not enough time

I was amused today and just had to mention it before it was fogotten forever. I arrived at the restaurant and asked our butcher if he had the chance to work on some sausage I had worked on with him. He was supposed to marinate it on Saturday, but apparently lost the memo. In any case, this fine Sunday morning I found him sitting at our little cafe table, smoking a cigarette and working on his mid-morning espresso. His answer to me: "no time." He was apparently too busy to work on it. One of those moments I just had to shrug and mutter something like "ah, okay, I guess I´ll do it myself..."

animal of the party

Those who actually look forward to reading my stories may have noticed a gap of several days last weekend. No, I did not embark upon an adventurous road trip. Nor was I kidnapped and held hostage by the local drug cartel. Less, exciting, I know: I was getting indoctrinated into the local entertainment scene—what else would one expect of a foreign tv commercial star? Yes, two weeks later and I’ve only just begun to party… As a result my bedtime shifted several hours later, and my alarm clock never knew so many snoozes were allowed.

It all began Friday night with something I haven’t done in years. No, this is no reference to any illicit drugs. We skipped the mafia-hosted (and you thought I was joking about the drug cartel reference) Playboy party—apparently everybody was well-dressed anyway, so we didn’t miss much. Instead, Vaja, Vlad, and I went to the opening of a very crowded club called Plastic. After finally leaving the restaurant at two o’clock, we arrived in time to stand in line (Vlad had given away his VIP invitation). As one might guess, the lines for clubs here are much as they were at the football game I went to: everybody vies for first, resulting in more mob than line. Inside was no better. This being opening night, everybody who was anybody was here. So we did what Serbians do at clubs: we made a loop through the place to see who showed up. I hoped I might run into an old friend as Vaja did, or maybe just the odd acquaintance of whom Vlad met fifteen—I was not surprised to have my hopes dashed. He was at a distinct advantage with his extra foot of height—I imagine it was much less claustrophobia-inducing up there to boot. We spent the hour like salmon (the wild kind) returning to their birth place (minus the spawning part at the end), and in that time logged perhaps 300 meters on our pedometers (hmm, fish don’t use pedometers—perhaps this analogy was overplayed). In any case, the cold night was both figuratively and literally a breath of fresh air.

Saturday night found us at another club, this time with a decent dj, though the crowd was, in all ways, less to admire. The watered-down plastic cup drinks reminded me of why I often refrain from any sort of mixed drinks that haven’t been made by one of my trusted bartenders (maybe college kids to play a drinking game to these stories: you know you’re an alcoholic when…). We stayed somewhat longer this time, the bad taste of the prior night all but washed away.

Sunday night I had to pregame with a cup of green tea (no, I still haven’t given in to coffee). Viktor, the Russian Kazakhstani-born grill cook that worked the dinner shift with me that week (I tend to spend service working by the grill cooks, who alternate lunch and dinner shifts weekly), took me to a place he likes: a rock bar called Scandal. Turns out Viktor and I have similar taste. Though it was karaoke night neither of us took the microphone. Instead we drank beer after Montenegrin beer (good stuff), and sang along to the live band’s accompaniments (Viktor knows far more American and British hits than my Serbian repertoire holds, so he would have won any contest between the two of us). The bar itself was a really cool subterranean hideaway, and I can’t wait to go back. You know you’re in good company when you consider it a success that you were able to pay for two out of six or seven rounds of beer (who was counting anyway?). It’s okay: we agreed that I get to buy when he comes to visit in the US.

I’m really happy to be in such great hands out here—everyone is super-friendly and making sure I enjoy my time here. I only hope that I’m able to do the same for my visitors in the US.

ole, ole ole ole!

