky air atop red-checkered tablecloths. The large space was occupied by but three old men passing the time. One of them got up and took our order, hot tea for me. Our drinks arrived, and I sipped my Serbian tea—Vladimir had modified my order. No, the Serbs don’t grow tea high up in their mountains; Serbian tea is hot sweetened Šlivovic (plum brandy). Still before noon and slightly buzzed, I picked up a few fallen pears by a well-endowed tree—they’d make good post pork snacks.

We were met by a lead car for the last confusing yet beautiful countryside stretch of road to Mirko’s pršut (prosciutto) plant. The building that houses the prosciutto works is quaint and sparse. We were led on a tour through the wing where the magic happens, up on rafters above the ground floor where a fire pit is used for some gentle smoking a few days each year. Mirko hails from the Dalmatian coast of Croatia, where he first learned his craft in a much more Italian tradition. He searched long and hard for land with just the right year-round breeze and climate, settling finally in the hills of Cajetina. The clean country air rarely climbs above 20°C, making it an ideal spot for this venture.

The extent of our hours-long stay at the house that was translated to English can be summed up in this one paragraph; I did ask lots of questions, but Serbs love to talk, so by the time my question received a long-winded answer, it was either forgotten or just lost in the transition to a tangent. The hams are first salted for several days before being rinsed and again salted, this time pressed between layers of wooden planks for several weeks. They are then finally hung up to begin the two-year drying process, with the occasional waft of smoke (most Serbian pršut is very heavily smoked) and a constant breeze through the windows. They get coated with chalk dust in three monthly stages beginning in April of their first year, first the area where exposed bone meets meat, followed by where skin meets meat, and then finally coating the entirety of the ham. When ready for consumption they are rinsed of the protective coating and packaged as required.

Mirko, at the behest of the German laboratory who tested his products, has begun to experiment with hams that are not smoked at all, and is slowly phasing out smoked products altogether. Still, even his smoked pršut is hardly so. We were invited to sit down to a tasting of all his products, beginning with the obligatory brandy before moving on to a homemade entirely refreshing white wine. Ravenous, we travelers dined with vigor hardly surpassed even by the fabled Oliver Twist. The prosciutto was well-made, but salty to a fault. The pancetta (cured bacon, really), however, was on point and worth every calorie. The culin (a regional smoked sausage spiced with paprika and rather similar to Spain’s chorizo) was very good, though might have actually benefited from some of the ham’s extra salt.

We nearly ate the platter bare before Mirko quietly snuck out to slice another entirely unnecessary round. We broke out more wine to accompany the excess meat, and satiated quickly went the way of bursting. I, frustrated by my lack of ability to understand more than the occasional word, took to the wine with gusto to be sure to completely dehydrate my over- yet still malnourished body. The wine coupled with my lack of rest culminated in my neck going floppy for the three hour ride to Belgrade. Though I slept the whole way, my neck was sore from all the turns. The illness I felt was reminiscent of my binge on wild plums at Crozefond years ago, though this one was decidedly less healthy-feeling. Killer pigs reigned in my dreams that night.

live in 3, 2, ...

Saturday at 19:30 I made my Serbian TV debut on Studio B. It was not unlike seeing myself in stupid skits and videos I had to make high school: intensely embarassing, made worse by the fact that I knew I was not the only one watching. Who knows how many hundreds of people watched the stupid segment and saw me lie to the camera and make an ass of myself. Still, I will take it like a man, and as soon as I can get my hands on a recording, I will upload a copy to youtube, so that you might join in my self-deprecating laughter.

to facebook or not to be?

I jumped on the friendster bandwagon when I was in college. When myspace and later facebook entered the scene, I scoffed a younger generation for being so silly. I’ve simply never been one to want to live my life online (hence these fantastic and boredom-defying trips I take every so often). When Sarah set up a facebook account for me, I reluctantly agreed to maintain it, accepting friends, and every so often responding to messages. Still, I resisted: I would not update my profile. Though I occasionally replied to mail, I largely let it get lost in the shuffle. My pictures are out of date, and I’ve done nothing to search out long-lost roommates (though I’m happy some have found me).

So why this now-ubiquitous facebook commentary? I’ve decided to give in. I’ve come around to the reality show of the internet (though I hold fast to my snooty opinions on the television versions). I suppose I see the value now: people are easier to locate, and it’s easier to keep them apprised of my ever-changing life, as if many of them care. Hell, some of my friends don’t seem to reply or even receive my emails, though facebook seems to do the job. I still don’t think I’ll ever get to the point of commenting/tweeting on my warm (not hot) morning shower or the color of my new socks (that reminds me, I should think about buying some new ones), but perhaps I’ll mention life’s bigger events. I mean those facebook addicts among you no disrespect, of course: I comment only on my own values; people should be products of their own values, not mine.

Shall we cut to the pragmatic part of this monologue? Answer the reader’s “so what does this mean to me?” It means I’ll make a real effort to reply to facebook messages, and treat them like members of my email box. It means I might actually seek out a long lost friend or two of my own (hello again). I’ll try to post some pictures worth looking at, and I’ve already linked up my blog so that those of you who can’t comfortably navigate away from facebook will be able to read it within your zone of comfort (this is beginning to read like new year’s resolutions). I still value personal notes and phone calls, though I’ve nearly given up hope on snail mail making a comeback. But mostly, I love being amongst my friends and family, especially cozied up to a domestic dining table drinking good wine and eating simple food.

So, be in touch, as will I. Find me on facebook (I remember back when I was the only Jonathan Nagar I could google—now I’ve found there are others, including one in the political battleground town of Scranton, PA), and if I know you, we will both expand our self-importance by having large numbers of friends in our profile. Best of all, why not drop by sometime with a bottle of wine and enjoy some home-cooked food? Or, I’m sure we could have a virtual dining experience online… LOL!

lazy day ends with fish?

