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.