I think I’ve been to perhaps three professional-level football (soccer) games in my life. All have been at a high level. The first was in the ’96 Olympic games in Atlanta. When I picked up an official brochure at the grocery store on ordering tickets, I filled it out for all sorts of fun-looking events, figuring that I’d likely only win tickets to a few, since they were assigned on a lottery basis. There was the opening ceremony, the closing ceremony, gymnastics, you name it. I signed the form, complete with my parents’ credit card number (I was still a minor: totally cool for me to use their card, of course). This was the good old days when snail mail was still the primary method to place such orders, and so it wasn’t until a month later that I received a small envelope from the Olympic commission politely informing me that the credit card had been declined, but that I was welcome to try again. I did try again, knowing full well that I had missed the first round of the lottery for tickets, and that most were already in their lucky owners’ hands. Of all the events I checked off, I was awarded tickets to one event: a football semi-final that would be played in Athens, GA, a few hours’ drive from Atlanta. So a potential family trip turned into a solo adventure.

That was a great experience. I flew out to Atlanta and stayed with a friend from school whose family had recently moved there. Sadly, Elizabeth couldn’t come to the game with me, so I drove there with a friend of hers, stopping for coffee and warm pecan (pronounced peekan) pie along the way at some classically southern diner off the poorly lit country road. The game was great, as was my stay. I still have photos buried somewhere at home in Los Angeles. I recall the particular fondness I had for sweet tea, the hot and humid weather of the south, and the great hospitality the area is known for.

My second time at a game was the 1999 Women’s World Cup at the Rose Bowl in Pasadena, CA. Yes, this was the famous game where Mia Hamm tore off her jersey and celebrated victory in her sports bra (gasp!). I remember the sweltering sun, the huge crowd, and the tiny parking spot I fit into, ever trying to save a buck on paid parking. There’s not much more to say—it was an awesome game, and I’m glad I had the chance to be there.

My third game was last week, in Belgrade, Serbia. Fast forward over ten years to an era of European football hooligans who throw bottles, rush fields, and occasionally kill visiting fans (in reference to a French man who was recently killed here in Belgrade by a group of hooligans who apparently forgot the “it’s just a game” credo). Anyway, without going into further detail on that terrible death, it might be obvious why alcohol has been banned in and within 50 meters of stadiums on game days.

So, here I was in Belgrade, walking to the game with Vladimir. Such a different experience than game day at an American baseball stadium, for example. We’re talking throngs of spectators each trying to be the first through the security checkpoints, violating personal space requirements and ignoring the concept of orderliness. We’re talking more riot cops than I’ve ever seen in one place, complete with face masks and plastic shields. We’re talking instead of hot dogs and burgers, your choice of seeds (pumpkin, sunflower, or peanuts). I burned my tongue nibbling at my bundle of salted pumpkin seeds and found a strange craving for one of the non-alcoholic beers others drank. Instead I sucked down the contents of a juice pouch sold by a peddler out of a scraggly cardboard box. Rather than official-looking peddlers moving up and down the major aisles, here they walk across toes on already-cramped rows and look more akin to vendors that invaded various buses I’ve ridden in foreign countries selling strange snacks and chocolate bars. They also have a different-sounding post-goal “ole!” song than I remember from previous experiences. Sort of like the difference between east coast and west coast Jews in how they sing traditional songs and prayers differently (I do love my analogies).

We left the great cultural phenomenon of the game to get back to the restaurant with about ten minutes remaining, and a lead of 3-0. By the time we reached the restaurant, we had won with a final score of 5-0, securing a spot in the South African World Cup next year. It would later become big news that Serbia’s president is being prosecuted/fined for toasting to the victory in his luxury suite. His offense: the glass of Champagne he toasted with. I’ll remember this one.

video killed the radio star

We all love to poke fun at famous athletes, artists, and chefs for ‘selling out.’ Look at the Andre Agassi Nike shoes of my youth. Or any of the myriad pop singers who have gone the route of singing what sells rather than what they might want to. And in recent memory, especially poignant for me, a cook who years ago drunkenly professed his love and admiration (in person; some of you were there) for Rick Bayless, only to see him appear on Burger King commercials shortly thereafter (I still love and admire him)!