My day off yesterday was lazy and relaxed. After another late night out with my Kazakhstani friend Viktor (yes, I was originally wrong about him being Russian, though it’s his mother tongue, and he has family from both countries), I again felt a cold coming on, though I set my alarm clock for only six hours of sleep—too many things to try and catch up on. I woke up at 10:30, hit snooze, and brought my phone back into bed with me. My flat gets little natural light, so what felt like a plausible 10:40 turned out to be 2:00pm. Argh!: I had made a mess of my plans.

I spent most of the afternoon with Miloš, lazily making our way around town. I had my brunch finally at 4:30, the Serbian staple of pasulj sa mesom (beans with meat—I’m still gassy J). We visited one of Belgrade’s newest shopping malls. We toyed with the idea of an evening movie, but the choices were sparse and, frankly, awful. I finally got to walk through a Serbian supermarket, and stocked up on muesli for breakfast. The fresh produce section was unsurprisingly thin given the surplus of meat products that are so popular with the locals. The dairy section was surprisingly focused on processed and ultra-pasteurized given the country’s agrarian pride. I couldn’t stomach looking too closely at the meat section: there is sadly not yet any demand for the kinds of meats Milu is traditionally raising, and I honestly eat way too much meat here.

After some downtime at home I finally met with Vlad for dinner. We went to a Montenegrin family-owned restaurant at a weird out-of-the-way intersection. Inside was decorated like something from centuries past, and the servers wore weird sailor outfits. Their claim to fame is the quality of their seafood, brought in daily and undeclared (apparently the tax collectors enjoy eating here too) from the docks of a small bay in Montenegro. We started with beautiful local (to the Montenegrin coast) clams simply grilled and doused in olive oil. Simple. Wonderful. Alongside was a scallop, gratineed with Parmigiano. A sad thing, and a wasted life, given the dominance of the cheese. Our main course were a couple of small fish, roasted whole in olive oil among fall vegetables. One was a rare Mediterranean fish called Cavala, the other a similar but more common Dorado. It was so simple and so delicious. The vegetables were permeated with the wonderful sweetness of the fish and the olive oil. Everything was perfectly seasoned. The fish was impeccably fresh. The wine was local and perfectly-suited to the food. This was old-school fish cookery, and is what this restaurant excels at. The manager (Vlad’s friend) joined us for a sip of very old Guatemalan rum (Zacapa 23 year old, for those who care) after dinner, and we left feeling wonderfully buzzed with the high of a great meal. Sometimes it’s the simpler preparations that make a meal really work.

a different ballgame

The football game I attended was fun. Loud, energy-filled, like nothing I’d ever seen. The basketball game Vlad took me to last week was different. Very different. We arrived in the middle of the first quarter, and my pen was nearly confiscated until Vlad sweet-talked the security guard: something about me being a stupid American, I’m sure. The arena was quite compact—everything and everyone felt so close. It probably helped that we had seats close in, and actually stood at court level. The roar of the audience was positively deafening. When a Spanish player from Malaga stood at the free-throw line the crowd whistled with the intensity of a jet engine. I honestly was wishing for earplugs.

Bata, as I’ve come to know Vladimir’s younger brother, explained some of the local traditions to me. Thankfully, judging by the size and intensity of some of the spectators, alcohol is banned in basketball venues too. The songs and chants coming from the black and white-dawning Partizan fans, Bata continued, had more to do with politics and party affiliation than sports. He related the story about how he once arrived at a Partizan vs. Red Star (the other Belgrade team) game, mindlessly wearing a red and white tee-shirt. After the threats and curses thrown upon him, he remained in his Partizan-surrounded seat, continuing to apologize for his lack of sense, watching the game shirtless to avoid any incidents.

Standing on court level, my view was hampered by my short legs. Still, as we were just about 5m from the basket, I was able to catch a few plays. Eventually we moved enough that there were no longer any tall Serbian spectators blocking my view, and that made all the difference. Regardless, the deafening sound of the crowd followed wherever we stood, punctuated by drums and visually assisted by the waving of giant flags. I will try to post a video at some point soon, and perhaps some audio to accompany this entry.

serbian stallion

Sure, its name doesn’t have quite the ring of its Italian cousin, but what’s in a name anyway? I had heard of it while in Morocco. Had been tempted by the prospect of trying some French cheval. True Belgian pommes frites use such fat as their key ingredient. And here I finally was, the moment of truth: my first bite of horse. Vlad took me to the aptly-named White Horse Club just around the corner from my flat. It was just for a light snack while planning the coming weeks and food ideas. So, after starting with the requisite rakja (brandy), we were delivered our plate of horse tartare. I was excited, but was underwhelmed by the momentous first bite. It was rather bland, and rather than chopped, it was finely minced and whipped into more of a paste than tartare, with no noticeable seasonings at all. Served simply with butter and sliced onion and cardboard-resembling tomato, the jar of salt I carry with me came in handy to liven it up. Like many other firsts, I hope it gets better the more times you try it. Next time I’ll make sure to try some stallion sausage—I’ve heard good things.

not enough time

I was amused today and just had to mention it before it was fogotten forever. I arrived at the restaurant and asked our butcher if he had the chance to work on some sausage I had worked on with him. He was supposed to marinate it on Saturday, but apparently lost the memo. In any case, this fine Sunday morning I found him sitting at our little cafe table, smoking a cigarette and working on his mid-morning espresso. His answer to me: "no time." He was apparently too busy to work on it. One of those moments I just had to shrug and mutter something like "ah, okay, I guess I´ll do it myself..."

animal of the party

Those who actually look forward to reading my stories may have noticed a gap of several days last weekend. No, I did not embark upon an adventurous road trip. Nor was I kidnapped and held hostage by the local drug cartel. Less, exciting, I know: I was getting indoctrinated into the local entertainment scene—what else would one expect of a foreign tv commercial star? Yes, two weeks later and I’ve only just begun to party… As a result my bedtime shifted several hours later, and my alarm clock never knew so many snoozes were allowed.

