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.