So, it is with some sense of irony that I report my own ‘sellout’ moment. I swear I did it for the sheer story value, though writing about it here might impact the story’s telling at future gatherings (if any of my friends actually read this). See, I have signed a contract to be the next big Serbian food commercial actor. Okay, maybe I didn’t actually sign anything, but I’m going to be on tv! Serbian tv. Endorsing a brand of knives and cookware I have no respect for. Only for the fame (I’m not receiving any money nor product in return). Yes, I’ve sold out, but I hope those of you I love and care about will understand: I did it for pure vanity (and story-telling rights).

I think, then, that I might be officially classified as an international tv star. In the last two months I will have appeared on Serbian television for this awful ad, on Lebanese television during a television interview at a restaurant I dined at, and on some Rhode Island show for my participation in Kofi’s (of Bay End Farm) farm dinner. So what if I was merely in the background of the Lebanese spot? Or that I was basically just an extra who happened to be filmed/aired for the farm dinner? I still think it’s official. Hell, let me have my fifteen minutes, alright??

of hairy pigs and bloody butchers

On Sunday Vlad and I awoke early to drive to his friend Milu’s home in the hills near Belgrade. There was a special event: this was the morning one of his prized mangalitsa pigs would be slaughtered and we, at the restaurant, would help prepare and preserve a fair part of it. Sadly we were not early enough: by the time we arrived the blood was already spilled, the pig skinned, and mostly hacked into individual portions. We

managed to salvage a bone-in (but skin/fat-off) loin, a leg and the skinless jowls. The rest that we took with us was already cut into pieces. So, after much stress about nothing, I realized I need not have worried about it: the parts we had left would dictate their own uses. The scrap and leg, I marinated and made into rillettes and sausage (much of it destined for Milu’s freezer). I’ll use some of the jowls’ fat to enrich the sausage, as much of the fat had been trimmed. The loin, we will roast whole tomorrow for Milu and his party of fifteen. The rest of the jowl, we haven’t figured out yet; hopefully tomorrow.

Milu, an investment banker and lover of food, has taken it upon himself to save some of the Balkans’ rarer breeds. He has a herd of indigenous Buša (pronounced: boosha) cows, a breed that is full-grown at 200kg and will eat grass throughout the winter, digging up to a meter in the snow to find vegetation food. He has sheep and goats that are nearly extinct (I lack the details on their breeds).

Both sexes of the sheep grow long horns. And there are, of course, the mangalitsa pigs, one of the most primitive swine family members, with a short, stocky body, and hairy coiffeur (generally dark brown, though I took pictures of a couple he has that are blonde—a recessive gene, Milu explained). These pigs are suited for charcuterie, with 3:1 ratio of fat to meat, I’m told. I really admire what he’s done (though I did not see most of the animals, as they’re tucked away on a mountainside pasture he has purchased to raise them), and we talked for a bit about the logistics (and challenges) of harvesting and selling some of his livestock. Serbia, it turns out, might not be ready for these fancy animals, as they likely would not fetch their true value on the market, so for now, he continues to grow the herds rather than harvesting animals.

In any case, we made the best of our time up in the hills. I had a chance to meet some of Milu’s animals: long-haired mangalitsa pigs, geese, chickens, and turkeys. I ate fruit fresh off his pear and fig trees, and ate the four raspberries I spied desiccating on the vine. We sampled their tomatoes and grapes, and I marveled at their beautiful abode just up the hill from the mini farm/in-laws’ house.

Their home is beautiful: an old 18^th century home transplanted from an old village in Serbia and added onto with some modern touches, yet keeping its vintage charm in the first floor sitting room (photos to come). His wife Mila taught me her ajvar recipe (more on this fantastic food to come in a separate post), as I loved her version, and we drank green tea while snacking on their fruit preserves (straight out of Christine Ferber’s great book, Mes Confitures).