It all began Friday night with something I haven’t done in years. No, this is no reference to any illicit drugs. We skipped the mafia-hosted (and you thought I was joking about the drug cartel reference) Playboy party—apparently everybody was well-dressed anyway, so we didn’t miss much. Instead, Vaja, Vlad, and I went to the opening of a very crowded club called Plastic. After finally leaving the restaurant at two o’clock, we arrived in time to stand in line (Vlad had given away his VIP invitation). As one might guess, the lines for clubs here are much as they were at the football game I went to: everybody vies for first, resulting in more mob than line. Inside was no better. This being opening night, everybody who was anybody was here. So we did what Serbians do at clubs: we made a loop through the place to see who showed up. I hoped I might run into an old friend as Vaja did, or maybe just the odd acquaintance of whom Vlad met fifteen—I was not surprised to have my hopes dashed. He was at a distinct advantage with his extra foot of height—I imagine it was much less claustrophobia-inducing up there to boot. We spent the hour like salmon (the wild kind) returning to their birth place (minus the spawning part at the end), and in that time logged perhaps 300 meters on our pedometers (hmm, fish don’t use pedometers—perhaps this analogy was overplayed). In any case, the cold night was both figuratively and literally a breath of fresh air.

Saturday night found us at another club, this time with a decent dj, though the crowd was, in all ways, less to admire. The watered-down plastic cup drinks reminded me of why I often refrain from any sort of mixed drinks that haven’t been made by one of my trusted bartenders (maybe college kids to play a drinking game to these stories: you know you’re an alcoholic when…). We stayed somewhat longer this time, the bad taste of the prior night all but washed away.

Sunday night I had to pregame with a cup of green tea (no, I still haven’t given in to coffee). Viktor, the Russian Kazakhstani-born grill cook that worked the dinner shift with me that week (I tend to spend service working by the grill cooks, who alternate lunch and dinner shifts weekly), took me to a place he likes: a rock bar called Scandal. Turns out Viktor and I have similar taste. Though it was karaoke night neither of us took the microphone. Instead we drank beer after Montenegrin beer (good stuff), and sang along to the live band’s accompaniments (Viktor knows far more American and British hits than my Serbian repertoire holds, so he would have won any contest between the two of us). The bar itself was a really cool subterranean hideaway, and I can’t wait to go back. You know you’re in good company when you consider it a success that you were able to pay for two out of six or seven rounds of beer (who was counting anyway?). It’s okay: we agreed that I get to buy when he comes to visit in the US.

I’m really happy to be in such great hands out here—everyone is super-friendly and making sure I enjoy my time here. I only hope that I’m able to do the same for my visitors in the US.

ole, ole ole ole!

I think I’ve been to perhaps three professional-level football (soccer) games in my life. All have been at a high level. The first was in the ’96 Olympic games in Atlanta. When I picked up an official brochure at the grocery store on ordering tickets, I filled it out for all sorts of fun-looking events, figuring that I’d likely only win tickets to a few, since they were assigned on a lottery basis. There was the opening ceremony, the closing ceremony, gymnastics, you name it. I signed the form, complete with my parents’ credit card number (I was still a minor: totally cool for me to use their card, of course). This was the good old days when snail mail was still the primary method to place such orders, and so it wasn’t until a month later that I received a small envelope from the Olympic commission politely informing me that the credit card had been declined, but that I was welcome to try again. I did try again, knowing full well that I had missed the first round of the lottery for tickets, and that most were already in their lucky owners’ hands. Of all the events I checked off, I was awarded tickets to one event: a football semi-final that would be played in Athens, GA, a few hours’ drive from Atlanta. So a potential family trip turned into a solo adventure.

That was a great experience. I flew out to Atlanta and stayed with a friend from school whose family had recently moved there. Sadly, Elizabeth couldn’t come to the game with me, so I drove there with a friend of hers, stopping for coffee and warm pecan (pronounced peekan) pie along the way at some classically southern diner off the poorly lit country road. The game was great, as was my stay. I still have photos buried somewhere at home in Los Angeles. I recall the particular fondness I had for sweet tea, the hot and humid weather of the south, and the great hospitality the area is known for.

My second time at a game was the 1999 Women’s World Cup at the Rose Bowl in Pasadena, CA. Yes, this was the famous game where Mia Hamm tore off her jersey and celebrated victory in her sports bra (gasp!). I remember the sweltering sun, the huge crowd, and the tiny parking spot I fit into, ever trying to save a buck on paid parking. There’s not much more to say—it was an awesome game, and I’m glad I had the chance to be there.

My third game was last week, in Belgrade, Serbia. Fast forward over ten years to an era of European football hooligans who throw bottles, rush fields, and occasionally kill visiting fans (in reference to a French man who was recently killed here in Belgrade by a group of hooligans who apparently forgot the “it’s just a game” credo). Anyway, without going into further detail on that terrible death, it might be obvious why alcohol has been banned in and within 50 meters of stadiums on game days.

So, here I was in Belgrade, walking to the game with Vladimir. Such a different experience than game day at an American baseball stadium, for example. We’re talking throngs of spectators each trying to be the first through the security checkpoints, violating personal space requirements and ignoring the concept of orderliness. We’re talking more riot cops than I’ve ever seen in one place, complete with face masks and plastic shields. We’re talking instead of hot dogs and burgers, your choice of seeds (pumpkin, sunflower, or peanuts). I burned my tongue nibbling at my bundle of salted pumpkin seeds and found a strange craving for one of the non-alcoholic beers others drank. Instead I sucked down the contents of a juice pouch sold by a peddler out of a scraggly cardboard box. Rather than official-looking peddlers moving up and down the major aisles, here they walk across toes on already-cramped rows and look more akin to vendors that invaded various buses I’ve ridden in foreign countries selling strange snacks and chocolate bars. They also have a different-sounding post-goal “ole!” song than I remember from previous experiences. Sort of like the difference between east coast and west coast Jews in how they sing traditional songs and prayers differently (I do love my analogies).

