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.

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!

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.