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.

Summer’s end, two years later

Let me begin by addressing the obvious: it’s been a very, very long time since I’ve last written. The theme being the travels of an unemployed cook, I felt it dishonest to write while I was actually working—well, that’s the easier to mutter version anyway. Back in the US, I had so much to catch up with that I just couldn’t/didn’t make the time. I’m sure I failed to cover some important aspects of my return to the states two years ago, and hope that we can all move on.

My recent time off has been fantastic. I’ve had a chance to try getting a life, to visit friends, and to get some thoughts in order. Thanks in no small part to Sarah’s help, we somehow managed to can and preserve over 100 pounds of Massachusetts’s finest fruit in advance of my departure, even with the fiasco of moving into a new place on September 1.

Which brings me to the main event: Though I remain unemployed (by choice, lest you worry), and my finances are still somewhat a mess after the latest market crash, I’ve gone boldly where no Jew in my family has gone before: Beirut, Lebanon. Serendipity hit twice this time, in rapid succession. My friend Pedja, hearing of my (temporarily) aimless attitude suggested I meet his friend, Vladimir: perhaps I could work out something with him whereby I’d fly to work in Belgrade, Serbia, for a few months, he suggested. Never one to dismiss ideas out of turn, I listened, and when I met Vladimir, the ideas became a plausible way to spend my Autumn. Fast forward to Autumn, and I have been sold on the idea of a workcation in Eastern Europe.

Meanwhile, EB, planning a move to Beirut, called and asked if I’d join and help her in the move (those of you familiar with the first part of this blog may be sensing a theme). Opportunity, again! How could I possibly resist a free flight to a country (countries, really) I’d otherwise never have the opportunity to visit? My family, of course, balked at the idea. Not an hour after casually mentioning the possibility to my cousin by phone, my parents had respectively called me to voice their concerns (and by voice their concerns, I mean yelling and fear mongering—sorry Mom and Dad, but it was). I don’t mean to paint them in a bad light: I’m their son, and they are genuinely afraid of losing me out here. I let them cool off before I calmly explained my rational take on the situation, reminded them that I’m now thirty, and of course vowed I’d be careful.

And so I booked my travel (making sure to book a return in time for Sarah’s blockbuster birthday party on the first day of winter), and the adventure is now upon us.

(Those of you out of the loop, I am already in Beirut. It’s great, and I have stories to tell. I will post them, along with photos, shortly: look for these in the days to come.)