We left the great cultural phenomenon of the game to get back to the restaurant with about ten minutes remaining, and a lead of 3-0. By the time we reached the restaurant, we had won with a final score of 5-0, securing a spot in the South African World Cup next year. It would later become big news that Serbia’s president is being prosecuted/fined for toasting to the victory in his luxury suite. His offense: the glass of Champagne he toasted with. I’ll remember this one.

video killed the radio star

We all love to poke fun at famous athletes, artists, and chefs for ‘selling out.’ Look at the Andre Agassi Nike shoes of my youth. Or any of the myriad pop singers who have gone the route of singing what sells rather than what they might want to. And in recent memory, especially poignant for me, a cook who years ago drunkenly professed his love and admiration (in person; some of you were there) for Rick Bayless, only to see him appear on Burger King commercials shortly thereafter (I still love and admire him)!

So, it is with some sense of irony that I report my own ‘sellout’ moment. I swear I did it for the sheer story value, though writing about it here might impact the story’s telling at future gatherings (if any of my friends actually read this). See, I have signed a contract to be the next big Serbian food commercial actor. Okay, maybe I didn’t actually sign anything, but I’m going to be on tv! Serbian tv. Endorsing a brand of knives and cookware I have no respect for. Only for the fame (I’m not receiving any money nor product in return). Yes, I’ve sold out, but I hope those of you I love and care about will understand: I did it for pure vanity (and story-telling rights).

I think, then, that I might be officially classified as an international tv star. In the last two months I will have appeared on Serbian television for this awful ad, on Lebanese television during a television interview at a restaurant I dined at, and on some Rhode Island show for my participation in Kofi’s (of Bay End Farm) farm dinner. So what if I was merely in the background of the Lebanese spot? Or that I was basically just an extra who happened to be filmed/aired for the farm dinner? I still think it’s official. Hell, let me have my fifteen minutes, alright??

of hairy pigs and bloody butchers

On Sunday Vlad and I awoke early to drive to his friend Milu’s home in the hills near Belgrade. There was a special event: this was the morning one of his prized mangalitsa pigs would be slaughtered and we, at the restaurant, would help prepare and preserve a fair part of it. Sadly we were not early enough: by the time we arrived the blood was already spilled, the pig skinned, and mostly hacked into individual portions. We

managed to salvage a bone-in (but skin/fat-off) loin, a leg and the skinless jowls. The rest that we took with us was already cut into pieces. So, after much stress about nothing, I realized I need not have worried about it: the parts we had left would dictate their own uses. The scrap and leg, I marinated and made into rillettes and sausage (much of it destined for Milu’s freezer). I’ll use some of the jowls’ fat to enrich the sausage, as much of the fat had been trimmed. The loin, we will roast whole tomorrow for Milu and his party of fifteen. The rest of the jowl, we haven’t figured out yet; hopefully tomorrow.

Milu, an investment banker and lover of food, has taken it upon himself to save some of the Balkans’ rarer breeds. He has a herd of indigenous Buša (pronounced: boosha) cows, a breed that is full-grown at 200kg and will eat grass throughout the winter, digging up to a meter in the snow to find vegetation food. He has sheep and goats that are nearly extinct (I lack the details on their breeds).

Both sexes of the sheep grow long horns. And there are, of course, the mangalitsa pigs, one of the most primitive swine family members, with a short, stocky body, and hairy coiffeur (generally dark brown, though I took pictures of a couple he has that are blonde—a recessive gene, Milu explained). These pigs are suited for charcuterie, with 3:1 ratio of fat to meat, I’m told. I really admire what he’s done (though I did not see most of the animals, as they’re tucked away on a mountainside pasture he has purchased to raise them), and we talked for a bit about the logistics (and challenges) of harvesting and selling some of his livestock. Serbia, it turns out, might not be ready for these fancy animals, as they likely would not fetch their true value on the market, so for now, he continues to grow the herds rather than harvesting animals.

In any case, we made the best of our time up in the hills. I had a chance to meet some of Milu’s animals: long-haired mangalitsa pigs, geese, chickens, and turkeys. I ate fruit fresh off his pear and fig trees, and ate the four raspberries I spied desiccating on the vine. We sampled their tomatoes and grapes, and I marveled at their beautiful abode just up the hill from the mini farm/in-laws’ house.

Their home is beautiful: an old 18^th century home transplanted from an old village in Serbia and added onto with some modern touches, yet keeping its vintage charm in the first floor sitting room (photos to come). His wife Mila taught me her ajvar recipe (more on this fantastic food to come in a separate post), as I loved her version, and we drank green tea while snacking on their fruit preserves (straight out of Christine Ferber’s great book, Mes Confitures).

Back at the farm we picked up our still-warm pork, but not before gorging ourselves on the cracklings left from the lard that had been rendering over a wood fire all morning. This country is great. We’ll be returning at the end of November to slaughter four more pigs, this time with more planning, and hopefully some prosciutto by the end of next year if all goes well… In any case, I left mesmerized (and on my way to a full blown cold, which I love complaining about; no shock to those of you who know me), with a new slow food hero to add to my list of people I admire.

Coming soon: I’m officially a tv star and the truth behind wonderful, mystical ajvar!

chickens and veal and pigs, oh my!

Contrary to what I (and probably many of my friends and family) would like to believe, I am actually working out here. No need to report me to the authorities for violating my work visa, please, it’s just that even I forget sometimes. Still, somehow I’ve managed to have a few stressful days, even with my often short shifts. Yes, somehow 10-12 hours has become, in my mind, a short shift. I digress. In a really cool, flattering way, I have complete freedom to create what I want with whole lambs and pigs. Some of my favorite preparations are old-school methods involving slow-roasting and braising. In fact, I’m often more interested in eating a melting braise than the more toothsome roast.

