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.