Back at the farm we picked up our still-warm pork, but not before gorging ourselves on the cracklings left from the lard that had been rendering over a wood fire all morning. This country is great. We’ll be returning at the end of November to slaughter four more pigs, this time with more planning, and hopefully some prosciutto by the end of next year if all goes well… In any case, I left mesmerized (and on my way to a full blown cold, which I love complaining about; no shock to those of you who know me), with a new slow food hero to add to my list of people I admire.

Coming soon: I’m officially a tv star and the truth behind wonderful, mystical ajvar!

chickens and veal and pigs, oh my!

Contrary to what I (and probably many of my friends and family) would like to believe, I am actually working out here. No need to report me to the authorities for violating my work visa, please, it’s just that even I forget sometimes. Still, somehow I’ve managed to have a few stressful days, even with my often short shifts. Yes, somehow 10-12 hours has become, in my mind, a short shift. I digress. In a really cool, flattering way, I have complete freedom to create what I want with whole lambs and pigs. Some of my favorite preparations are old-school methods involving slow-roasting and braising. In fact, I’m often more interested in eating a melting braise than the more toothsome roast.

Four veal heads arrive today. I’ve cooked a veal head before and it came out quite nice, thank you, but have never had the opportunity/challenge of actually peeling the face from the bone. The one time I’ve encountered a veal head was in France, on my previous real out-of-country adventure, and the butcher magically took care of it within mere minutes. Today I get to learn on the fly. Best part about it: five hours into my day, Vlad and I leave for a football match; the lines of work and play ever blurred…

On Sunday I am told we’re driving out to the countryside early to witness the slaughtering of a banker/farmer’s pig (look for pictures next week!). Not any ordinary pig, this is a fatty indigenous black-haired, red-meat animal known as Mangalitsa. I’m to come up with how to use most all of the carcass. In many ways an awesome opportunity, I have my apprehensions. I also find it saddening that I will not be here to sample some of the products that will take months to mature: bacon, cured leg (jamon or prosciutto), cured lard. Another reason for a return vacation, I suppose.

So what’s stressful about this situation? Why am I whining (well, actually, I didn’t think I was whining!), you might be asking? I lack the team and support structure I had back in the US (thank you all). I have learned a lot from my experiences, and have great ideas, but it’s difficult to execute them when the restaurant’s butcher himself uses dull knives and does not speak a lick of English. There’s something I have yet to put my finger on, some sort of hands-off approach to teamwork, where I can be in the weeds, but the guys beside me banter and pour themselves tall glasses of Coca Cola. All day long I hear Serbian, with only the occasional translation. I’d love to learn some, and plan to, but am having trouble with the software I’ve downloaded. Still, I love this sort of challenge. I thrive under this sort of stress and pressure. And, frankly, I love that when I finish my list, or at least my task at hand, that I can go sit on one of the sidewalk chairs by our back door, and take a breather. I suppose that in itself is what makes this all seem like vacation. What an awesome gig: I get to play with my food and eat it too.

cook=hit man?

We bring an inordinate amount of food to our catered affairs. This is a departure from the large-scale catering I came to know in New York, as well as from my own small-scale side business. A couple of extra portions, perhaps. And reasonable portions, at that.

Back in the day, Vlad explains, when the mafia ran rampant and killed people, they had a particular style about them. Not that mafia killings will ever really end, they’re just more underground (underwater?) now. After the victims were gunned down, he continued, cocking his finger as if pulling the trigger of a gun, they would get one final shot in the head—just to make sure they were dead—bang!

It turns out cooking in this country has some mafia ties, as Vladimir elaborated on the origin of his approach on cooking for clients. After the kebab and the beautifully-roasted lamb, we gave each in this particular group one pork rib. Who knew you could find such symbolism in catering? If the pork rib is the proverbial last bullet to the head, though, then what of the molten chocolate dessert complete with huge ball of ice cream?

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.