Four veal heads arrive today. I’ve cooked a veal head before and it came out quite nice, thank you, but have never had the opportunity/challenge of actually peeling the face from the bone. The one time I’ve encountered a veal head was in France, on my previous real out-of-country adventure, and the butcher magically took care of it within mere minutes. Today I get to learn on the fly. Best part about it: five hours into my day, Vlad and I leave for a football match; the lines of work and play ever blurred…

On Sunday I am told we’re driving out to the countryside early to witness the slaughtering of a banker/farmer’s pig (look for pictures next week!). Not any ordinary pig, this is a fatty indigenous black-haired, red-meat animal known as Mangalitsa. I’m to come up with how to use most all of the carcass. In many ways an awesome opportunity, I have my apprehensions. I also find it saddening that I will not be here to sample some of the products that will take months to mature: bacon, cured leg (jamon or prosciutto), cured lard. Another reason for a return vacation, I suppose.

So what’s stressful about this situation? Why am I whining (well, actually, I didn’t think I was whining!), you might be asking? I lack the team and support structure I had back in the US (thank you all). I have learned a lot from my experiences, and have great ideas, but it’s difficult to execute them when the restaurant’s butcher himself uses dull knives and does not speak a lick of English. There’s something I have yet to put my finger on, some sort of hands-off approach to teamwork, where I can be in the weeds, but the guys beside me banter and pour themselves tall glasses of Coca Cola. All day long I hear Serbian, with only the occasional translation. I’d love to learn some, and plan to, but am having trouble with the software I’ve downloaded. Still, I love this sort of challenge. I thrive under this sort of stress and pressure. And, frankly, I love that when I finish my list, or at least my task at hand, that I can go sit on one of the sidewalk chairs by our back door, and take a breather. I suppose that in itself is what makes this all seem like vacation. What an awesome gig: I get to play with my food and eat it too.

cook=hit man?

We bring an inordinate amount of food to our catered affairs. This is a departure from the large-scale catering I came to know in New York, as well as from my own small-scale side business. A couple of extra portions, perhaps. And reasonable portions, at that.

Back in the day, Vlad explains, when the mafia ran rampant and killed people, they had a particular style about them. Not that mafia killings will ever really end, they’re just more underground (underwater?) now. After the victims were gunned down, he continued, cocking his finger as if pulling the trigger of a gun, they would get one final shot in the head—just to make sure they were dead—bang!

It turns out cooking in this country has some mafia ties, as Vladimir elaborated on the origin of his approach on cooking for clients. After the kebab and the beautifully-roasted lamb, we gave each in this particular group one pork rib. Who knew you could find such symbolism in catering? If the pork rib is the proverbial last bullet to the head, though, then what of the molten chocolate dessert complete with huge ball of ice cream?

silver

We recently catered a party for the national basketball team’s coach. Serbia recently won silver in the European championships, and for this young team that was a big deal. By American standards, the family lives really well: indoor pool, basketball court in the back yard, a full-on homing pigeon setup. Yes, pigeons! Not only did he take his team to second place, but he’s apparently known as quite the pigeon trainer.

The party was quite the spectacle: a famous Serbian band playing the music, all manner of middle-aged well to do folks dancing and singing and living it up. I was put to use as the raw fish guy. I prepared ceviche and sashimi of a large Mediterranean grouper (Emperor Fish?). Vladimir wanted to put on a show, so not

only was I mixing ceviche every half-hour, but I was also butchering and slicing as part of the show. When I worked at Craigie, it was hard enough to hear my own thoughts, what with the noise and radio and banter, yet I still managed to hear the sound of my knife interacting with the fish. Here, there was a band playing fifteen feet away. I was effectively deaf. The weirdest thing was cutting this fish and not being able to really feel or hear it. It’s a difficult sensation to explain.

Good times were had by all, and Vlad even snapped a photo of me with the coveted silver medal.

belgrade=beograd

Faced with the choice between editing and uploading photos, or writing, I have chosen to keep telling my tales before they get too stale. I do have lots of photos, so hang tight. Without further ado:

The final flight into Belgrade was on a small (by my US jet-setting standards, I suppose) propeller-driven craft with a tiny, awkward bathroom in the rear. I quickly passed out, the heavy vibration of the plane penetrating my soul. Vladimir picked me up, sporting a bright magenta v-neck under a sports jacket. We loaded ourselves into his Mini, a contrast to his considerable height.

I got a brief driving tour of Belgrade as we arrived, finally plopping into a seat on Zaplet’s patio. I was introduced to the local pear brandy (we’ve become fast friends) and ate a couple of small dishes that would quickly repair my ailing stomach, or so I was told. We relaxed and talked some, sipping on wine and brandy. I was in a zombied state from the flights and my illness, and I was glad to get unpacked into my flat before falling on my bed and sleeping for twelve rejuvenating hours.

Vladimir supplied me with maps and a local cell phone the next day, and I met the staff of Zaplet, promptly to forget all but a few key names. I basically twiddled my thumbs and took some notes as others cooked for lunch service and prepared for our small catering gig that evening. My first full day in Belgrade, and we catered a fancy dinner for two prominent public figures and their wives, one local and one Swiss. We sipped on the wine they drank, deciding in what order they should drink them. Tough job.

The next day brought us to the nearby town of Smederevo where we catered again for the wives and friends. The setting: a most picturesque villa overlooking the Danube. Years ago the property belonged to a duke or an earl—nobility in any case. The mansion is enormous, but the vineyards no longer produce anything of great import: the grapes are sold to a local generic winery. The elderly groundskeeper, who lives in a small guest house hidden in the chestnut trees behind the mansion, sat us down upon arrival and poured for us his local grappa-like brandy. Later, as we were preparing the first course, the cute groundskeeper returned with a jar of the acacia honey he produces. I’ve never seen such a sight as Milos and Mirko digging in like bears. Half the jar was consumed within minutes by these friendly medveds, or bears. We all relaxed and chatted afterward, watching the sun descend before speeding back toward town on the fast toll road.

I’m again amazed at how kind, generous, and hospitable these people are. Here I am, this cook from Boston who’s been flown in to help refine and generally step on their toes, and I’m being treated like royalty at every turn. I’m not a threat at all to them, instead I’ve been taken in as a friend, a lucky outsider. Vladimir has shown me such hospitality in putting me up, more than I would ever have expected from any employer (which, technically, he is), and his father adores me, trying to teach me the obligatory lines such as “hello, how are you? Good, thanks.” I am, indeed, great. This town is treating me well, and I’m very excited about the next two months.

onward bound!

I’m falling seriously behind on blogging, and heard of some anticipation today. That’s flattering, really: I’m glad some of you out there are getting a kick out of this—I welcome and savor comments and personal notes, so be in touch!

I had been meaning to write my last couple of Beirut posts during the twelve hours of travel time I’d have on my way to Belgrade. Obviously that never happened, so the nutshell long version (to be accompanied shortly by photos): four of us (EB, her friend Sammy, visiting from Egypt, Smuggler, and I) piled into EB’s new car for a road trip. We had each looked at maps and guides and come to similar conclusions. There were three main agendas: hike through some nature, visit a winery, and eat dinner before sundown (I fast for Yom Kippur, and it began the evening of our road trip).

We arrived at a small town by a nature reserve feeling rather famished. The ladies ransacked the packaged goods section at a small grocery, and while EB wasn’t looking, I ran off in search of fresh food. Noon was early for lunch, and quick food was surprisingly hard to find given the bustle of people. I avoided the sickly looking schawarma that looked suspiciously dated, and happened upon a man grilling chickens over charcoal. Some puffy bread from next door in-hand, I ran (literally) back to the car to avoid a confrontation over schedules and delays.

We had trouble finding the site, and stopped to ask directions from a man on the street. He turned to his friend, who had just parked his car, when he heard the American accents. So this delightfully cheerful chap greeted us in the most unexpected Australian accent. Not only that, but he got back in the car, and happily led us the fifteen minutes to the site, parting ways as he told us to follow a mysterious dirt road for ten more minutes.

Guidebook moment: it turns out there’s a nearby town in Lebanon that exported many of its finest citizens to Australia during the civil war. Many have since made their way back, and begun importing Australian foodstuffs.

We ate lunch out of the car’s rear under hot sunshine before departing on a two hour hike through beautiful terrain varied with chaparral and cedar woods. I must have tasted a dozen of the wild yellow plums I found occasionally in the dirt before finding one whose sour and bitter notes did not contort my face.

The drive onward to the Bekaa valley for wine tasting and dinner was long and arduous. When planning trips involving mountains and valleys in developing countries, it certainly pays to consider the elevation changes. We went from 1500m down to sea level, only to climb a rocky peak to its peak of 3000m before descending into predominantly Hezbollah territory (Nasrallah is a man of god, and loves his people, the billboards declare). The estimated one hour trip? More than three, it turned out. The winery was surely closed (boo hoo), and the sun was descending ever faster, but we made it to our feeding spot in time for my pre-fasting food fest.

Smuggler parted the sea of pedestrians as we walked to the river-side casino restaurant (Mehanna, in case you’re ever in the area). They were surprisingly accommodating, allowing Smuggler to sit with us (outdoor seating, but still amazing for this dog-fearing country), and even bringing a dish ashtray of water for him. The mezes we tucked into were outstanding, and we hurried out to wait in awful lung-wrecking traffic for the ride back to Beirut.

As I began my fast-culminating meal of leftovers the next night, I noticed a noise coming from the washing machine that EB had just started. It’s moments like these that remind you to hate on America’s litigious society for imposing door locks on washers, for EB had spied her IPod tumbling from behind the glass door. The MacGyver in me came out as I got the door open and quickly set upon fixing the problem. Lacking the proper tools, I used my semi-disposable paring knife to pry open the dripping music box. Into a warm oven went the disassembled machine, and to the airport went I, stomach beginning to churn.

The 3:10am flight was fine, though I’d spent some time chasing my tail in the airport, thinking I had lost stuff that was with me all along. I carried 20kg on my shoulders since my suitcase was overweight and the flight agent was strict (of course I was surreptitiously over the limit on my carry-ons). As my digestive functions were quickly deteriorating, I found myself chilled, achy, and unable to get any real sleep. The airport lounge (thank you, Diner’s Club) in Prague, where I stopped for five hours, allowed me a hot shower, snacks, and internet connectivity, but I was too out of it to take advantage. So I made way for Belgrade, seeing bathrooms in the light that had coined the term “pit stop.”

And here I was, thinking that I would actually be writing about my first few days in Belgrade. When I was younger and creative writing assignments were due I would have killed for this sort of verbal dysentery. I do apologize for the lack of editing, though one must realize this ailment is messy.

yin to my favorite things’ yang

Remember what I said about the locals here and their lack of cheating? I’ve decided this clemency does not apply to taxi drivers. Most are happy to capitalize on a foreigner’s pocketbook, as there is no official meter. What should be a $2 fare turns into $10. Forget to negotiate the cost at the outset and beware the consequences: one driver followed us into a store and proceeded to argue about the fare (the same we had paid many other drivers on the same route), winning by sheer persistence. Rider beware.

Smuggler is an adorable pup (and fully deserves to have made the favorites list, but for lack of space), but he is still young, and young pups have small bladders and special teething needs. Coupled with his latent anger about the flight here, he makes for fun, yet sometimes stressful diversions. Whether it is chewing on the rugs, stealing shoes, needing to pee at 5am, or making a mess two hours later, he can throw us for a loop at any time.

While puppies are cute, our repairmen are absolutely not. They keep us waiting much longer than the legendary cable guy of the United States. A 1:30pm appointment means they will arrive no earlier than 3:00, unless of course you happen to be out of the house, in which case 1:15 will be when they come and go. There’s no winning. It took ten days and six visits for the plumber (trained in Italy to repair this special instant water heater) to finally provide us with consistent hot water (it would usually last long enough for him to get in his truck and pull away). Best bet: don’t count on anyone. Play it selfishly and live your life—let the repairman worry about his.

The driving in Beirut leaves much to be desired. Gone is the revered orderly conduct of the Sicilians or the gun-toting Los Angelinos. The drivers here are a childish, horn-happy, chauvinistic bunch. Horn honks are more prevalent than turn signals flashing, and tires here are quickly worn bald by middle aged men peeling out for ten meters before braking for the stopped traffic ahead. Time of day is irrelevant: 3:00am is fair game for some horn-happy drag racing in the streets behind EB’s apartment.

Most ‘fun,’ perhaps, is the workmanship. If our track record with the repairmen wasn’t enough, consider when Sammy closed the front door to head out recently: a fifteen kilogram cast iron decoration came crashing down, gouging her finger open, narrowly missing her foot on its way down. I performed some minor surgery that morning, cutting away dead skin and bandaging (thank you, EMT class of ten years ago).

…a few of my favorite things

Falafel sandwiches here are different than I’ve come to know to the (ahem) south and in the US. I’ve had at least six such meals since I’ve arrived, and will probably have a couple more before I’m gone. They’re a nearly perfect vegetarian snack/meal. In this country they come wrapped in a thin Lebanese pita along with tomato, tahina, pickled radishes, parsley, and mint. By request, mine come with pickled hot chiles, though they’re usually served on the side. The fritters themselves seem simpler than I’ve made and sampled in the US/Israel—they don’t taste as seasoned by garlic, onion, or spices. The accoutrements are very limited: no cucumbers, no terrible shredded iceberg lettuce, no hoomoos, no babaganouj/moutabel. They’re fried here in large, shallow, round iron vats dedicated to the task: no fries are served alongside. And a falafel stand is just that—they typically don’t serve anything else besides the choice of beverages. Still, for $1.50 on average, who would dream of complaining?

The souk (farmers’ market) here is something straight out of Europe. Every Saturday, just steps from our apartment, is a bona-fide organic market offering everything from fresh honey to knitwear to pickles to sandwiches. What is fresh honey, one might ask. The honey folks come with jars, honey in the comb, and a small hand-operated centrifuge. The honey is raw, and filtered through a strainer with only the occasional sunlight to help loosen it enough to pass through. There is labneh, a sort of goat milk yogurt/cheese that’s been rolled up into balls and dunked in the local olive oil, which will keep at room temperature. There are several women making fresh flatbreads (and sandwiches with them) of different sorts, using organic grains and age-old technique. The figs are phenomenal and only $1.33 per pound. The whole vibe is so laid-back and pleasant. Some of the prepared/preserved foods seem a bit expensive compared to local prices, but it’s striking how honest everybody is. No forgotten withheld change, no price-gouging for foreigners.

Beirut (I can’t speak to the rest of Lebanon—I haven’t been yet) challenges one’s preconceptions of Arabs. Bearded men are not spilling onto sidewalks during the call for prayer. Pizzerias offer prosciutto as a topping. I notice church bells as often as I do calls to prayer. When going out in the evening, the women dress to kill: not much different than being around a university on a Friday night. Some decent wines are produced in Lebanon, and the guidebook calls arak (an 80-proof, aniseed-flavored brandy relative) the national drink. French and English are spoken as much as is Arabic, making this an easy city to navigate as a tourist. The people, while typically so very warm and friendly, are not like many of the characters I encountered long ago in Morocco—here there is little to no badgering, begging, or cheating.

The climate here is spectacular. We live a short walk to the Mediterranean, and have the beautiful days and nights to prove it. Aside from the freak thunderstorms last week, it’s been a pretty steady 80F during the days, and perhaps 70F by night. The humidity quickly turns on my sweat glands faucets, but keeps our skin healthy. Sure, the summers get hot, but right now it’s absolutely gorgeous, and will probably remain so til Winter, when they’ll undergo a frost-free mild, but cooler winter.

getting settled

Weary-eyed and physically torn, we dragged our baggage the last hundred meters. EB pushed the dog-laden luggage cart while I alternated between

two others packed with luggage. We got to be those people with their names on a drivers’ placard. We found our driver and headed for the door. EB took the chance to walk Smuggler and clean his miserable kennel off in the shadows. I was posted just outside the sliding doors and was charged with fending off the vultures in taxi driver clothing. I swatted the scavengers away as I got into it with our driver in pantomimed French/Arabic (Frerabic?) about whether all our stuff would fit in the truck. Of course it would, thought I, after all EB’s broker had arranged it all: “I will organize the pick up car for you and will confirm (since you are a very nice client); a seven seats car would be ok?” Not so. After much deliberation, translation by phone (EB’s broker was awaken between 3:30-4:30 multiple times to deal with the consequences of his lack of foresight), we finally pushed the carts yet again to the dark corners of the parking lot where the driver had parked his compact SUV rental. Though challenging, I was in my element again fixing problems, rearranging the pieces of a puzzle to make it all fit. It took two tries, but we were finally able to pile ourselves into the car.

The broker had booked us the one hotel he could find that would accept a bribe in exchange for housing a dog for the night. I went to check in while EB tended to the dog’s needs and the driver unloaded the truck. “That is not small dog,” declared the hotel manager. I shrugged: “who told you it was a small dog? WE did not tell you that—don’t know what to tell you… could I have the key please?” And so as the hoteliers glared and the sun began to poke up, I nearly singlehandedly loaded the tiny elevator and shuttled up the four loads of luggage to the smoke-staled room. EB washed Smuggler, his crate, and herself, before I took my own turn in the war-torn bathroom. My five hours of sleep that ensued were glorious. EB’s three hours were less so, but she did the productive tasks of procuring a bed and arranging the move to the apartment.

So after a six hour break we again piled our belongings, this time into two very old Mercedes taxis. We weaved the city streets, and before we knew it, the ‘concierge’ at EB’s new apartment had lugged everything the two flights up into our spacious, marble-laden domicile. The landlord was still working on the place, and it was hardly clean. Again, the broker: “apartment is ready to move in; we called [the landlord] couple of days ago.”

No furniture, save for a mattress on the floor. Hot

water for showering, check. Fridge was operating, though beeping obnoxiously at 90-second intervals. But we were home with falafel sandwiches in hand. Full stop.

it felt like home

Airplane landings in the middle east are among my pleasant memories from childhood. As far as my history is concerned, the pilot invariably lands the plane beautifully and, assuming there are predominantly natives (of whichever religion) onboard, the applause is unanimous (and would likely be a standing ovation were that a realistic option). It’s a beautiful way to celebrate flight, and life thereafter.

Deplaning is a different story entirely. Middle easterners (again, of any religion) are anything but polite. Courteous, perhaps, if dealing with immediate family. Politeness as a concept seems to be darwinistically chewed up and spat out as chain-smoking glass-eyed toughness. I am well-accustomed to the attitude, and adjust my own when in the region. So, when push came to shove, I was (and am) not in the least embarrassed about my behavior when retrieving the last of our bags from the overhead bins. It took a moment for the animal in me to awaken, but I shoved right back, not even feigning apology.

Happily, what I imagined (at length) to be a scrutinous entry process, replete with strip search and questions about my origins and business in this very non-Jewish country (there are said to be about 100 living in the country), was as simple as a squinty-eyed comparison of me to my passport photo and the international sound for “welcome to our country”: STAMP!

We had not believed the Lebanese baggage agent when he told us Smuggler would come down the baggage carousel along with the rest of the luggage.

Until we saw (and smelled!) his kennel come through the passage. I fumbled for a snapshot before helping EB remove the kennel. People around us

were in what must have been shock: nobody moved, and I again needed to use my superhero shoving skills.

As long as this post is, it was only about 3am at this point. It would prove to be one of the most unpleasantly long days in my recent memory.

of german hospitality

As I fell asleep plugged into a saxy, airplane-supplied Branford Marsalis CD, I woke up courtesy of the captain’s PA come morning. The yogurt drink was all I dared try of the breakfast to-go offered by the flight crew. Besides, I was still working on the bag of pastries generously sent with me by my friend Nikola at Iggy’s bread.

Arrived in Frankfurt, we had a whole day to spend exploring. First stop: hot shower. It took us thirty minutes to find the well-hidden arrivals lounge, but it was a welcome place to put down our carry-drag-ons, clean up, and relax. The food was simple and welcome: perfectly-boiled eggs, olives, and soft cheeses, among others. A nearby baggage storage facility took our bags for the day as we went into town.

Note to the uninitiated: if two or more of you are going into the city for a day trip, splurge the extra euro on the Frankfurt Pass. It wasn’t even presented as an option to us, but would have saved us money later on our museum visit. We went first to the Staedel Museum and then onward to feed our grumbling stomachs. We walked down a long stretch of storefronts looking for the right place, occasionally asking the brusque locals for suggestions. We ate first at a chain-like though redeeming-looking currywurst joint, armed with an array of sausage-saucing squeeze bottles ranked from 1-10 based on the underlying chiles’ hotness. There was no redemption to the bratwurst we shared: it just wasn’t very great. Onward to greener pastures.

Wagner was our next (and final—I just can’t eat the way I used to in my youth) stop, where I started with my first taste of appelwine. Great beverage! Everything apple cider should be (and sadly usually isn’t), but without bubbles: funky, dry, acidic, appley. The meal that followed was, as a whole, good but not great. I did really enjoy the sauerkraut that came with the sausages.

Back to the airport, where we waited only a short while as we learned of our fate in Beirut and I helped myself to some bubbly.

In parting, another note to the uninitiated: if you

see a couple of sweaty folks lugging enough bags for four travelers when going through airport security, avoid that queue no matter how short it may seem. They’re going to take (and I quote from The Sandlot) for-ev-er.

new york shenaniganos

After a morning of frantic last-minutes parking my car, buying bourbon for gifts, and saying goodbye, I was short on time. I splurged for a taxi ride to the bus depot, and got to the gate within five minutes of my New York-bound bus departure.

The ride was productive and, though we got caught in traffic, was tardy by only fifteen minutes. EB shortly thereafter arrived to pick me, and what I saw was horrific.

Her huge truck was nearly exploding with her chaotically over packed bags. Whitney was riding in back among the puppy and the suitcases. It was a disaster. We spent the next few minutes repacking

and redistributing items that hadn’t fit in EB’s original packing extravaganza. It was truly a sight to see. Quickly, we crammed everything and everyone back into the Ford Expedition, this time with two additional passengers: Logan (a friend of theirs) and myself. I may have been the

only one able to fasten his seatbelt; I don’t know what EB was thinking.

Jane (the third and youngest Harper sister) heroically gathered our dinner from Shake Shack while we zigzagged uptown and Warren (their dad) laid in the street saving us a parking spot. As we shoveled in the sustenance all sorts of characters couldn’t resist lauding Smuggler: one batty woman went so far as to start munching on his fluffy ears.

Our goodbyes behind us, EB, Smuggler, and I hurried up to wait in traffic to the airport. Once there we were the TSA’s nightmare: a heavily-

loaded SUV parked for 25 minutes. Sure, we were unloading it for part of that time, but the security guy became skittish after we were through unloading and the truck remained parked as EB and I tended to the dog and the baggage. Threatened with a ticket, I first faked, and after playing all my bluffs finally actually moved the car, returning it to its rental home. By this time the security guard had down our plate number, and given his furious scribbling, must have had a good sketch of me too: “if you see something, say something.”

After some more last-minute repacking, dog-feeding, and excess baggage-paying, our bags were gone through security, with only 45 minutes left before our flight departed. We were stopped just short of boarding for our excessive carry-ons. EB handled it like a pro, declaring we were in business class, at which point they unrolled red carpet down the jet bridge for us. We were without a doubt the riffraff of business class, with dog bowls strapped to the outside of my oversized backpack, and a heavy Trader Joe’s bag full of dog toys. Through the commotion my corkscrew must have been overlooked by security—it would be nice not to have to buy a new one. All aboard and situated, we reclined our seats and promptly fell asleep.